Lies She Told(34)

Chapter 8

A warm wind strokes my exposed shoulders as I exit my apartment building onto the street. The park stretches out before me. On nights like this one, couples have picnics on the lawn and illicit intercourse behind the bushes. The city runs the sprinklers around midnight to flush everyone out.

I meander toward Chambers Street and the A train, tottering in the high heels that my feet haven’t squeezed into in over a year. The whore’s apartment is in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Jake had her address saved in a Google chat. The conversation, dated more than two months earlier, had caught my attention. They’d been debating “sexual experimentation” in that abstract, pseudointellectual way people have of discussing intercourse when they still haven’t seen each other naked. I’d suffered through the whole exchange, figuring it had to end with a meeting place.

I won’t go there. Traveling into Brooklyn alone at nine o’clock isn’t dangerous. But waiting on a street corner until the wee hours of the morning for my husband and his lover to emerge from her building certainly would be. Moreover, I don’t know that they’ve actually gone to her place. Jake’s e-mail and chat history didn’t leave clues as to where he intends to take his girlfriend tonight.

Adrenaline carries my anger to every limb. I want to run a marathon or bare-knuckle box. A drink will take the edge off. Finding one in this part of Manhattan, though, is unusually difficult. Like the Upper West Side, the Battery Park area is little more than a suburban breeding ground tucked in the city. Residential buildings, parks, and magnet schools are the draw here, not nightlife. Wine stores and takeout shops are common. Restaurants are rare. Bars have been pretty much exiled.

I pass the brick-and-glass building housing my former shrink on the first floor. What would Tyler think of me right now, dressed up and on the prowl? Would he say I’m having an unhealthy reaction to recent trauma? I imagine his handsome face. Arched eyebrows. Strong, broad nose. Perfectly trimmed goatee. The idea of Tyler distracts me as I reach the casement windows of the neighborhood’s only sports bar. Folks in soccer jerseys fill the place. Not what I had in mind, but beggars can’t be choosers.

As I head to the entrance, a red-faced man in a crimson jersey comes barreling out of the place, shouting over his shoulder about “gunners blowing.” At least, that’s what I think I hear. His slurred British accent makes it difficult to tell. The man’s thick, swinging arm connects with my side as he passes me, forcing me to hop back with a little yelp. The sound seems to attract him. He turns toward me, blatantly assessing my bedability.

“Hello, love. Well, isn’t it my lucky day?” The swinging arm rises and falls over my shoulder. “In there’s rubbish. Where are you headed all tarted up?”

I peel from beneath his arm. “I’m sorry. I’m married.”

His boozy gaze travels to my left hand, which he grabs and holds up. “No ring.” I yank my arm out of his grasp. The man’s eyes roll over my dress. He snarls at me. “Lying cunt.”

My eyes sting with sudden tears. I back away, stumbling in my heels, despising my husband. Jake should be here, deterring men like this. Instead, I’m alone, left to handle drunken idiots by myself.

“How dare you?” I yell. “You bump into me, don’t apologize, eye me like chicken on a rotisserie, and then call me a nasty name when I don’t want to go anywhere with you?”

The man dismisses me with a wave.

My body shakes with the force of my fury. “No. Really. Who the fuck do you think you are, asshole?”

He whirls with all the menace of a stuck bull. Red snakes in the whites of his eyes. His nostrils flare. “What did you call me?”

“Asshole.”

His hands twitch by his sides. He steps toward me and puts a hand to his ear. “Say again?”

I feign shock. “I’m sorry. I was sure you would have heard that term before. Let me help you. It means a misogynist, selfish prick who thinks other people exist as props in his crappy life. Also known as the place where shit spews out.”

“Listen here, bitch—”

The door swings wide and a man exits, tall enough to play center on a basketball court but broad enough for a tight end. He’s dark skinned with a neat goatee and an angry frown. Tyler? Does the subconscious send comforting images after being knocked into a concussion by a belligerent drunk? Have I missed a moment?

“Hey, hoss. This here woman is my friend.” Tyler’s accent is thicker than usual, a kind of singsong British cockney. He’s probably been drinking. “You should apologize to her.”

The bull glares.

“Now we all saw you bump into her and get grabby.” He points to his left while keeping his eyes on my aggressor. “I’m sure there are half a dozen folks with camera phones held up to that window right now. Your best bet is really to say you’re sorry and walk away. Anything else, and you’ll be in jail facing criminal charges and God knows what else.”

The mention of legal action reminds me that my husband is a criminal prosecutor. I open my mouth to share this fact but then see Tyler’s strong set jaw and puffed out arms. To hell with Jake.

The bull starts lumbering away. “Fuck you. Fuck her.” He turns to the window and puts both middle fingers up. “And fuck Arsenal.”

I watch the man shuffle down the street. As he disappears around the corner, my legs start shaking uncontrollably. The fear that I should have felt moments ago when mouthing off to a drunk twice my weight rushes in like blood returning to a cramped extremity.