Other People's Houses(74)

Charlie shut off the engine and stepped out of the car. “Whatever, Anne, let’s just get this piece of fucking paper and sort out a schedule.”

They went inside to Anne’s apartment. There was a pile of paper on the desk, and she sorted through it. “It’s here somewhere. I signed it earlier.” She looked at him. “They’ll still notify me about everything, right? They’ll just call you first if there’s an emergency?”

He was right behind her, impatient. “Yes, it’s just a legal thing, I guess.”

She handed it to him, and impulsively touched his arm. “Charlie . . .”

He looked at his wife, the angles and planes of her face as beautiful at that moment as they had been at the altar so many years earlier. He felt himself get hard and hated himself for his weakness. It was such a physical habit to want this woman, his brain apparently had very little say. Look at her now, tipping her beautiful face up to his, wanting him to give in.

Suddenly he pulled her closer, kissed her roughly, twisting her long hair in his hands as he had done hundreds of times before. Anne lost her mind for a moment, swooning with relief as the familiar edges of his mouth roamed over her throat, her arms going around him, pulling him tightly against her, making it clear that she wanted this, wanted him, wanted to make it better if she could. He turned, still holding her, and they stumbled to the bed, half falling onto it. His hands were at her waist, tugging her shirt off, her hands were at his waist, tugging his belt off, and then suddenly he pulled back.

“Anne . . .”

“Please, Charlie . . . I miss you so much.” Her words were mixed with kisses as she tried to pull him back down to her, her hands undoing the buttons on his shirt. “I’m your wife, please be with me . . .” She touched him where he liked it, she knew him so well. Come on, baby, her body said, I know you want me because I know what you feel like when you want me.

“I hate you.” His voice broke. There were tears on his face, and she lifted her head to lick them off, still overcome by optimism and desire. “I hate you.” He sighed, his voice soft.

“I’m so sorry . . .” Anne pulled his face down to her breast, arching her back to press herself against him. “Please forgive me.”

He paused, his hands still in her hair. Something inside him gave way, and he bent his head to kiss her again. Twenty minutes of oblivion, God, that’s all I ask.



* * *



? ? ?

Afterward he turned away from her. She lay silently, curled into a ball next to him.

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Anne. That was a mistake.” His voice was dry as dust again, the lawyer back in control.

She turned to him, trying to twine herself around his body. He stiffened, but she pressed against him. “It wasn’t a mistake. We’re married. Please forgive me and let me come home. I promise things will be different.”

He turned sharply. “It was fine before, Anne, as far as I knew. I had no idea there was a problem, and that’s why you can’t come home. How can I ever be sure you’re happy? How can I ever trust you again?”

Anne reached for him, but he evaded her. “I miss the kids so much. I miss you.”

Charlie sat up, turning to sit on the edge of the bed. She wanted to touch his back, unwind the stiff muscles around his neck and shoulders, but she knew she wasn’t allowed to. That moment had passed. “They miss you, too, Anne, and so do I. But you’re not the same person we thought you were. They don’t know that you chose fucking some other guy over protecting their happiness. They don’t know that you pretended to still love me . . .”

“I do love you. I never stopped loving you. I was just so . . . lonely. My therapist says I was depressed.”

“Could you not have seen a therapist before you got into bed with someone else? Could you not have chosen what other people choose? Medication and a thorough and almost certainly ineffective rehashing of your childhood?” He stood and started hunting about for his clothes, scattered on the floor. She’d seen him do this so many times, in many houses, many hotels, over years and years, she could predict the order in which he’d dress himself, the point where he’d sit down, the point where he’d no longer be tempted to get back into bed. “And why were you lonely? I was there, the kids were there, you have friends. What the fuck, Anne? Are you like the kids, requiring constant entertainment?”

He was disgusted with her—and with himself for sleeping with her. He had sunk to her level, maybe even lower. He felt nauseous; this whole thing was killing him from the inside out. He suddenly stopped dressing and flared at her. “Do you know I’ve lost ten pounds in the last two weeks? I’ve had to leave meetings and go cry in the car. I can’t cry in the bathrooms at work in case someone hears me and thinks I’m losing it. Yesterday I told them I had to leave early to pick up the kids and one of the other partners asked if maybe it was time to get a babysitter. I told him to fuck off, which maybe wasn’t the best choice, so maybe I’ll lose my job and then we’ll all be homeless and your destruction of our family will be complete. Maybe then you and your boyfriend can move back into our house and take the kids from me and then I’ll just wander the fucking streets like the total loser I am!” His voice had risen so much that by the end he was screaming, his face red and wet with tears.