inches high. Red soles. Those are… What’s that name? Christian Louboutin, right. Ridiculously expensive.
These details are razor-sharp, slicing through my brain with barely any blood spilled.
I’m wearing a heart necklace. As if I’m in third grade or something.
No. There are pictures of my children inside there. I’m a mother. Emmanuelle is not a mother, no sir.
Not yet.
“I guess I’ll talk to you later, Adam,” Emmanuelle says easily. “Nice to see you again, Rachel.” Then she’s gone. The smell of her perfume lingers like radiation.
Adam exhales. “So. What else have you got planned for today?” His face is studiously bland.
“You fucking liar,” I say, and then I throw his iced tea in his face and walk out of his office.
* * *
THE UPSIDE OF having three toddlers is they don’t leave you much time for thinking. I make the girls supper, read them poems as they eat, then finish their macaroni and cheese, because that stuff is delicious. I let them have a longer bath than usual, and read them extra stories and play Animal Kisses, in which they close their eyes while I woof, meow or moo softly in their hair till they guess which animal I am, or giggle so hard they can’t. For once, they’re all smiling and sweet when I give out their final hugs. No one gets out of bed, no one asks for water, no one cries.
Clearly, I’m the world’s most amazing mother.
I go downstairs, pour what has to be a ten-ounce glass of wine and sit on the couch and wait.
The look on his face, his wet, green-tea-drenched face, was almost funny.
Oily black anger twists and rises inside me. I try to dilute it with a few swallows of wine, but it stays.
I can’t be too angry about this. Well, of course, I can be… I am. But I can’t make decisions in anger. There are five of us to consider, not two.
Jenny has left two messages for me. Does she sense something? I haven’t answered.
Adam has not contacted me. That terror I felt last weekend shudders back to life.
Does he want to leave me?
An image of my daughters in the future flashes in horrible clarity: all three resentful, whiny, confused at having to go spend a weekend with Daddy—and Emmanuelle. They’ll become horrible teenagers, piercings and tattoos, and I’ll find condoms in Rose’s backpack, get a call from the school that Grace beat someone up, that Charlotte sold pot to her classmates. I’m already furious at Adam for doing this to our girls.
Furious, and terrified.
And then there’d be me. Divorced. Alone. I picture myself trying to date again—me, forty, with a cesarean scar and a pooch of skin made by another man’s babies. Me, shy at best, socially terrified at worst, making conversation in the bar in the Holiday Inn while the Yankees are on, a sticky tabletop and a glass of cheap wine, uncomfortable vinyl seats.
Adam comes home at 8:07 p.m. Our girls have always been the early-to-bed types, so I’m sure he’s lurked somewhere—the office, a bar, his whore’s house—until he’s sure they’re asleep. He might be a cheating douche bag, but he doesn’t want the girls to hear us fight.
He comes into the living room, looks at me, sighs and pours himself a scotch. “So I guess we have to talk,” he says, and my eyes fill with traitorous tears, because I love his voice, and now I have to listen to him tell me that I’m right. This living room will never be the same again. It will always be the place where he told me he cheated.
He sits down across from me. I can see the stain from the green tea on his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“How long?” I ask.
“About three months.”
Three months? Holy Jesus! It’s late April now, so most of April, all of March, all of February.
He gave me the locket on Valentine’s Day.
“Tell me everything,” I say, and my voice is choked and brittle.
He sighs, as if I’m exhausting him, the asshole, and starts talking. He didn’t plan it. It just happened. She came on to him. He couldn’t help himself. He’s a guy, and when a beautiful woman comes on to a guy, it’s hard to say no. He loves me. He doesn’t want a divorce. He’s sorry.
And the thing is, I knew. I knew when I saw that picture. I knew when he took me upstairs for sex. I knew before Jenny told me.
Stupid, stupid me.
“Why didn’t you end it?” I ask. My real question is Why would you ever look somewhere else? What am I lacking that made you whip out your dick—my God, my language is deteriorating by the second—and stick it where it didn’t belong?
I can’t look at him. I hate his face. If I look at him now, I might swing that empty wine bottle right at him.
“I did end it,” he says, but there’s too long of a pause.
“Don’t lie to me, Adam,” I say calmly. “You’ve already cheated on me. You lied to me when I showed you that picture, and you’re lying now. Why haven’t you ended it?” There. I manage to look at his face. My own feels as if a swarm of bees is under my skin buzzing and stinging, full of venom.
He shrugs again, not looking at me. “The sex is amazing.”
The room spins.
“Look, you asked,” Adam says, and yes, that’s accusation in his voice. You’re the one who made me tell you! “Rach, I love you. I do, you know that. And I love our life. But Emmanuelle… I don’t know. She’s very aggressive. I turned her down at first, I did!”
Does he want me to praise him? Give him a sticker? Write his name on the kitchen blackboard, like I do when one of the girls does something especially sweet or helpful?
“And then one day she came into my office to talk about a case, and she crossed her legs, and she wasn’t wearing panties, and I couldn’t help myself. It was—”
“Shut up, Adam. Shut the fuck up.”
I’m quite sure today is the first day Adam has ever heard me use the F word. He stops talking.
“I told you if you ever cheated on me, I’d divorce you,” I say calmly.
“I don’t want a divorce. Think of the girls, Rachel.”
“I always think of the girls,” I hiss, the fury writhing in my stomach. “All I do is think of the girls. Were you thinking of the girls when you fucked another woman? Hmm? Is that what a great father does?”
“Look. I’m sorry. I really am, Rachel. I was weak. But I don’t want to lose you.”
How I would love to tell him to piss off right now. That there’s no going back from this.
