Patrick’s phone burred in its holster. I didn’t get the dinner plate that was in my hand set all the way into the dishwasher’s rack before my cell also came to life, shimmying a little half turn on the countertop and pinging a text alert. We looked at each other, questioning the synchronicity with only a shared look while we both reached for our phones.
You deserve each other. 1 dog + 1 bitch. But when he turns you around next time, just know he’s probably thinking about this.
Predictably, there was a photo attached. Angela’s name wasn’t tattooed on her forehead. It was, however, tattooed on her ass. The curly script underscored a delicate, impossibly beautiful, jewel-toned butterfly. I briefly wondered if the artist had regretted making a tacky name tag out of his nice work instead of letting the precision and color speak for itself.
Patrick and I locked eyes across the kitchen island. People sometimes say that the color drained from someone’s face, but I’d never seen it in textbook presentation before. In this case, a distinct pale edge tumbled, forehead to chin, over the average shade of Tuesday on his face. The white drew down as his blood deserted his brain, where all the excuses and reasons lived. He opened his mouth but nothing came out.
“Pat—” I started.
“She’s lying.”
“Pat.”
“I don’t know who this person is. I think it’s a wrong number. You know how they reassign numbers. This must be close to—I should call the telephone people. I—I’ve been getting these weird—these harassing messages—it’s gotta be.” The last three words made little sense, but he’d hit a sound stride and nodded his head as if it stood in for any kind of resolution.
“Pat!”
He froze. I mirrored his stance, chilled and stiff, bracing against the opening lines of this scene I’d hoped not to have to play out. There was no sloping into this one. A quick dive and a cold splash was all I had ahead of me.
I sighed. “Angela called me four days ago. She told me what happened.”
“She what?” Patrick’s pallor had curdled around flushed patches on his cheeks, as if he’d been slapped twice.
“I didn’t know what to say to you.”
“Four days? You didn’t say anything about this for four days?”
“I just didn’t—”
“You acted— We’ve been— Nothing. Nothing at all. Like everything was fine,” he sputtered.
“It’s not fine. I just didn’t want to overreact. With everything that’s happened . . .”
“With everything that’s happened—what? What does that even mean?”
“Hang on. Wait. You’re angry with me?” I asked.
“I don’t know yet. Why haven’t you said anything or even hinted that there was something wrong—something this big on your mind?”
“Why are you turning this around on me? I was trying to be understanding.”
“You were trying? I dunno, you don’t exactly look all worn-out from four days of trying. In fact, you look a lot more like you don’t give a shit.”
“This is ridiculous. I can’t win.”
“What are you trying to win, Dee?”
“So, you’d rather I throw dishes at your head? Is that what I’m supposed to get out of all of this?”
“Unbelievable.” He got up from the table, the legs of his chair grinding across the tile. “You are truly unbelievable.”
Patrick brushed by me, clearing the room in fast, angry strides before he’d have to offer one word in defense of being most literally bare-assed, blatantly caught.
“How am I in trouble with you over this? It doesn’t make any sense. I was hoping that this was just a onetime thing, just a lapse, because you were mad at me. You know, getting back at me for the . . .” I left off, lost in the baffling indignation that billowed majestically around the statue of my husband as he loomed from the doorway.
Patrick was all offense now on an unfathomable high ground. He leaned in, somehow righteous in his fury, withering me under his glare. “Well, if I had known I had a hall pass, I might have spent it differently.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”
“I can see that.” He stalked out of the room.
Just a few weeks later, after a run of tense days warming through discussion and tears, rolling over to tentative makeup sex and stunningly odd urges in me to apologize, Patrick forgot his cell phone and I interrupted him giving directions to a man in a blue sedan who didn’t look lost at all.
• • •
Patrick was a man of preparation. Corporate presentations ended up looking effortless for all the effort he put into them, and he spent up to a quarter of an hour each workday morning in the driveway, admiring his shave in the rearview mirror and checking his voice mail and electronic messages for things to mull over on the way to work, psyching himself up with answers-at-the-ready for whatever he’d missed since he’d left the office on the previous afternoon.
So I was a little surprised on my way to the shower, one morning, to see his cell phone still in its charging cradle on the dresser. He’d only left just moments earlier, so I hustled into my robe and slippers to catch him before he could drive off without it. I yanked open the front door, still struggling with the robe’s sash to stay decent. Patrick was bent at the hips, speaking into the open driver’s-side window of a blue sedan idling at the curb opposite our house.
My flapping on the stoop drew the driver’s attention. That was normal in and of itself, but something in the unmistakable Oh, shit! of the look on this stranger’s face kicked my heart into double time. Patrick mirrored the man’s startle, his eyebrows flying for his hairline before he could stop them. He composed himself, nodded at the man, who then pulled away from the curb without another look my way. Patrick met me on the sidewalk.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“What?”
I laughed for his benefit. Granting Patrick a sliver of time gave me one as well. Composure cuts both ways, and we’d been riding rough waters of late. Our peace was bruised and seasick. I’d made a second career of being careful not to upend a nice day without good cause.
I shielded the early sun out of my eyes with a sheltering hand across my brow. The blur of golden light receded under my shade so I could see his face clearly. “Do you know that guy?” I asked.
Patrick’s color was high in bright circles over his cheekbones. “That guy? No, I don’t know that guy.” Parroting. A small giveaway that the statement is a lie.
“Well, what did he want?”
“Directions.”
“To where?”
Patrick’s eyes danced right and left. “The freeway.”
“Oh. You forgot your phone.”
Patrick took it and kissed my cheek. “Thanks. Gotta run. Love you.” But his mouth turned down at the corners as he said it.
I went back into the house and pushed the whole scene from my mind and nearly convinced myself I hadn’t memorized the license plate of the blue sedan.