Until the Day I Die(16)
I close my mouth. Talking’s not going to do me any good anyway, not like this, when I’m so strung out. I need a shower, a huge glass of water, and then bed. The guest bed. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’ll sort things out. Tomorrow, I’ll pull myself together and be the mom Shorie deserves.
Ben pulls me into a hug. He feels warm and comforting, and without even thinking, I rest my head on his shoulder. My lips accidentally brush against the salty skin of his neck, and like a jolt of electricity, something inside me responds. I’ve almost forgotten what skin tastes like.
I’m so tired, it happens like a reflex, my arms lifting and circling his neck, my body moving to his. But then he makes a groaning sound, and it sounds so open, so vulnerable, that I keep going, raking my fingers up into his hair, letting him nudge my face up to meet his.
Next thing I know, we’re kissing. Only it can’t be a real kiss, can it? Because even though it’s lips and tongues and our hands on each other’s faces and in each other’s hair, it’s Ben. Ben. And something else. This kiss can’t be real because it is very, very good. Soft and gentle and moving with that secret choreography that only the best kisses have.
And then, as quickly as it began, the moment is over. The atmosphere around us changes into something heavy and dark. A storm cloud of bad ideas and unwise decisions descending. We pull apart and stare at each other in stunned, horrified silence.
“Ah.” His voice is a rasp.
I feel like I want to disappear, like it might be better if I could just die.
“No, no. I’m sorry—” I say.
“I didn’t—”
“Me neither—”
“It was just—” He glances through the leaded glass of the front door, his expression pained. Then he grips his forehead in one hand. “I hope the neighbors didn’t see.”
I look around uncertainly. Jesus. The neighbors.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat numbly.
“I’m sorry too,” Ben says. “That was . . .”
My fault. So stupid. Wrong.
“Yes,” I say. “Left field. But it’s over. Moving on, okay?”
“Okay. Yes. Moving on.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, at the office.” I unlock the door. He doesn’t move.
“The tubs,” he says. He seems forlorn.
I need to get inside. Away from Ben. Away from myself with Ben. “Just leave them,” I say firmly, step inside, and shut the door behind me. I stand in the foyer, eyes squeezed shut, like it will somehow stop the disastrous tape from running. Like I have the power to force this cataclysm I created into nonexistence. But I can’t. It’s too late, and I know it and the helplessness makes me want to wail out loud. To scream until I’m hoarse. Oh my God. I have done a thing that can never be undone.
Reality: My husband is no longer the last man I’ve been romantic with. It’s only been five months—months, not years, for God’s sake—and I kissed someone. Like a goddamn horny teenager. And it wasn’t just someone. It was Ben. Ben! Perry’s friend. My friend. Sabine’s husband. I did a monumentally stupid thing, and now our friendship is irrevocably changed. Forever. Shit. Shorie—what would she think if she knew? She would be devastated. She would kill me. She would kill Ben . . .
I force my brain to stop looping through the bombarding thoughts. Order it to start at the top. Proceed calmly.
Say it, Erin.
Reality: I’ve fucked up.
Challenge: Unfuck it all.
If that’s even possible.
I open my eyes. Force myself to take in my surroundings. The hallway is cool and comfortably cluttered with Shorie’s things: two pair of boots, and a couple of her jackets that I never got around to putting away last winter, still hanging on the hall tree. In the chipped ironstone tray on the chest, a pair of earbuds that the cat chewed. I run my hands over her pink fake fur coat and watch as bits of the fur swirl to the ground. I forbade her to wear it past the front hall because it shed worse than Foxy Cat. But she looked so glamorous in it, her shiny light-brown hair cascading over it, hazel eyes sparkling, and the dimple flashing just under the corner of her lip. My daughter looks like Perry grew her in a petri dish all by himself, but I don’t care. They are the two most beautiful human beings I have ever laid eyes on.
I pull my T-shirt over my head and let it drop to the floor, then hook my thumbs in the pajama pants and step out of them. I feel better in my sports bra and underwear, but in the hallway, I still push the thermostat down to seventy. I should start a load of laundry. And get some water, and aspirin, before I head upstairs. I snatch up the clothes and head back to the living room.
“Foxy,” I call. “Foxy Cat. Where are you?”
The room is dark and quiet, strewn with signs of Shorie’s last-minute, late-night packing. A bag from Urban Outfitters on the slouchy sectional sofa. Ripped tags and receipts on the glass coffee table. Empty hangers and a suitcase she decided she didn’t need after all. I gather it all up and dump it in a corner near the back door, then stop, staring out the windows that look into the backyard.
There’s a car in my back driveway—a black Escalade. Arch has an Escalade. But why would Perry’s father be here on a Thursday? Clutching the T-shirt and pj’s against my chest, I tiptoe into the dark kitchen.
In the low light, I can see the whitewashed cabinets and tile countertop have been wiped down. The dishwasher is gurgling away, and the perpetually stacked-up drainboard beside the farmhouse sink is empty. Foxy slinks along the legs of the table, rubbing up against something in addition to the table legs. Human legs. Instantly I’m hit with a very distinctive smell. Chanel Coco perfume. Gigi.