If You Only Knew(68)

“So, Adam,” Laney says, “why don’t you at least try to see what else is out there?”

“Fine,” he grumbles. Resentment rolls off him like a thick fog. “You know what I’d like to talk about? Just to change the subject from what a shit I am to something a little different.”

“Go ahead,” Laney says.

He turns to me. “You’re angry because I had an affair, and I totally understand that. But did you ever think about the reason I did it?”

“Yes. I’ve thought about that a lot.”

“You ever think that maybe I felt like you weren’t interested in sex anymore?”

“What?” I shriek. “How dare you? We did it all the time! Much more than any other couple I know!”

“Yeah, but you didn’t like it.”

“What?”

“What do you mean, Adam? Why do you think that?” Laney asks.

He looks at her and crosses his legs. “She fell asleep. During. Not before. During.” He says it with the same gravity and accusation as if he’d just found a crystal-meth lab in our basement.

My face prickles.

“You didn’t even think I noticed, did you?” he says smugly, now the injured party. “So maybe I strayed because it was clear I was just burdening you with wanting a normal sex life.”

“Rachel?” Laney says. “Would you like to respond?”

“I would,” I say. “Yes, I fell asleep one time. The girls had had a stomach virus, I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in a week, but I happen to love sex, and I’ve been very conscious of keeping it in our life together, and one time I fell asleep for a second.”

“How do you think that made me feel?” Adam asks.

“How do you think I felt, Adam? I was exhausted! So what does this mean? I can’t get tired or you have permission to f*ck around?” There it is, the foul mouth that never existed before.

“Rachel, let me just ask you this. Why didn’t you tell Adam you were too tired, and all you wanted was a good night’s rest?”

I pause. “Because I didn’t...I didn’t want him to think of me like that.”

“Like a human?” she says with a faint smile.

“Like a wife who’s too tired for sex.”

“But you were too tired. Just that one time, maybe, but probably more. You’re not letting Adam see you as a regular person, which can be distancing.”

“So...this is my fault? His affair is my fault?”

“No, no, not at all. Adam is the only one responsible for the affair. But true intimacy is more than just sex on regularly scheduled nights. He has to know how you feel. You’re a very capable woman who’s a wonderful mother and has created a lovely home.”

“And that’s bad?”

“No. But maybe Adam isn’t sure what his role is.”

“Exactly,” he says.

I look at him. “So you would rather give me a back rub and take over making dinner a few nights a week, and clean the bathrooms on the weekend, because it’ll make you feel more important, and therefore you won’t be tempted to sleep with other women?”

His eyes flicker. “Yes,” he lies.

“Let him be more a part of your world. You don’t have to be perfect, Rachel,” Laney says.

That’s news to me.

“Our time is up, but I think we’re moving forward,” Laney says. “See you next week.”

We get into the car without speaking and head through town, past the old folks’ home and the park.

“Why don’t we go out for a drink?” Adam says as we’re paused at a stop sign. His voice is tense, but I know he’s trying.

“Sure,” I say, because Laney has said to be open to moments of intimacy, and not just sexual intimacy. Plus, I have to show that I’m trying, too.

“Want to go to Storm King?”

“Sure.” I’ve never been there; it’s for the new breed of Cambry-on-Hudson residents, the hipsters and artists and young PhD students from the university, still straddling the line between adulthood and perpetual student.

Inside, it’s sleek and dark, white leather chairs at glass tables, the bar backlit with blue light. And suddenly, it seems fun. Jenny is babysitting; I text her that we’ll be later than we thought, and she texts back, No hurry! We’re having a blast. I appreciate the good cheer, because I know she hates Adam these days. I appreciate that, too...the solidarity.

“Feels like we’re playing hooky,” Adam says, and though I never did that before, I know what he means.

Instead of ordering my usual boring white wine, I ask for a dirty martini, very dry, three olives.

Adam raises an eyebrow. “Same for me,” he says. We don’t talk, just look around until the waiter brings our drinks. I take a big sip. Dear God, it’s disgusting. But I smile at Adam. “Let’s not talk about the Situation,” I say, which has become our code word for his affair. “And let’s not talk about the girls.”

“Deal,” he says, offering his hand, and I shake it and laugh. Then I lick my upper lip as if savoring the paint thinner I’ve just swallowed.

“I had a dream the other night,” Adam says, his eyes on my mouth. “I’m not sure if I should tell you about it, though.”