The Sweetness of Forgetting (72)

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Rob says.

“Thanks,” I say.

We stand there for a moment, staring at each other, before Rob remembers his manners. “Sorry, you want to come in?”

I nod and he steps aside to let me pass. Walking into my old house feels like entering a Twilight Zone version of my former life. Everything’s the same, but different. Same view of the bay out the back picture windows, but different curtains hanging from the windows. Same curving staircase up to the second floor, but another woman’s purse sitting on the landing. I shake my head and follow him into the kitchen.

“Want some iced tea or a soda or something?” he offers.

“No, thanks.” I shake my head. “I’m not staying. I need to go see Mamie. I just need to talk to you about something first.”

Rob sighs and scratches his head. “Look, is this about the makeup again? I think you’re overreacting, but I’ve been trying to be strict about it, okay? She came home the other day with lipstick on, and I made her wipe it off and give me the tube.”

“I appreciate that,” I say. “But that’s not what this is about.”

“Then what?” he asks, spreading his arms wide. We stand there for a moment and stare at each other, neither of us making a move to sit down or relax.

“Sunshine,” I say flatly.

He blinks a few times, and I know, just from that simple reaction, that he realizes what I’m about to say, and he knows I’m right. It’s funny how spending a dozen years with a person lets you learn all their tells.

He laughs uneasily. “Hope, c’mon, it’s over between me and you,” he says. “You can’t be jealous that I’ve moved on.”

I just stare at him. “Rob, seriously? That’s what you think I’m here about?”

He smirks at me for a moment, but when I don’t drop my gaze, the smarmy expression falls from his face and he shrugs. “I don’t know. What are you here about?”

“Look,” I say, “I don’t care who you date. But when it impacts Annie negatively, that’s when I get involved. And you’re dating a woman who apparently feels like she has to compete with Annie for your affections.”

“They’re not competing for my affections,” Rob says, but from the tiny upturn of his mouth at the corners, I wonder for a moment whether, in fact, he’s completely aware of what’s going on and is getting some sort of sick egotistical rush out of it. I wish for the zillionth time that I’d realized in my early twenties that having a baby with a selfish man meant that my child would always have to deal with that selfishness too. I’d been too naive to realize then that you can’t change a man. And my daughter is paying for that mistake.

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to summon some patience. “Annie told me about the silver necklace,” I say, “which she found sitting out on the counter in her bathroom, where Sunshine obviously left it—along with your note—to rub it in Annie’s face that you’re choosing her.”

“I’m not choosing anyone,” Rob protests, but he looks embarrassed.

“Yeah,” I say, “and that’s the problem. You’re Annie’s father. And that counts for so much more than whatever you are to the girl you’ve been dating for thirty-five seconds. You should be choosing Annie. Always. In every situation. And when Annie’s wrong, yes, you have to let her know, but not in a way that makes her feel like you’re picking someone else over her. You’re her father, Rob. And if you don’t start acting like it, you’re going to crush her.”

“I’m not trying to hurt her,” he says. And from the slight whine to his voice, I know he means it, for whatever that’s worth.

“You also have to be aware of how the people you let into your life treat her,” I continue. “If you’re dating someone who’s going out of her way to hurt your daughter, don’t you think there’s maybe something wrong with that? On a few different levels?”

Rob looks down and shakes his head. “There’s no way for you to know the whole situation.” He scratches the back of his neck and turns to look out the picture window for a long time. I follow his gaze to a gaggle of white sailboats bobbing on the perfectly blue horizon, and I wonder whether he’s thinking, as I am, about the days early in our marriage, when he and I used to take the boat out on the water near Boston without a care in the world. Then again, it occurs to me that I was pregnant at that time, and very apt to get seasick, and Rob would just look away as I threw up over the side of the boat. He always got what he wanted—his pliable, willing wife alongside him, creating a picture-perfect couple—and I always pasted a smile on and made it work. Had that been the nature of our whole marriage? Could it be summed up that easily, in the image of me vomiting off the side of a sailboat while Rob pretended not to notice?

We turn back to each other at the same moment, and I wonder whether, on some level, he’s aware of what I’m thinking. He surprises me by bowing his head and saying, “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

I’m so startled that I can’t even find the words to respond. I’m not sure he’s conceded to anything in the entire time I’ve known him. “Okay,” I say finally.

“I’ll take care of it,” he says. “I’m sorry I hurt her.”