12.

Lady Macbeth had nothing on me. I get under the shower and scrub myself over and over again, letting the water run as hot as I can bear it. Another man has touched me, has been inside of me. I’ll never be clean again. O, that this too too solid flesh—

No, wait, that’s Hamlet, not Lady M. My parents would be disappointed in me. For so many reasons.

Morning takes its time arriving, forcing me to suffer through long hours of lying awake on my father’s office sofa with only a towel to cover me because I don’t deserve to pull open the bed inside and use actual bedding—no, that’s too cozy, too comfortable for someone who’s betrayed the person who loves her most in the world.

Anyway, it’s not like I’m actually going to fall asleep. There’s no way.

I wonder if I’ll ever sleep again.

At some point during the long, lonely night, I segue from Lady Macbeth to Hester Prynne. I’m marked for life. A scarlet letter is carved across my heart, my head, my memory.

Tom has his tattoo, and now I have mine.

I’ve lost something I didn’t even appreciate while I had it, something fine and rare and intangible, something I don’t even know the word for, something that goes beyond fidelity and devotion and honesty but encompasses all of them. A few hours ago, Tom was the only man in the whole world who’d had access to my body. I’ll never be able to say that again and have it be the truth. I’ve lost that forever.

And knowing that Tom would still think it was true but it wasn’t, that I’d be living a lie with him from now on…that makes me want to throw up.

At three in the morning, I check on my father. He’s asleep. At five, I check on him again. He’s awake. He says, “Is it morning? It still looks dark out.” I tell him the time, and he says, “You should go back to sleep.” I go back to the office sofa, where I toss and turn and loathe myself. I’m getting really good at that.

At seven, I get up and make coffee.

I bring Dad a slice of toast and a cup of tea. He’s sitting up now, reading a book. He peers over his reading glasses at me and says, “You look exhausted. Couldn’t you sleep?”

“Not really.”

“I’m sorry. It’s my fault you’re not at home in your own bed.”

“It’s not your fault I didn’t sleep.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” I say. “It’s mine.”

“How so?”

“Guilty conscience,” I say and force a smile. Some joke, eh, boss?

* * *

Mom shows up around eight thirty. I tell her I’m running late and race out the door so her sharp eyes don’t have time to notice anything.

Tom calls me a few minutes later, catching me in the car. He says I sound weird. I tell him I’m exhausted, that I couldn’t sleep in Dad’s apartment. I also tell him that Hopkins isn’t coming so I’ll probably have to spend another night or two there, and he says, “If you sound this exhausted after one night—”

“I’ll be okay.” I ask him about his evening, and he says it was fun, that he and Lou went bowling and had a real guys’ night out.

“Where was Izzy?”

“Lou said she was all PO’ed about something and didn’t want to come with us.”

“Really? Izzy?” Izzy is the last person I think of as a sulker. “I’ve never seen her angry about anything.”

“Yeah, me neither, but Lou says she can really get going when they’re alone—that he’s the only one she lets loose on. He asked me once if you’re like that, and I almost felt bad because I had to say no. Guess I got the one perfect girl in the world.”

When we hang up, tears of self-loathing and regret are pricking at the space behind my eyes.

* * *

Mom calls me around lunchtime from Dad’s apartment to say she’s been there all morning and he’s fine, but Jacob’s coming soon to relieve her. “I think this taking shifts thing is really going well,” she says almost happily. “And when Hopkins comes—”

“If  Hopkins comes.”

“She’s coming. She just had a medical emer—”

“I know, I know.” I’m too tired and too dispirited to hear about how Hopkins is performing some kind of miracle back in New York. “How was your date?”

“Strange. Sometimes when we’re together it feels like our spouses are just waiting in the next room, and we’ll all join up again in a minute. And then I remember that it’s just the two of us. But Irv is good company.”

“Does Dad know you’re dating him?”

“Not unless you told him.”

“I haven’t yet, but I’ll keep it in mind when the conversation feels like it’s dying.”

“I’m sure he’d be fine with it.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” I have no patience today. Not for this. “Don’t fool yourself, Mom. He wouldn’t be fine with your dating anyone. You may have moved on, but he hasn’t.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“So when do I have to show up tonight?” I ask.

“Jacob said he can stay until about five. I can come back then if it’s too early for you.”

“Kind of. I was hoping to have dinner with Tom tonight.”

“That’s fine. I’ll cover from when Jacob leaves until you arrive.”

I hang up relieved. I don’t want to overlap with Jacob.

* * *

I manage to get home before Tom and immediately take a shower. Another long hot one. Now I’m OCD Lady Macbeth. Every time I go to turn the water off, I hesitate and rinse off again.

When I decide my behavior is verging on psychosis, I get out and towel off, rubbing my skin so roughly that it stings and turns red.

I’m still in my bathrobe when I hear the door open. I race across the apartment and throw myself at Tom, hugging him tightly around his waist. I push my head hard against his chest, wishing I could burrow all the way inside and just stay there.

“Whoa,” he says, pulling back with a laugh. “That’s what I call a greeting!”

I look at his handsome, kind, smiling face, and I almost blurt it all out, right there and then. It’s unbearable. I have to tell him. I can’t keep a secret from him. It’s too agonizing. I’ll burn up with the agony of it.

But of course, I can’t tell him. For his sake, for Jacob’s sake, for my family’s sake. It kills me that I can’t. Absolution would feel so good, so much better than this wrenching guilt that makes me shudder in his arms and bury my face on his shoulder so he can’t see my expression.

But I don’t deserve absolution. I deserve to suffer.

And I do. All through dinner—we go out to our favorite local restaurant, a small Italian place that may not serve the best food in town but is dark and quiet and always has a table available—and during the walk back to our apartment, I suffer as we talk about his work, my work, my father, the upcoming weekend, all the stuff we’d normally talk about, only it’s like the world is melting around the edges and nothing’s quite real. Everything’s different, but I’m the only one who knows it.

It’s lonely being the only one who knows it.

I get why unfaithful husbands show up with flowers and chocolates. I want to do something nice for Tom. I want to show him how much I love him. So back at the apartment, I pull him onto the bed, fondle and kiss him, pull off his jeans, and give him a blow job.

It’s not just to be nice. It’s also so we don’t have sex. I can’t yet. I still feel unclean.

Afterward, he pulls me up next to him, ruffles my hair, and thanks me. “That,” he says, “was unexpected. To what do I owe the honor?”

“Just wanted to do something nice for you. I missed you last night.”

“I missed you, too.” He rubs his temple against mine. “I kept reaching for you all night long and you weren’t there. Made it hard to sleep.”

“I guess we’re just addicted to each other.”

“You really have to stay at your dad’s again tonight?”

“Mom wants me to. But I swear this is the last night. He’s doing so much better. And someone’s coming tomorrow to set up one of those Lifeline alarm thingies so he can call for help if he needs it.”

“I’ve fallen and I can’t get up,” Tom says and chuckles.

“Exactly.” But it doesn’t amuse me the way it does him.

Later, I give him a shoulder massage and fetch him a beer. It’s stupid of me to wait on him like this—he actually wonders out loud why I’m being so unusually nice to him—but I can’t seem to help myself.

When I leave to go to my father’s, Tom gives me a cheerful wave good-bye. I go down to the garage, get in my car, drive away…

And feel a shameful, overwhelming sense of relief.

* * *

Mom’s watching a news show on PBS with Dad when I arrive but jumps to her feet the second I enter the bedroom.

When I walk her to the door, she asks me if I can come out to the house on Saturday. The real estate agent’s coming to talk strategy, and she wants another set of ears.

“Is anyone else coming?” I ask warily.

“Why?”

Because I can never be in the same room with Jacob Corwin again. “Just wondering,” I say.

“Well, you’re the only one I’ve asked. But I’m still hoping Hopkins might make it to town by then, so it’s possible she’ll be around.”

I tell her I’ll come.

We say good-bye, and then I go sit on the edge of my father’s bed. During a commercial, he tries to convince me to go home to sleep. “I’m fine,” he says. “All of this well-intentioned hovering is starting to get on my nerves. I just want life to go back to normal for all of us.”

“It will, soon. This is the last night I’ll stay here. I promise. Even if you collapse on the floor in a pool of your own vomit, I’ll leave you alone tomorrow.”

“But for tonight…Don’t you have a boyfriend who wants you to come home?”

It’s an effort to sound lighthearted. “Hmm. Let me think. Tall guy? Dark hair? We had dinner together tonight, Dad. It’s fine.”

“I haven’t always been his biggest fan,” my father says. “I never thought he was good enough for you. I know fathers always feel that way about their daughters’ beaux, but this felt fairly objective. In all honesty, your mother and I both assumed you’d outgrow him.”

“Well, I haven’t. And I won’t.”

“He’s good to you?”

“Very.” I feel close to tears. Not because of this conversation, because of everything. “So good to me, Dad. He’s the kindest, most loyal guy. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

“Those are good qualities. Kindness. Loyalty. Sometimes I think we undervalue that kind of thing in our family.” He sighs, or maybe just breathes in unevenly, and his face contorts a little.

“You need a painkiller, Dad?”

“A couple of Advils will suffice.”

“You sure you don’t want something stronger?”

“I like a little edge of pain. Reminds me I’m not dead yet.”

“My company doesn’t do that?”

“Ah, it’s far too heavenly to convince me I’m still alive.”

We’re not a demonstrative family so when I give in to the sudden urge to lean forward and brush a loose strand of gray-white hair off his forehead, I quickly straighten back up and reach for the bottle of Advil.

I feel his gaze on me as he swallows the pills. I busy myself straightening up the items on his night table. I toss some dirty tissues into the wastebasket, stack up some old mugs and glasses, pile books on top of one another.

“You’re a good girl, Keats,” he says as I carry the cups toward the door. “The best.”

“Thanks,” I say, but I don’t believe him. I’m not the smartest or the most talented kid in my family—and as of about twenty-four hours ago, I stopped being honorable, which was the one thing I had going for me.

The phone rings as I bring the cups into the kitchen. I put them in the sink and answer it on the third ring. My stomach lurches when I hear Jacob’s uncomfortable response to my hello, and I feel a burst of fury at my father for not having Caller ID on his phone. Not that he even knows what that is.

“Oh, hi. How’s it going?” I say awkwardly.

“Fine, thanks. You?”

“I’m good, thanks. What can I do for you?” We both sound like we’re speaking a foreign language we’ve gotten very rusty in.

“Sorry to bother you. Your father asked me to look something up for him, and I just tracked down the information. Could I please talk to him? If he’s not asleep, of course.”

“Yes, of course. Just a moment.” But then I stop playing the game for one second. “Are you okay? Really?”

He doesn’t stop playing the game. “I’m fine, thanks,” he says in the same stilted, overly polite way, and I tell him to hold on while I put Dad on the phone.