An Anonymous Girl(69)
But he catches sight of Dr. Shields.
A wide smile breaks across his face. His expression is a mix of anticipation and delight.
He doesn’t look like a man who wants to divorce the woman approaching him; on the contrary, he is eager to see her.
The two of them don’t realize I’m watching. I’m not sure how long I’ll have before they disappear into the building for their meeting with their lawyer. But maybe I can learn something.
He steps toward her, stretching out his hand.
She takes it.
And in that instant, with him in his black tailored jacket and her in white, it is as though I am spying on them in a different moment, one I’ve only seen in a photograph: their wedding.
Thomas bends his head, cups the back of her neck, and kisses her.
It isn’t the kind of kiss a man gives a woman he wants to be rid of.
I know this, because Thomas kissed me the same way only five days ago, when we met at the bar.
As I walk home now, I think about all the lies that link the three of us together.
Because I know now that Thomas is trying to deceive me, too.
After I watched him and Dr. Shields end their lingering kiss under the red awning, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close again. Then he opened the tall wooden door—not to an attorney’s office, but to a romantic-looking Italian restaurant—and stepped aside so that she could enter first.
At least I’ve finally learned something concrete: Neither of them can be trusted.
I have no idea why. But I can’t worry about that now.
The only question I need answered is which one of them is more dangerous.
PART
THREE
Often the person we judge most harshly is ourself. Every day, we criticize our decisions, our actions, even our private thoughts. We worry the tone of an e-mail we sent to a colleague might be misconstrued. We lambaste our lack of self-control as we throw away the empty ice-cream container. We regret rushing a friend off the phone instead of listening patiently to their troubles. We wish we had told a family member what they meant to us before they died.
We all the weight of secret—the strangers we see the street, our neighbors, our colleagues, our friends, even our loved ones. And we are all forced to constantly make moral choices. Some of these decisions are small. Others are life-altering.
These judgments seem easy to form on paper: You check a box and move on. In a real-life scenario, it’s never as simple.
The options haunt you. Days, weeks, even years later you think about the people affected by your actions. You question your choices.
And you wonder when, not if, the repercussions will come.
CHAPTER
FORTY-EIGHT
Wednesday, December 19
Dr. Shields’s latest gift feels more dangerous to me than flirting with a married man or revealing painful secrets or being trapped in a drug addict’s apartment.
It was bad enough when my own life was tangled up with Dr. Shields and her experiments. But now she’s linking herself to my family. They probably feel like they’ve won the lottery with this trip. I keep hearing Becky squeal: “We’re going to the ocean!”
As Ricky said when he grabbed my phone and stood over me in his kitchen, Nothing’s ever free in life.
I’m unable to stop seeing the image of Dr. Shields and Thomas kissing outside the restaurant as I walk home after following her. I imagine them at a romantic table for two while the sommelier uncorks a bottle of red wine. I picture Thomas nodding his approval as he tastes it. Then perhaps he cups both of her hands in his to warm them. I would give anything to know what they are saying to each other.
Am I the topic of their conversation? I wonder. Do they lie to each other, just as they are lying to me?
When I reach my apartment building, I yank the security door closed so hard behind me that it jars my shoulder in the socket. I wince and rub it, then continue to the stairs.
I wind my way around to the fourth-floor landing, then step into the hallway. Halfway down, about three doors from my apartment, something small and soft-looking rests on the carpet. For a second I think it’s a mouse. Then I realize it’s a woman’s gray glove.
Hers, I think as I freeze. The color, the fabric; I recognize her style instantly.
I swear I can smell her distinctive perfume. Why is she back at my apartment?
But as I draw closer, I realize I’m wrong. The leather is thick and cheap; it’s the kind of glove someone would buy from a street vendor. It must belong to one of my neighbors. I leave it for them to retrieve.
When I reach my apartment and open the door, I hesitate in the entryway. I look around. Everything appears exactly as I left it, and Leo runs to greet me as usual. Still, I engage both of my locks instead of waiting until bedtime, like I usually do.
My nightstand lamp is always on for Leo when I know I’ll be home after dark. Now I also flick on the brighter overhead light, then I turn on the one in the bathroom. I hesitate, then jerk back the shower curtain. I’d just feel better being able to see into every corner of my studio.
As I walk toward the kitchen, I brush by the chair where I drape clothes when I’m feeling too lazy to hang them in the closet.
Dr. Shields’s wrap is there, peeking out from beneath the sweater I wore yesterday. I avert my eyes and continue on to the cabinet, where I grab a glass and fill it with water. I drink it down in three thirsty gulps, then I dig out a legal pad from the bottom of my junk drawer.