Turning Point(53)

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, and that time she meant it. Sorry that he was angry, that she had gone away, that she had cheated on him and fallen in love with someone else. And then the voice she used to love answered her in the dark and tore at her heart.

    “It’s okay.”



* * *



—

Somehow they managed to get through Sunday. They both focused on the boys so they didn’t have to focus on each other. On Monday, she went to work. She had gotten a dozen texts from Gabriel by then, telling her how much he loved her, how empty Paris was without her. He said everything she would have wanted him to say. He tried calling her on Sunday, and she didn’t pick up. She was in the car with Andy and the boys, going to the park to take a walk and throw a ball around.

She called him from her car on her way to work on Monday morning, and he was just as passionate. It all came at her in a rush, and tears rolled down her face as she told him she loved him, but he couldn’t tell that she was crying and she didn’t want him to know. She was so confused, she didn’t even know why she was crying.

When she got to UCSF in Mission Bay, it was a relief to get back to work. It was the one thing she knew how to do, no matter what else was happening. She could always work.



* * *



—

When Bill got back to his apartment on Sunday afternoon, it looked bleak and sterile. The lack of decor or paintings on the walls, the furniture he didn’t care about when he bought it, suddenly seemed even more depressing. And he missed Pip and Alex so much, it physically hurt. He changed into shorts and running shoes, and went out for a run along the Embarcadero. But nothing helped. The apartment was just as empty when he got back. And he couldn’t even call them. It was two in the morning in London.

    He bought a salad at a deli on the way back from his run, and ate it in front of the TV. He thought about calling Wendy, just to hear a friendly voice, but called Tom instead. He sounded distracted and out of breath when he answered.

“Welcome back. I’m up shit creek. It’s going to take me a year to get this place cleaned up. I should never have asked Valérie to stay here. I should just put the whole place in a Dumpster.” Bill laughed at his distress, and suspected it was true.

“She’s not going to care. She loves you.”

“Not enough to live with this, unless she goes blind in the next two weeks.”

“I should give you my place. It looks like a motel. I never bothered to decorate it or finish buying furniture. It’s like living in an empty shoebox. It even has an echo.”

“That’s a lot better than this. I keep finding women’s underwear under the bed.”

“Don’t tell me your sad stories.” Bill laughed and was glad he’d called him. He’d gotten to like him a lot while they were in Paris. “The only underwear I find under my bed is my own.”

“That’s your own fault,” Tom reminded him.

“True,” Bill agreed with him. “When do you go back to work?”

“Not till Tuesday. I’m cleaning house all day tomorrow. I feel like someone’s French maid.”

“I’m on tomorrow. Do you want to have dinner this week?”

“I’d love to. You don’t have a spare vacuum cleaner, do you? I think I gave mine away, or someone took it. Or maybe I never had one.”

    “It sounds like you need one of those services that cleans up crime scenes.”

“That’s not a bad idea. How’s Wednesday? I’m working Tuesday night.”

“Perfect.” They agreed on a place near Bill’s apartment that did good steaks and burgers, and had a busy bar.

Bill felt better after he called him. Going to Paris had been the right decision. He still missed Pip and Alex, but he had come home with seven new friends, three of them right in his own backyard.



* * *



—

When Wendy walked into her house in Palo Alto, it was spotless. Her cleaning woman came twice a week, and she could tell the pool cleaners had been there that day. Everything was in order, and there was enough food in the fridge to make breakfast, which was all she needed. The cleaner had left groceries for her.

She made herself unpack her bags before she texted Jeff, ignoring the rules he set for her about only texting him during office hours. She’d been gone a month, and she hadn’t heard from him since his trip to Aspen. She wanted to see how he’d respond to her text. “Just got home. Paris was great. Nice to be back. Love, W.” He didn’t respond for several hours, and then sent “Welcome home. See you Wednesday. J.” Not “I missed you. Can’t wait to see you. Love, J.” He didn’t ask if Wednesday was convenient. He expected to find her at the same time, same place. She wished she had the courage to tell him she was busy, but she didn’t. She had become a standard appointment, like a golf lesson or a massage. She wasn’t a person to him anymore, she was a convenience. There was something so degrading about it, but only because she let it happen. She had a responsibility in this too. He couldn’t use her if she didn’t let him. She had allowed it to happen for six years. It actually wasn’t like that in the beginning, but it had been for a long time. Once he stopped planning to leave his wife, she had become a weekly one-night stand on his terms.