The Accomplice(4)

“Sure you want to call that a fact, when the existence of Bigfoot is already in question?” Luna said.

“The punching thing may be bullshit. But there is a Bigfoot or Sasquatch, whatever you want to call it.”

“Okay,” Luna said. “You’re the expert.”

The coffee maker beeped. Luna removed the full carafe and aimed at Irene’s mug.

“Owen’s got a side piece,” Irene blurted out.

Luna poured half a cup of coffee onto the counter before sharpening her aim and filling the mug.

“What?” Luna said.

Irene grabbed a sponge and cleaned up the spill. Luna wiped down the mug and slid it over to Irene.

“I shouldn’t have said it that way. I sound like a misogynist. Owen has a paramour. I think. No. I know. He has one.”

“?‘Paramour,’?” Luna repeated, thinking what a polite word for a wife to use. “Why do you think that?”

“Because now he tells me where he’s going and when he’s returning.”

While this was indeed out of character for Owen, Luna felt confident that her best friend wasn’t hiding a mistress from her. Maybe from Irene. Not from Luna.

“I promise you, he isn’t,” Luna said.

“How do you know? Would he tell you?”

“I think so,” Luna said.

For almost two decades, Owen had been the one person to whom she’d confessed all her sins. It never occurred to her that he didn’t do the same. So she stalled—sipping her coffee and wiping a smudge of jam on the counter with her sleeve—and bluffed her way through the rest of the conversation.

“I don’t know what to say here, Irene. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

The first yeah had no conviction; the second one was solid. In fact, Irene seemed a little too okay to Luna. Okay in the way someone who is making big changes is okay. They’re okay because they have a plan.

“What are you going to do about it?” Luna asked.

Luna tried to picture life without Irene. What would it look like?

“I’m not ready to say,” Irene said.

Both women understood why Irene wasn’t answering the question. Luna and Irene were good friends, maybe great friends, but Luna’s primary allegiance was to Owen.

“I understand,” Luna said.

“I better go,” Irene said as she left her mug in the sink. “Is there any chance you can keep this conversation between us?”

“Of course,” Luna said.

They both knew she was lying.



* * *



—

Later that afternoon, Owen texted Luna.


Owen: Halfway at 5?



He was suggesting a drink at their local bar. After her morning conversation with Irene, Luna wondered whether that was a good idea.


Luna: Maybe you should go home.

Owen: Why?



Luna wasn’t ready to answer that question.


Luna: One drink.

Owen: Be there in 20.



Luna arrived at the Halfway House first. She ordered a bourbon and checked her phone to get Owen’s ETA. She’d convinced him to install the app years ago after he’d left her waiting over an hour at the train station. At least she’d know if he was stuck in traffic, almost there, or truly off-grid. She could see the Owen dot moving on Route 9. He was less than ten minutes out. She then texted her husband to tell him she wouldn’t be home for dinner. Book club, she lied.

After five minutes, her husband replied: K.

The Halfway House was a dive so divey that Owen and Luna could safely assume they’d never run into anyone they knew. Finding a place in a small town where you could remain entirely anonymous made up for a sticky bar-top and filthy restrooms. After a few drinks you didn’t notice the grime or the sour stench anyway.

When Owen arrived, he ordered a dirty martini with three olives. He would switch to an entirely different drink after that, never able to stick with just one. He was obsessed with variety, which Luna had only recently correlated with his inability to stay faithful.

“What’s Irene up to?” Luna asked.

“I don’t know,” Owen said. “She left this morning and I haven’t heard from her all day.”

Owen and Irene weren’t the kind of couple who routinely checked in. In fact, it was fair to say they were the opposite. Early in the relationship, Owen established a pattern of going AWOL, which Irene soon learned to mimic so she could feel a sense of parity. That said, if Owen repeatedly texted his wife, she’d usually respond.

“I saw her this morning,” Luna said.

“What did you talk about?” Owen asked.

“Bigfoot,” Luna said, after a pause. “Apparently the secret to surviving—”

“I’ve heard it already. She’s been listening to that podcast nonstop. It’s getting weird,” Owen said. “Do me a favor and send her a text. See if she gets back to you?”

Luna typed: Run tmrw? 8:30? and immediately felt virtuous, as if she’d already taken the run.

“Maybe she’s ignoring you,” Luna said.

“Why would she do that?”

“Maybe you did something bad,” Luna said.

The bartender served Owen his martini. Owen lifted the toothpick of three olives from his glass and offered them to Luna, who bit the first one off. Owen took the second one and dropped the third back in the martini glass. He was debating how to answer. His silence gave Luna the impetus to keep pushing.