Little Secrets(20)
Twenty-fucking-four. Pink fucking hair. This might be hilarious if it weren’t actually happening to Marin.
There are more pictures that Castro didn’t show her in the office. Long-lens photos of Derek and McKenzie at the Hotel Monaco last night, with the window blinds wide-open, like they didn’t care who saw them.
Her face. Now that Marin’s home with nowhere to be and nobody watching her reaction, she’s free to fixate on it, and let herself feel how she feels.
And what she feels is hate. Pure, unfiltered, blinding white hate. Marin hates McKenzie Li with every ounce of energy she has left that’s not used for feeling guilty and sad and depressed and terrified.
And, oh god, the hate feels good. It’s breathing life into Marin in a way she didn’t know such a negative emotion could.
Based on Derek’s records, it’s obvious that he and his mistress only talk on the phone on the days he isn’t physically with her. There were three whole days two months ago when there was no cell phone contact between them of any kind. Marin checks where Derek was during that time; they have a family calendar they try to keep updated with each other’s schedules. Her husband was in New York City that week, raising capital. Four solid days of meetings with investors in Manhattan.
She opens Safari and looks up McKenzie’s Instagram, which is public, no privacy settings in place. Scrolling through dozens and dozens of photos, Marin finds a bunch from that same week. And there, diluted behind soft-focus filters, is pictorial proof of their New York trip. Pictures of McKenzie standing outside the Empire State Building and Rockefeller Center. An artfully posed photo of a frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity 3. A Dolce & Gabbana bag she’s drooling over at Bloomingdale’s. A picture outside the Richard Rodgers Theatre, gleefully holding up two tickets to Hamilton.
Fucking Hamilton. Marin’s never even seen Hamilton.
There are no pictures of Derek and his mistress together, but on the last day there’s one selfie taken on a ferry to Staten Island. It’s a shot of her smiling face, pink hair blowing in the wind with the Statue of Liberty in the background. There’s an arm slung around her shoulders, and it’s undoubtedly masculine. The sleeves of a blue button-down are rolled up to the elbow, the forearm covered in a fine mat of golden hair, a Rolex on the wrist.
Even without the Rolex—which was a birthday gift from Marin—she’d know that arm anywhere. She’s been held by that arm, tickled by that arm, she’s slept on top of that arm. She knows how that arm feels exactly. She knows where the muscles are, where the veins are, she knows the feel of the hairs on her cheek, and she knows the scent—clean, musky, male—of that skin.
In the photo, he isn’t wearing his wedding ring. The photo is captioned: First trip to NYC is in the (Dolce & Gabbana) bag!! (See what I did there haha) Thank you, lady liberty and bae!!!
Bae? What the hell is bae? Marin googles it, and according to Urban Dictionary, it’s a term of endearment. It means baby, sweetie, “before anything else.” Apparently nobody over the age of thirty would ever use it.
The picture got over a thousand likes and a couple dozen comments. McKenzie’s followers all asked the same thing: Who’s the mystery man? or Who is bae? She only responded to one person, and she used no words, posting only the emoji with the smile and the tongue hanging out.
If it’s possible for a person’s blood to boil, then Marin’s is on fire. Her temperature shoots up so hard and fast, she wonders if she’s having a hot flash. But as strange as it might sound, it’s helpful to know who, exactly, is trying to destroy her life. The person who took Sebastian doesn’t have a face. But the woman trying to steal her husband does.
Her phone pings with a sound she’s never heard before, and she jumps slightly. It’s the Shadow app. The little notification badge beside the app icon indicates that there’s one new message, and Marin’s heart thumps as she clicks on it, afraid of what she’ll read but compelled to read it anyway. She added McKenzie to the app’s contacts list, so her name shows up just as it might on Derek’s phone. Assuming he’s programmed it under McKenzie’s actual name.
McKenzie: The train got in 10 mins early, so I got to work on time! Yay!! Super busy here, already slammed with customers. Boo!! Miss you already. Text me later.
Marin exhales. That wasn’t so bad. The younger woman could have said something sexual or explicit. Although, upon reflection, this might be worse. Her text reads like the kind of lighthearted everyday exchange she would have sent her … boyfriend.
Marin needs to see her. She knows exactly where the Green Bean is, is pretty certain she’s stopped in for a latte at some point in the past. She could go there right now. Introduce herself to the bitch. Confront her. Make a scene. Embarrass her in front of her coworkers. Scratch her pretty eyes out.
It’s a terrible idea, of course. Marin’s filled with caffeine and pent-up rage-fueled adrenaline, and perhaps this isn’t the best time to publicly scream at her husband’s young lover. She should wait until Derek is home, talk to him first, find out his side of things, find out how he feels about this girl. Maybe it’s not a relationship. Maybe it’s just sex. A man has needs, sweet Simon had said yesterday.
No offense, but fuck you, Simon.
She’s in the car before she can change her mind. As she’s backing out of the garage, a text from Sal comes in.