All We Ever Wanted(64)

“Why? You tell me why,” I said. “Why are you lying to me?”

“Why do you think I’m lying?”

“Because you are,” I said, trying to channel Grace. Any strong girl. Or at least someone who didn’t care enough to get hurt like this. I thought of my mother—how nothing really fazed her, at least not that she’d ever shared with me.

“What are you even talking about?” Finch said.

“I know where you were tonight. After you dropped me and Grace off. I’m not stupid.”

I braced myself for more lying—since that’s what liars do. But instead he folded immediately. “Okay, Lyla. You’re right. I’m sorry. I wasn’t with Beau. And I didn’t go to The Flipside. I was with Polly.”

“You’re an ass,” I said, welling up. “A total ass.”

He said nothing, though I could tell he was still on the phone. Seconds passed before he sighed and said, “Okay. Can I please just explain?”

   “No,” I said, telling myself to hang up on him but knowing I wouldn’t. Instead, I just sat there, waiting and listening, a sick part of me hoping, once again.

“Polly knows about you,” Finch said.

“What about me?” I said.

“She knows I went to the concert with you. She knows I like you. And…” Finch said, pausing dramatically as the hope expanded in my chest so quickly that I felt as if my heart would explode. “She knows I’m going to tell the truth about what she did to you.”





Right after Finch left for the concert, I poured myself a glass of wine. It crossed my mind that I was doing this too often and that drinking alone was a sign of a “problem”—much like the one I sometimes accused Kirk of having. But I rationalized that wine was simply the nighttime version of coffee—more of a ritual than anything else—especially if you had only a glass or two.

At some point, I called Kirk, partly because I was feeling lonely. But also because I was feeling guilty for keeping secrets from my husband. No matter what mistakes he’d made, I wanted to be honest. He didn’t pick up, though. So I left a message, telling him that I hoped he was feeling better.

A few minutes later, he called me back. Only he hadn’t—at least not purposefully. He’d simply made an inadvertent pocket dial. I called out his name a few times, but when that didn’t work (it never does), I listened, more out of boredom than any real curiosity or concern. Even after I heard a woman’s voice, I told myself not to jump to paranoid conclusions. Yes, he’d said he had a migraine and was going to bed. But that didn’t necessarily make this nefarious. Hell, she could be a female concierge, helping him get his headache meds from a nearby pharmacy. My service industry explanation calmed me for a few seconds, but then their interaction continued, an easy, back-and-forth rhythm suggesting a certain familiarity. Mostly, it was Kirk talking and the woman laughing. It reminded me that my husband could be really funny and charming, and I felt a pang for a dynamic that had seemed to slip away as gradually as Finch’s open-bedroom-door policy. I couldn’t remember the last time Kirk had had this much to say to me, let alone the last time he’d actually made me laugh. I strained to make out their words, but everything was too muffled. Even the volume was coming in and out, as if they were in motion, in a car or walking somewhere.

   Then, suddenly, their voices got clearer and louder, and I heard the woman say “Honey” followed by my husband’s unmistakable “Oh shit.” Then he hung up on me. I sat there, stunned, yet still struggling to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I’d misheard her honey. Maybe he’d said oh shit about something else. He could have made a wrong turn. Or stepped in a wad of gum. Or realized he’d left his credit card at a store where he’d bought me a sweet token of a gift. It could be anything, really. People said oh shit all the time in the normal course of things. And some people just used terms of affection like honey. It wasn’t as if I’d just heard him having sex with a woman—or professing his love to her. It wasn’t as if I had irrefutable visual evidence. Maybe he hadn’t hung up on me at all. Maybe he’d just lost the connection at that instant.

This was an exercise I’d engaged in before, especially in recent years, one on which I actually prided myself, believing that it said as much about my self-confidence as about my faith in my husband. But I didn’t feel very proud or confident in that agonizing moment, as I sipped my wine, waiting for my husband to call me back.

   When after several minutes my phone still didn’t ring, I told myself to be proactive and try him again. It went to voicemail. I left a message, then texted another. And another.

I began to freak out—at least my version of freaking out, which was really just sitting very still, staring into space, and imagining Kirk kissing a younger, more beautiful woman. I told myself that her age or beauty was irrelevant. Unfaithful was unfaithful. Maybe someone my age or older who had real substance and life experience and significant accomplishments might actually hurt worse.

Finally, he called. I took a deep breath and said hello.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asked, so innocently that it made him sound even more guilty.

“Nothing,” I said. “Where are you?”

“What do you mean?” he asked through a yawn that sounded fake, or at least exaggerated.