Neighborly(57)

“We can work on our sex life, if that’s what you want,” I say. “But we can’t bring anyone else in.”

He nods slowly. He doesn’t look happy.

Of course he doesn’t. I’ve just told him that the AV is where you can have your cake and eat it, too. Only he doesn’t get to sample. He’s just got pound cake for the rest of his life.

Everyone starts out saying no, and then they get worn down. I’d assumed that the neighbors were the ones who did the wearing down, but now I see that it’s probably the spouses. One person says no, and then the fantasies grow for the other person. Just because Doug is telling me I can opt out, that doesn’t mean he can’t pressure me to opt in later.

Fantasies can be deadlier than reality. Because maybe Doug would have been sexually incompatible with, say, Tennyson, or maybe she’s actually a total dud in bed, but that would never be true in his imagination. Is that why some of the women, like Yolanda, agree to openness? While Raquel was extolling the virtues of self-confidence and empowerment, Yolanda called it affair prevention.

All that cake, parading around. Surely Doug’s mouth will start to water.





CHAPTER 18

“You’re here!” Melody runs out to the car. “Sadie’s gotten so big!” She’s practically clawing the window to get at her grandchild.

Melody power walks every day for hours to maintain her trim frame. Her short hair is dyed blonde, identical to her natural color before she went gray, and it’s thinned in recent years until it’s almost diaphanous, revealing a hint of scalp beneath.

Scott is hanging back, framed by the front door. He’s tall and equally trim. Bald on top, gray hair trimmed neatly along the sides, his head is shaped like a football helmet. He’s in a polo shirt and khakis, same as he wore to work every day as an engineer. He’s a creature of habit, not prone to sudden moves and disapproving of them in others.

Now that I’ve got all those cake images dancing in my head—Tennyson as red velvet, Yolanda as lemon meringue, June as carrot—for the first time, I’m thinking we might just want to get the hell out of Dodge. The notes are scary, in their way, but it’s not the same way. Because with the notes, Doug is still standing beside me. We’re still a solid team. The openness is a threat of an entirely different magnitude.

It occurs to me that even if I convinced Doug to sell Crayola, his parents could prevent us. After all, Scott, Melody, and Doug are the only names on the deed. They told me it was better that way, since my student loan debt would have led to a higher interest rate. I don’t know what would happen if Doug and his parents disagreed on something so huge. It’s hard to imagine Doug really taking Scott on.

I was such an idiot. I never even read through all the loan paperwork, let alone consulted my own attorney. I just let Doug and his family cut me out of Crayola. But trusting Doug so fully, so blindly, had felt like progress. I thought Dr. Morrison would have been proud.

Crayola can still work out for us, if Doug and I stick together. We can opt out and find a different, nonswinging group of friends, and over time, the spreadsheet will just become a funny story.

As usual, Scott and Melody’s house instantly makes me feel confined. Trapped. It’s an “authentic Victorian reproduction” (Melody doesn’t realize the oxymoronic nature of that statement). Because it’s mimicking the past, the rooms are all tiny and overstuffed. Heavy valances adorn every window, while small lamps and knickknacks clutter every surface. The walls and furniture are all in somber shades like dark green and wine. Oil paintings depict dour-faced people in starched, suffocating collars from the turn of the century, except for the cherubs dancing in the master bedroom.

The exterior is white with a gray-shingled roof and a latticed porch and gate. A gardener comes once a week to do the prissy English gardening that comprises the small front and back yards. There’s a carriage house to the side (Melody’s taxonomy, not mine) that is basically a small studio apartment without a kitchen, and that’s where Doug, Sadie, and I stay. The carriage house has an A-frame shape, but the wide double doors make it look like a barn. I like that we have our own place, which is essentially one open room, since the main house feels so claustrophobic.

Melody has Sadie out of her car seat now and is clutching her tightly, like Sadie is more doll than human. Doug has our suitcase, I have my breast pump tote, and we all caravan toward the house. Scott pinches one of Sadie’s cheeks perfunctorily before slapping Doug on the back in a way that seems more fraternal than paternal.

We’re close enough to the coast, to Route 1, to be able to smell the ocean tang if we just open the windows. But Melody and Scott never do. The windows are shut and the curtains drawn in the living room.

Doug and I sit on the couch, which is uncomfortable and covered in some sort of dark-green velour or velvet upholstery. Whatever it is, it always feels slightly dusty to my fingertips, despite the vigorous cleaning I’m sure it had recently, courtesy of Melody or a cleaning woman. I don’t think Melody would ever admit to paying someone to clean the house. All those years as what she called a “homemaker” have made her proprietary about all things domestic. That includes her monopolization of Sadie, which has already started. Melody has Sadie in her lap, turned around so they’re nose to nose. It’ll be three days of cootchie-cootchie-coo.

“You’re looking well, Katrina,” Melody says, though she’s not actually looking at me.