Other People's Houses(48)
“Is that always what happens? Your marriage ends?”
“No. Sometimes you fall in love with someone else and are grown-up about it and change jobs, or do something else so you don’t see that person anymore, and never take it beyond the confines of your own head. Other times you both know you’re in trouble before you get into it, and you have a very sad conversation where you agree that if you lived in a different world you’d be together, but you don’t, see earlier reference to changing jobs. And other times you acknowledge the attraction, have one very steamy make-out session, and end it there.” Sara suddenly sighed. “But that choice is a very dangerous one, in my experience, because once that physical bridge has been crossed, it tends to fall down behind you like a chase sequence in an action movie and there’s no going back.”
Iris looked at her wife, who wasn’t even seeing her anymore. She cleared her throat. “In your experience?”
Sara looked up and correctly read Iris’s expression. “Not in MY experience, but in my experience of other people’s experiences, my knowledge of the world, and my extensive watching of movies and reading of books.”
Iris frowned. “Are you sure?” Her heart was curling at the edges, her palms suddenly sweaty.
Sara smiled at her. “Yes, idiot. Besides, this is why I like it best when you and Wyatt come on location with me, then I don’t need to worry that you’re screwing around with some other hot mom. Or delicious coed babysitter who wants to be taken in hand by a gorgeous older woman and shown the ropes.”
“You watch too many movies.”
“It’s my job.”
Iris shook her head. “Wyatt’s going to be in middle school soon, and then it won’t be so easy to take him out of school, you know. What then? What if you’re on location for months and the starlet is irresistible?”
“We’ll get a tutor. This is L.A., schools are used to it. This is because of Anne Porter, isn’t it?”
Iris thought about the second baby she wanted so much. What would that do to her marriage?
Sara suddenly put both bowls of ice cream aside and straddled her wife. She pinned Iris’s arms down as she kissed her. “Why.” kiss “Would I.” kiss “Ever risk.” kiss kiss “Losing one second of your happiness for hours of anything else?” kiss kiss kiss “Anytime I’m not actively doing something, anytime I’m not doing my work or driving a car or making a sandwich or anything, in fact, at all, I am thinking of you, of your face, your hands, your waist, your sweet, sweet smile.” Sara leaned closer and gently licked the end of Iris’s nose. “And your delicious, incredible nose.” She let go of one of Iris’s hands, and slid her own down under the covers and started gathering the hem of Iris’s nightie. “My biggest problem with these ridiculous nightgowns is how long it takes to get them off . . .”
* * *
? ? ?
Later, as Sara was drifting off to sleep she muttered, “Plus, what if Anne had gotten pregnant . . . It could have been even more awful and complicated.” She yawned, squeezing Iris’s hand where it lay beside her on the quilt. “At least we can cheat secure in the knowledge that that particular outcome isn’t going to catch us out.” Her breathing slowed, her grasp loosened.
Iris lay there in the dark, gazing up at the ceiling, her heart suddenly constricted again. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Lucky us.”
Twenty-two.
When Frances got home from drop-off the next morning, Anne was sitting on her front step.
“Can I talk to you?” She looked awful, cold and pinched despite the typical warmth of the day. As Frances nodded and opened the door she thought she saw Charlie coming out of his house up the street, but wasn’t sure. She hoped not; she really didn’t want to take sides. Well, apart from the side of the kids, that side she would always be on.
The dogs greeted Anne in their usual enthusiastic fashion, because (a) they didn’t know she was a cheater and (b) they’re instant forgivers, dogs, it’s just the way they roll. They also sensed deep misery, and followed her into the kitchen and sat next to her while she lowered herself into a chair. While Frances pulled the usual mugs from the cupboard and looked to see if there was any coffee left, Anne petted the dogs and felt like death warmed over.
In the distance, Frances could hear the shower running. “Michael’s still here, you know. Is that OK?”
Anne was still petting the dogs as if it were going out of fashion. She nodded. “It doesn’t matter. I just wanted to talk to you.” She looked up suddenly. “Does he hate me?”
“Michael?” Anne nodded, so Frances shook her head. “No, or at least, he hasn’t said so. It’s not our place to hate you, is it? You didn’t cheat on us.” What she didn’t say was that she and Michael hadn’t spoken yet that morning, so who knew what he thought? She’d been giving him the cold shoulder, and had been a little vexed that his car was still out front when she got back from drop-off. She’d hoped he’d be forced to reach out to her from work, maybe send her flowers, or leave her apologetic voicemails. That way she could nurse her resentment in solitude, whereas if she saw his face she would find it hard to stay mad. Their relationship was basically a deep, deep friendship at this point, and flares of anger usually just fell into the darkness and burned out. They frequently ignored the advice to never go to bed angry, but it took too much effort to stay mad past the following lunchtime.