Lies She Told(39)

When the elevator arrives, I step to the side, allowing the person behind me to enter so that I may check him out. Trevor lords over me. His Adam’s apple peeks above the unbuttoned collar of his white shirt. “Realized I should call it a night too.” The spark in his eye says he doesn’t typically do what he should.

I swallow the urge to flirt. In my head, Beth is comparing his neck to a cannon, his shoulders to kettlebells. She’s no Shakespeare. She needs to shut up.

“Something wrong?”

“No. Nothing.” Again, I pretend a yawn. “I had a marathon writing session before I came down to socialize. Everything is still hazy.”

We file into the elevator along with a couple of badge-carrying conference attendees: a man and a woman, married according to the gold rings on their held hands—though, not necessarily to each other. Business trips are notorious for bad decisions. The couple exits on the fifth floor. I repress the number seven.

“How’s the writing? Or are we still not discussing that?”

“I’ll talk about it all you want—in a month.”

He pouts. I tell myself that the full lips pulled beneath his neat mustache make him look like an unhappy Schnauzer. In no world, however, would such a derogatory description fit. If Trevor were a canine, he’d be something sleek and powerful. A Rottweiler or a Doberman.

The elevator dings. “Saved by the bell. This is my floor.”

“Courtney booked us all on seven.”

The door opens. We both exit, me first since I’m a lady and Trevor has British manners. “Why seven? Lucky number?” A twinge of horror follows my question. Did I really just ask him that?

“Maybe.” He smiles with one side of his mouth and steps forward. The motion opens his jacket. I glimpse the outline of his torso in his thin shirt. Beth’s voice continues chattering. His stomach is a mountain range designed by a symmetry-obsessed God. This man is so sexy, he’s turning my inner prose purple.

I force myself to look down the hallway, increase the speed of my walk. Heavy footfalls echo behind the click of my stilettos on the worn carpet. I pull my keycard from my purse as I stride to the door.

“This is me.” I push the keycard into the slot.

The footsteps stop. “Good night.”

He’s standing a foot from me, close enough for me to smell his cologne. There’s musk and tobacco smoke. Cigarettes and sex. I say good night. Or at least my brain does. But my mouth, outfitted with Beth’s sultry voice, says something else.

“It was nice chatting with you earlier on the plane.”

“You too.”

“I appreciate the time.”

Each word brings him closer. Is he moving or am I? My heart is racing.

“We should definitely talk more,” he says.

The door beeps. I pull it open and escape into the jamb. Beth is still yammering in my head about Trevor’s body. “Let’s make a date for early next month, after you’ve read the book.” I allow myself one last glance over my shoulder. “Good night, Trevor.”

He gives me a smile and sign-off wave. I shut the door and then flop onto the bed. Beth is screaming. I bury my head in the pillow. “My husband didn’t cheat on me,” I whisper. “I have no excuse.”





Part II





Everybody lies about sex.

—Robert Anson Heinlein, Time Enough for Love





Chapter 9

After sex, I don’t sleep. Instead, I lie on my back and stare at the smooth ceiling pockmarked by pot lights, daydreaming about revealing my revenge to Jake. I imagine returning home at 6:00 AM, just as he is showering for work. I picture him peering through the steam-clouded glass door, his puzzled expression when he realizes Vicky is not in my arms. “Is she asleep?” he’ll ask.

“Oh, I don’t know, I haven’t picked her up yet.” I’ll smile. “I’m only now getting in.”

He’ll ask me whom I saw, cocky as ever, assuming I spent the night crying over a bottle of Cabernet with one of my girlfriends. Again, I’ll don a Cheshire cat grin. “Since you went out with your lover, I decided to find one of my own.” He’ll step from the stream, uncertain whether he actually heard me above the waterfall. “Well, I mean, since you unilaterally decided that we should have an open marriage, I figured I better get with the program. And you know what? Best orgasm of my life last night! I didn’t know sex could be that good.”

My fantasy fails me after that. In an ideal world, Jake would shut off the faucet and stumble from the shower, soaking wet, blinking in shock. I’d repeat my words for him for maximum absorption and then watch him shrivel from arrogant jerk to penitent spouse. He’d beg my forgiveness, tell me how sorry he is for making me feel this wrenching pain that he suddenly understands so well. He’d call up Colleen and end things over the phone while professing his love for me and our family over and over.

But my husband is not so easily broken. More than likely, Jake would argue that his affair is somehow more virtuous than my actions. I can imagine his case: what he did was selfish and cruel, but he never meant for me to find out and get hurt. I, on the other hand, slept with someone deliberately to skewer him. Intent is nine-tenths of the law.

Tyler murmurs something. Here, with my head against his chest, listening to the familiar whoosh of the sprinklers beyond the window, I can almost convince myself that Jake’s reaction won’t matter. I loved my husband. Probably I still love him. But much of my adoration isn’t unique to Jake. I thought I loved Jake’s arms around me at night. What I love, in fact, is the presence of a strong man in my bed. I thought I loved dressing up for Jake and seeing that impressed spark in his eye. But Tyler had that look tonight, and I loved it then too. I thought I loved talking to my spouse. But when was the last time Jake and I really had a good conversation?