Bad Mommy(51)

“And I didn’t want to. That didn’t mean you skip out on your family and spend the afternoon flirting with a woman you insist is a psycho.”

His face blanched right before my eyes. He turned an awful green color. The color of a rotten, excuse-making pussy. “You’re right,” he said. “I got so caught up with playing baseball. I love baseball. I don’t get to hang like that very often.”

I immediately softened. That was the thing about me—life was a microwave and I was a fucking stick of butter. “I’m sorry,” I rushed. “She was flirting with you. It’s just … some of the things in your past…”

“I know,” he said. “But, I’d never hurt you. You’re my everything. I would never cheat on you, Jolene.”

He put his arms around me and the guilt was so heavy I started to cry. What was wrong with me? Flying off the handle like that … accusing Darius?

“You’re tired,” he said. “Overworked. I’m glad you’re almost finished with this book and can take a break.”

Yes, he was right. I was tired.

I was putting myself under too much strain. I needed to speak with my publisher, tell them that I had to take a break before the next book, take some time for my family. He rubbed my back until I stopped crying.

“She’s falling for you, Darius,” I said. “If she’s not in love with you already.”

“You don’t know how uncomfortable that makes me. I won’t text her anymore, Jo, I won’t. That’s it. I was trying to be nice … for you. Because you like her.”

I knew that was true. He wasn’t much of a social butterfly. He made an effort for me, but at his core he was an introvert and a homebody. This wasn’t his fault; this was my fault. I always took on these projects and my family suffered.

I took a deep breath and nodded. “Don’t hurt her. Or make her feel abandoned. But yes, things have to change.” I wanted to tug the skin on my wrist, but I bit back the urge. I was a grownup. I would handle this without a security blanket. Darius let go of me, walking in the direction of our bedroom.

“Do you think George knows?” I asked, but he was already gone, closing the door softly behind him.

I put the coffee on then wandered over to where my MacBook sat on the kitchen counter. The clock I bought in London last summer ticked over the kitchen sink, a metronome. Think, Jolene. I glanced back at the computer. My screensaver of Mercy was bouncing around from top right to bottom left. I tapped on the mouse pad and Mercy disappeared, replaced by a slew of windows I’d left up that morning. I had work to do, but I’d never be able to concentrate. My brain was choked, working on overdrive, and yet … something wasn’t adding up. What was it?

The music I was listening to that morning was still paused on my screen mid-song. I hit play then poured myself a mug. That’s when it occurred to me to click on Fig’s profile. We were friends, but I’d never looked. Did that make me self-centered or busy? Neither, I thought. You just don’t do that sort of thing. That was Darius’s thing—spying on Fig. I’d just been the ear in the room listening to all of his bitching. Her profile picture was the same one she had on Facebook, a Snapchat crown of golden flowers around her head, skin glowing like it was dusted in gold. She was playing a song even as I snooped around on her profile, my head propped in my hand, a coffee cooling at my elbow. Something by Barbra Streisand I didn’t recognize.

There were playlists she’d made, at least a dozen of them. I clicked on a few of the recent ones—ones she’d made since she moved by us—and scrolled through the songs. Kelly Clarkson! Was she still a thing? I thought she was happy now—marriage and chubby babies. Aside from Barbra, she was a pop junkie, whiny girl voices on top of synthetic beats. I had to look up some of the lyrics, songs I was unfamiliar with because they weren’t my style. I was getting tired of it when a couple of lyrics caught my attention. The naive fog lifted, and something clicked into place in my brain. It was like a Rubik’s Cube when the last color aligns and all of a sudden all of the colors are where they should be. Each song bore exactly the same theme. A theme that didn’t sit well with me.

I’m in love with you

I don’t know what to do since you belong to someone else.

Leave her, be with me

My heart is breaking watching you with her

Maybe in another life…

Etcetera, etcetera-etfuckingcetera. I slammed my MacBook shut and picked up my cold coffee, holding it to my lips but not sipping. I imagined my eyes were wide, vacant like the empty windows of a building. That’s how I’d write them into a book in that oh shit moment. I was downloading information into my brain that I wasn’t sure I wanted, puzzle pieces clipping quietly into place. I’d watched her around him, hadn’t I?

Women told a story with their eyes. And if you watched closely enough you could translate: the shimmer, or the blank deadness, the slow blinks, and the fast ones. A story … a screen of emotion. A person’s eyes rubbed you the right way, or the wrong way. What had Darius said about Fig’s eyes? You ever watched a psychopath fall in love? It’s a lot of idealism, drunken emotion, and them seeing what they want to see. I studied the way she watched, and spoke, and laughed when she knew he was looking. It was more than a crush, but it was less than love—an obsession. I felt guilty, Fig had told me how lucky I was. I could see the earnestness in her eyes when she said it, like she really needed to reach me with the news. It bothered me that I had something she didn’t—love … an attentive spouse. Hadn’t she said countless times that George was … I don’t know … detached? I didn’t want to rub my good fortune in her face. I wouldn’t even touch Darius when she was around and watching us like a hawk. My own husband. I didn’t want to hurt her—pour salt in the wound. People couldn’t control who they fell in love with. I know what you’re thinking and I don’t blame you sort of thing.