Jack had disappeared again. I knew he was off somewhere drinking.
This time, I sensed something wasn’t right. It was a feeling that had been building for weeks. I tried calling him. No response.
I paced the apartment, trying to reason with myself. He’d probably just lost his phone again. He’d be home any minute.
I drank glasses of vodka mixed with Orange Crush. I counted and colour-coordinated the bookshelf between railing lines of coke I’d cut up with a razor blade. I hovered the blade near my wrist and considered digging it in—how good it would feel to get some relief—before placing it back on the shelf. I had promised Jack I wouldn’t do that anymore. I dragged the oxblood sofa a little to the left, and when that didn’t feel quite right, I dragged it a little to the right. I tried calling Jack again. It went straight to voicemail.
The feeling was darkening. I found myself grabbing his keys and walking to his car, figuring I’d drive to some of his regular places. I made a mental checklist: the bar, his studio, the deck, the path he usually took when he walked home. The feeling was in my guts, churning, creeping its way onto my chest. It sat there as I drove, trying to suffocate me. I reminded myself to breathe.
I texted one of Jack’s friends to see if they knew where he had gone. He said Jack had left the bar hours ago. I circled the streets downtown, hoping I would find him stumbling along. I was calling him frantically, one eye on the road, one eye on my phone.
Reluctantly, I decided there was nothing I could do but go home and wait for him. I turned the car around, my palms forming sweaty prints on the steering wheel.
Parking the car, I noticed the light was on above our door. It was possible that someone walking by had set off the motion sensor, as our house was right on the street. I hated this fact, but Jack always said it placed us right in the world without ever having to leave our living room. But it was also possible that Jack was home. I increased my pace, reaching for the door.
Once inside, I tossed my keys on the entryway table. “Jack?”
No response.
I removed my shoes and jacket, calling again: “Jack?”
“I’m in the kitchen.”
I moved toward his voice.
Jack was sitting at the kitchen table, two tumblers filled with whiskey in front of him. He was massaging the back of his head with the outstretched tips of his fingers.
“Where the fuck were you? I’ve been calling and looking everywhere for you.”
“Sit down, Grace.” He motioned to the chair next to him, then edged the tumbler in my direction. “We need to talk.”
I perched on the edge of the chair.
“Grace, I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to say it.” Jack paused, interlacing his fingers and placing them on the table in front of him. “I’ve been seeing someone else.”
It happened quick, like I had been stabbed in the stomach. Sharp and blinding. And then everything went fuzzy. “What?” The word barely came out.
He spoke more slowly this time, but his words were the same. “I’ve been seeing someone else.”
All the blood drained from my body. My face muscles collapsed. I felt as if they were being sucked to the floor. “Who?”
“Does that really matter?” He looked tired, all sleepy-eyed and glossy.
“It fucking matters to me,” I shouted. “Who is it?”
“Jessica, okay?” Jack slammed his fists down on the table. “It’s Jessica.”
Teeth. Brown eyes. Fingers in his hair.
“Jessica?” I shot from my chair, immediately on my feet. “Fucking Jessica? Seriously?”
He nodded, taking a long gulp from his glass.
“How long?”
“How long what?” Jack remained seated, staring into his glass.
“Don’t play dumb—how long has this been going on?”
“Almost a year,” he mumbled.
“A year?” I turned around and hit the fridge with my fist. My entire body was burning. “A fucking year?”
“Grace—”
“What do you mean, ‘seeing’?”
“We’ve been spending time together, and I have feelings for her.”
“Feelings?” I swallowed. My mouth had no saliva in it. “Feelings? What the fuck does that even mean?”
“I’m so sorry, Grace.” He stroked his tumbler before he spoke again. “I think you know how bad things have been, though.”
My hands instinctively went to my empty belly. “Wait. Let me get this straight—you were cheating on me with Jessica while I was pregnant?”
He looked down at his drink. “Yes.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’m not happy, and I haven’t been happy.”
“How could you do this to me? You’re pathetic,” I snarled, standing over him. “You are a pathetic excuse for a man.”
He stood to face me, his eyes filled with pain. “I never wanted to hurt you. You’re just always going through something, and it’s never been a good time.” He couldn’t maintain eye contact. “And then you got pregnant. I didn’t know what to do.”
“How about not sticking your dick in someone else? There’s a fucking start.”
Jack sighed.
“You are a coward. I fucking hate you.” I pulled my arms back and shoved him as hard as I could. He stumbled backward, his arms helicoptering before catching himself on the kitchen counter. I shoved him again, over and over, toward the back door, screaming, “I want you to leave. Right now. Get the fuck out of this house. I don’t ever want to see you again.”
He didn’t fight back. He tried to pin my arms down, but I kept flailing. I slapped at him, making contact with his head and chest and arms and face. My palms were stinging and he was red all over. I spit and cursed and shoved him again and again until I was panting and depleted, crumpling to the floor in a discarded heap.
I pointed at the door, shaking. “Go. You’re just like your fucking father.”
Jack buckled, his eyes searching my face as though he were looking for some semblance of recognition. I held his gaze, my face twisted with hatred.
Turning, he began to walk away from me. I was gasping for air, my chest heaving. “Jack, wait.”
He stopped, his back to me.
I scrambled to my feet, scurrying to where he stood. I clutched his face. “Don’t go, please.”
He braced himself against the doorway, his eyes cast down. “Grace.”
“We can work through this. Please, Jack. I need you.”
“Grace, sweetheart.”
“Please.”