If You Only Knew
Page 67
“And that’s bad?”
“No. But maybe Adam isn’t sure what his role is.”
“Exactly,” he says.
I look at him. “So you would rather give me a back rub and take over making dinner a few nights a week, and clean the bathrooms on the weekend, because it’ll make you feel more important, and therefore you won’t be tempted to sleep with other women?”
His eyes flicker. “Yes,” he lies.
“Let him be more a part of your world. You don’t have to be perfect, Rachel,” Laney says.
That’s news to me.
“Our time is up, but I think we’re moving forward,” Laney says. “See you next week.”
We get into the car without speaking and head through town, past the old folks’ home and the park.
“Why don’t we go out for a drink?” Adam says as we’re paused at a stop sign. His voice is tense, but I know he’s trying.
“Sure,” I say, because Laney has said to be open to moments of intimacy, and not just sexual intimacy. Plus, I have to show that I’m trying, too.
“Want to go to Storm King?”
“Sure.” I’ve never been there; it’s for the new breed of Cambry-on-Hudson residents, the hipsters and artists and young PhD students from the university, still straddling the line between adulthood and perpetual student.
Inside, it’s sleek and dark, white leather chairs at glass tables, the bar backlit with blue light. And suddenly, it seems fun. Jenny is babysitting; I text her that we’ll be later than we thought, and she texts back, No hurry! We’re having a blast. I appreciate the good cheer, because I know she hates Adam these days. I appreciate that, too...the solidarity.
“Feels like we’re playing hooky,” Adam says, and though I never did that before, I know what he means.
Instead of ordering my usual boring white wine, I ask for a dirty martini, very dry, three olives.
Adam raises an eyebrow. “Same for me,” he says. We don’t talk, just look around until the waiter brings our drinks. I take a big sip. Dear God, it’s disgusting. But I smile at Adam. “Let’s not talk about the Situation,” I say, which has become our code word for his affair. “And let’s not talk about the girls.”
“Deal,” he says, offering his hand, and I shake it and laugh. Then I lick my upper lip as if savoring the paint thinner I’ve just swallowed.
“I had a dream the other night,” Adam says, his eyes on my mouth. “I’m not sure if I should tell you about it, though.”
“Go ahead,” I say, taking another swallow of martini.
“Well...I dreamed I was alone. I wasn’t sure if you were away, or if we were divorced, but it was just me and the girls, and as the dream went on, I realized that you weren’t coming back. At first I thought you left me. Then I realized it was because you...died.”
He waits for my reaction. “I have those dreams about you all the time,” I tell him. “Daydreams, I call them.” And I laugh, and Adam gives me a bemused look, then laughs, too.
“No, you don’t,” he says.
“No, I do,” I say. “I’m always checking to make sure your life insurance is paid up, because I’m going to be really comfortable. It’s all very tragic and noble, because you’ll die a horrible death. Also, I might get highlights, go a little blonder.” I laugh, quite entertained by this person who speaks her mind in so entertaining a fashion.
“Jesus, listen to you,” he says, but he’s laughing, too. “Do you get remarried in this happy fantasy?”
“I do,” I say. “He’s wonderful. A firefighter, I think. Very brawny, with a tattoo on one shoulder.”
“Shit. I guess the selfless thing for me to do here is sleep on the train tracks tonight.”
“I’d appreciate that. I’ll make sure the girls remember you. Fondly.”
And we’re flirting. I don’t know how it happens, but we’re flirting, and God, he’s so attractive, so handsome and sexy, and yes, there are women in the bar looking at him, but he doesn’t look away from me, and I suddenly feel like I can do this, I can get past his indiscretion. People get through these things. Our marriage can be better because of it. I’m not so naive anymore. I’m a woman of the world; I’m very European—sure, my husband had an affair, but it’s so last month. And soon it will be so last year, and then last decade, and we’ll barely remember it, except, ironically, almost as a joke. Remember when you cheated on me? With what’s-her-name? and Adam will say, Yeah, my head was really up my ass, wasn’t it?
We don’t wait to get home. We do it in the backseat of the car, and it’s dirty and fast and amazing, as if we’re twenty years old. I come before he even gets his pants down, and I come again when he shoves into me, and the smell of his neck, the sounds he makes are so familiar and wonderful; they’re a part of my life, and I don’t want to give him away. I want us back. I’ll get us back.
Adam wants porno sex, and he’s getting it, by God.
* * *
For the next few days, I feel a little smug. It’s easier to be happy, and while I’m not my old self, I’m not a bitter, hateful shrew, either.
I try to put this into words when I’m on the phone with Jenny during the girls’ nap time. I’m baking oatmeal raisin cookies, Charlotte’s favorite for this week. The girls just finished the Snickerdoodles—Grace’s favorite—and next week, I’ll go back to chocolate chip for Rose. Oatmeal is my favorite, too, and if there’s a smell for love, it’s warm oatmeal raisin cookies. Or the girls’ heads when they first wake up from naps.
“No. But maybe Adam isn’t sure what his role is.”
“Exactly,” he says.
I look at him. “So you would rather give me a back rub and take over making dinner a few nights a week, and clean the bathrooms on the weekend, because it’ll make you feel more important, and therefore you won’t be tempted to sleep with other women?”
His eyes flicker. “Yes,” he lies.
“Let him be more a part of your world. You don’t have to be perfect, Rachel,” Laney says.
That’s news to me.
“Our time is up, but I think we’re moving forward,” Laney says. “See you next week.”
We get into the car without speaking and head through town, past the old folks’ home and the park.
“Why don’t we go out for a drink?” Adam says as we’re paused at a stop sign. His voice is tense, but I know he’s trying.
“Sure,” I say, because Laney has said to be open to moments of intimacy, and not just sexual intimacy. Plus, I have to show that I’m trying, too.
“Want to go to Storm King?”
“Sure.” I’ve never been there; it’s for the new breed of Cambry-on-Hudson residents, the hipsters and artists and young PhD students from the university, still straddling the line between adulthood and perpetual student.
Inside, it’s sleek and dark, white leather chairs at glass tables, the bar backlit with blue light. And suddenly, it seems fun. Jenny is babysitting; I text her that we’ll be later than we thought, and she texts back, No hurry! We’re having a blast. I appreciate the good cheer, because I know she hates Adam these days. I appreciate that, too...the solidarity.
“Feels like we’re playing hooky,” Adam says, and though I never did that before, I know what he means.
Instead of ordering my usual boring white wine, I ask for a dirty martini, very dry, three olives.
Adam raises an eyebrow. “Same for me,” he says. We don’t talk, just look around until the waiter brings our drinks. I take a big sip. Dear God, it’s disgusting. But I smile at Adam. “Let’s not talk about the Situation,” I say, which has become our code word for his affair. “And let’s not talk about the girls.”
“Deal,” he says, offering his hand, and I shake it and laugh. Then I lick my upper lip as if savoring the paint thinner I’ve just swallowed.
“I had a dream the other night,” Adam says, his eyes on my mouth. “I’m not sure if I should tell you about it, though.”
“Go ahead,” I say, taking another swallow of martini.
“Well...I dreamed I was alone. I wasn’t sure if you were away, or if we were divorced, but it was just me and the girls, and as the dream went on, I realized that you weren’t coming back. At first I thought you left me. Then I realized it was because you...died.”
He waits for my reaction. “I have those dreams about you all the time,” I tell him. “Daydreams, I call them.” And I laugh, and Adam gives me a bemused look, then laughs, too.
“No, you don’t,” he says.
“No, I do,” I say. “I’m always checking to make sure your life insurance is paid up, because I’m going to be really comfortable. It’s all very tragic and noble, because you’ll die a horrible death. Also, I might get highlights, go a little blonder.” I laugh, quite entertained by this person who speaks her mind in so entertaining a fashion.
“Jesus, listen to you,” he says, but he’s laughing, too. “Do you get remarried in this happy fantasy?”
“I do,” I say. “He’s wonderful. A firefighter, I think. Very brawny, with a tattoo on one shoulder.”
“Shit. I guess the selfless thing for me to do here is sleep on the train tracks tonight.”
“I’d appreciate that. I’ll make sure the girls remember you. Fondly.”
And we’re flirting. I don’t know how it happens, but we’re flirting, and God, he’s so attractive, so handsome and sexy, and yes, there are women in the bar looking at him, but he doesn’t look away from me, and I suddenly feel like I can do this, I can get past his indiscretion. People get through these things. Our marriage can be better because of it. I’m not so naive anymore. I’m a woman of the world; I’m very European—sure, my husband had an affair, but it’s so last month. And soon it will be so last year, and then last decade, and we’ll barely remember it, except, ironically, almost as a joke. Remember when you cheated on me? With what’s-her-name? and Adam will say, Yeah, my head was really up my ass, wasn’t it?
We don’t wait to get home. We do it in the backseat of the car, and it’s dirty and fast and amazing, as if we’re twenty years old. I come before he even gets his pants down, and I come again when he shoves into me, and the smell of his neck, the sounds he makes are so familiar and wonderful; they’re a part of my life, and I don’t want to give him away. I want us back. I’ll get us back.
Adam wants porno sex, and he’s getting it, by God.
* * *
For the next few days, I feel a little smug. It’s easier to be happy, and while I’m not my old self, I’m not a bitter, hateful shrew, either.
I try to put this into words when I’m on the phone with Jenny during the girls’ nap time. I’m baking oatmeal raisin cookies, Charlotte’s favorite for this week. The girls just finished the Snickerdoodles—Grace’s favorite—and next week, I’ll go back to chocolate chip for Rose. Oatmeal is my favorite, too, and if there’s a smell for love, it’s warm oatmeal raisin cookies. Or the girls’ heads when they first wake up from naps.
