Then
Sunday, August 15
Woodstock, New York
Rich was downstairs when I got home from the wine bar where Mary had stormed off, flicking through his phone.
“How was the event?” he asked. As a cover for meeting Mary, I’d told him I was going to the local bookstore for a talk, which I’d found in the Daily Freeman. If he’d checked, he would have found a perfectly normal event for some up-and-coming fiction author. The lie was necessary, because as far as he knew, I had no friends in Woodstock, and I wasn’t about to explain to him that the woman who’d been following us around was actually correct about my identity.
“Great,” I said. “Free wine, too.”
He stood up, kissed me lightly on the lips, then sank back into the sofa. Obviously exhausted. I’d only been living with Rich a matter of weeks, but already, he’d grown so used to me. The way I could get Poppy to sleep better than he could. The way I organized our meals and shopping lists. The way I seemed to Rich like I’d always been a part of the family. His words, not mine.
Sometimes I wanted to give it to him straight. This wasn’t some great love or cosmic connection. He missed having a wife, a mother, a primary caregiver so he could relax in the evenings without having to worry about the ins and outs of caring for a child. He only even had Poppy in the summer, but it was a lot for him.
It was a lot for all of them.
See, what I’d said to Mary over wine hadn’t been a lie at all, even if I didn’t give her every nitty-gritty detail.
When women leave, they leave a big gaping hole, and men start to realize just how much these women were doing to keep their world afloat.
No guy was cut out for it. Not even Rich, who deeply cared about other humans but still needed hand-holding when it came to the domestic stuff.
And it’s true, whether Mary was ready to admit it or not. Women and girls—we’re raised to expect the sacrifice, to know that family life will be hard work. Men and boys? They’re told to spread their seed and reap the benefits. Bask in the offspring around you while someone else does the lion’s share of the work. Do a little here and there and receive all the praise for being “such a good dad.”
“Poppy give you a hard time?” I asked, pulling myself back to the present.
“Wanted Mr. Snuffles, then her little frog, then to switch it back. I must have gone in there six times.”
I joined him on the sofa and squeezed his shoulder. “You indulge her too much, you know. That’s why she pesters you.”
“I know,” he said. “But I don’t have your magic touch. I’ve never seen someone so good with kids as you are. Christ, you could probably teach my ex a few things.”
“Careful,” I said. “If she hears you say that, she’ll fly right over and strike me dead.”
Rich laughed, and then he shifted his weight on the sofa, and I could see it, in spite of the tiredness, the stress. I could see what was so familiar to me, what I’d built a life—hell, a pseudo-career—on: desire.
It was too much right now. Not after everything with Mary, which had hurt me deeper than I’d expected. It was one thing to have her out of my life, confused and hating me, but hating me from afar. It was another to see her scorn, her judgment face-to-face. I felt awful about what I’d done. Wished there were a way to make it up to her, to restore a friendship I’d truly adored.
I reached my hand to my head, like I was a tired wife in an old sitcom. “I think the book-event chardonnay got to my head a little bit. I was going to go lie down.”
“Oh,” Rich said, obviously surprised. But then just as quickly he forced a smile. He was the sort who would never pressure a woman for sex. A refreshing change from Jack the Douchebag, whose credit card I’d actually resorted to using tonight, when the first one didn’t go through. Take that, Jackie boy. “Of course. Feel better.” He leaned forward, gave me another peck.
“Thanks.”
Upstairs, I peeked into Poppy’s room, saw her holding tight to Mr. Snuffles, then carefully closed the door. In the bedroom, I paused at the closet, opened it, ran my foot along the floorboards. I’d moved all the jewelry there yesterday, taking it out of its drawer in my dresser, tucking it beneath a loose piece of wood I’d wedged back in and covered up with shoe boxes and an enormous diaper box that held Poppy’s old clothes. If George had actually seen me, figured out who I was, I could lose everything. I had to make sure he couldn’t find the jewelry, if he came after me.
I shut the closet door and opened the window near the bed. Let a bit of the mountain breeze through and sank onto the mattress. I stared at the vaulted ceiling, lined with beautiful cedar planks. Rich had taken such care restoring this place. I loved it, I really did.
I listened to the crickets. Felt the cool mountain air tickling my cheeks. Nestled into the down comforter and smelled the light scent of begonias wafting up from the flower beds down below.
This was a life, wasn’t it? One that many a woman would dream of. And there had been moments, in the last week or so, when I’d wondered, as I always did at one point or another: Could I stay? Could I actually make this my home?
But seeing Mary, seeing the pure horror on her face, brought me back to reality. No one really knew me. Not a single one of these men. I had lied to them all. I’d shrunk myself for them, become squishy and malleable. In a strange way, the only person I hadn’t done that with was Mary.
No, no matter how nice Rich was, no matter how easy life was here, I couldn’t pass up my chance at starting anew. At seeing who I was, without a man to please.
My phone buzzed, shaking me from my reverie.
Maybe it was Mary, telling me she understood. Promising she wouldn’t say another word to Rich. I wasn’t going to stay with him forever, but blowing it all up before the deal had gone through was beyond risky.
I pulled the phone out eagerly, but in spite of all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, George’s number on the screen still sent a shock wave through my body.
His words did, too.
Nice home you have there