Dead to Her(46)

30.

They’d had sex twice the previous night, once when Jason had joined Marcie in the decadently huge walk-in shower that took up most of her bathroom, and then again later, in bed. If there had been any lingering scent of Keisha on the sheets, Jason hadn’t noticed. His good mood had left her as breathless as the sex. He’d been grinning like a cream-filled cat when she’d gotten back from the Radfords’ house, holding a beautiful gold bracelet he’d picked up for her while he was away, and there was also Chinese takeout on the breakfast bar that ended up growing cold because he was hungrier for her than for any food.

It had been strange, the contrast of his thick chest with the mat of tangled coarse hair that stretched out toward his shoulders with Keisha’s dark, soft, and smooth skin. The way Jason kissed was different. His tongue was rougher, filled with a need to prove himself, perhaps. The comparisons were exhilarating, she couldn’t deny it. Thinking about what she’d done with Keisha only the night before in their marital bed turned her on, and when she came she was so lost in her thoughts she wasn’t entirely sure who she was with, him or her. It was Keisha’s face she saw as she came on his mouth, even still when Jason clambered back up the bed to pump himself into her, pinning her down and panting expletives into her face as she gripped his sweaty back and moaned some more, pretending she still wanted his cock until he climaxed.

She hadn’t had to do that with Keisha, she’d thought, afterward, when he brought the lukewarm noodles and ice-cold Chablis upstairs to bed. There was no pandering involved. No pretense for the sake of ego or machismo. Maybe her mother had been right all those years ago, trying to drunk-talk her way through some attempt at advice.

Men are fucking babies their whole lives. You spend all your time trying to make them feel better about themselves. For what? For fucking nothing. Take take take, that’s all they do. They never fucking grow up. Even that pissy boy of yours you’re so sure you love. If you marry him, then you’re as stupid a bitch as me.

As maternal pep talks went, on reflection, it had probably been one of Mama’s best, but then her mama had been flipped between men like a worn-out pinball all her miserable life and probably still was, for all Marcie knew. Mama had been right in that moment, but even a stopped clock told the time correctly twice a day, and Marcie had only made one mistake in her choice of men, which given that she was Mama’s daughter was no mean feat.

Jason had been a good choice. A great choice. So what if she had to fake it sometimes to keep him sweet? She had a beautiful house, a charmed life, and she lived in luxury with a handsome man easily stolen from his wife. Admittedly, that last didn’t make her sound so good, she’d decided as she let Jason feed her a forkful of greasy chow mein. Maybe the apple didn’t fall so far from the tree after all.

But when the lights were out and he was sleeping beside her, the Chinese food sat uncomfortably in her belly as guilt took hold. She’d cheated on her husband. And what had Jason done that was so terrible? Nothing. All she really knew he’d done was lie about a phone call—yes, he’d been moody, and yes, he’d been slightly dazzled by Keisha, but she didn’t have any evidence that he’d betrayed her. But she had definitely betrayed him. She was the cheat. She was the one putting all her security at risk.

Once a cheat, always a cheat.

Looking over at Jason now, while he drove, the top of the car down, tanned hands on the steering wheel, his hair mussed up from a day at the beach, it felt for a moment like time had looped back to when they’d been courting. Courting, such a sweet Southern word. Courting was probably what Iris and Noah, or William and Eleanor, had done all those years ago. Now it was the word Jason used to politely refer to their affair, as if somehow that would make people forget the whole drama of his divorce.

She didn’t want to think about that right now. They’d had a great day, she couldn’t deny that, and even though her phone had buzzed quietly in her purse several times, she’d almost managed to put Keisha out of her head. Jason had driven them out to Tybee Island, where they’d wandered on the beach, enjoying the sea breeze and collecting shells, before stopping for a seafood lunch at a cheap crab place. So very different from the crisp, white-tablecloth restaurants of their marriage. It had all made her feel young again. She hadn’t spoken much, letting him bubble over with his obvious excitement at the reality of buying William out and becoming senior partner.

“We’ll be on the map, baby,” he’d said more than once. “Not in anyone’s shadow anymore.”

“Are we going to be the new Eleanor and William?” she had asked, avoiding mentioning Keisha. It was a tongue-in-cheek question. They could never be like Noah and Iris or William—they weren’t bred in enough.

“Younger and better looking,” he’d answered. He’d been laughing about how William had behaved in Atlanta. Getting up early and going to the hotel gym regardless of how much they’d drunk the night before, cleansing with his coconut water, glugging it down, even as he ordered eggs and bacon and biscuits and gravy. All to impress some English girl he’d bought and paid for already and who was only after him for his money. He’d laughed and Marcie had joined in. As they snickered, smug, she’d wondered if maybe terrible people were drawn to terrible people. She was pretty sure neither she nor the man she’d married was very nice.