Stories We Never Told

by Sonja Yoerg

  He laughs gently. “You mean, when not everyone is a psychologist?”

  “Exactly. I don’t know anymore what’s lingo and what’s true language.”

  “Test it out on Miles. He’s your perfect lay audience.”

  The reference to Miles has the effect of drawing a circle around her and Harlan, leaving Miles on the outside. Did Harlan do this on purpose? She’s been avoiding his gaze, but now she looks directly at him, judging his intent.

  He smiles, and his eyes grow soft. “I can see you’re upset, Jackie. If something’s wrong—and it clearly is—you can tell me.”

  She shakes her head. No way she’s going to spill about the data breach and her heated interchange with Nasira.

  He leans closer, lowers his voice. “Is it Miles?”

  “What?”

  “I just thought perhaps . . .” He frowns, pulls back a little. “It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “Said nothing about what?” Her heart rate kicks up a notch. “Did Miles tell you something?”

  “Well we are friends. We do talk.” Harlan spreads his hands. “I only mentioned Miles because I assumed that was what is upsetting you.”

  A weakness comes over Jackie. She stares at Harlan, willing him to tell her everything and hoping to God he doesn’t say a word more.

  “I am sorry, Jackie. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  She leans toward him. “Please tell me.” She winces at the rawness of her plea, but she’s too desperate and exhausted to filter.

  He shakes his head, shrugs. “I suppose I’m projecting because Nasira’s been somewhat distant lately.”

  “Nasira’s distant? What’s that got to do with anything?” Harlan shakes his head again. “Did Miles actually tell you something or didn’t he?” Her mind is a storm.

  He holds up his hands. “I’ve already said too much. Triangles make for unhealthy relationships.” He smiles, his eyes shining with sympathy. “You have to learn things yourself, Jackie, even if it’s hard. It’s the only way.”

  More prevarication and riddles. Her frustration erupts. “Learn what?” Her voice is too loud, and people at the other tables turn to stare. Let them.

  “You’re tired.” Harlan pushes back his chair. “Let’s leave so you can go home.”

  “What am I supposed to learn?” Distress grabs hold of Jackie with a metal fist, rattling her. “What?”

  He’s getting up, putting on his jacket. The room feels too close suddenly, the sweet smells now cloying.

  She’s had enough. She throws on her coat, grabs her bag, pushes past Harlan, and nearly collides with the waitress proffering a white paper bag.

  “Here’s your sandwich. Sorry for the wait.”

  Jackie accepts the bag, thanks her, and hurries out the door. Harlan’s behind her, she can feel it, but she ignores him and strides toward her car, her scarf trailing in her hand.

  At her car, she digs in her purse for her keys, and Harlan catches up to her. “You all right to drive?”

  She beeps open the car, hands trembling. “I’m fine.”

  “I’ll text you later.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  She gets inside, shuts the door. Her breath comes out in rapid white puffs. Harlan hasn’t moved. He’s waiting for her to leave, a concerned look on his face.

  She resists the urge to give him the finger. She starts the car, backs up a few feet, and pulls away.

  She’ll drive home and talk to Miles, ask him the questions that even now are stacking themselves in her mind.

  CHAPTER 17

  HARLAN

  Jackie is always beautiful to me, but never more so than when she is on the knife-edge between distress and anger. I realize I’m supposed to find her at her best when she is laughing and playful or when she is calm and studious or even when she is asleep, although I never understood the attraction of the last. When a person sleeps they are entirely mysterious, and there is nothing beautiful about that, at least to me. She could be dreaming about anything or anyone, finding pleasure and satisfaction in another man’s (or woman’s) arms, rowing a boat across a swamp filled with snapping crocodiles, or climbing an endless set of stairs to escape the monster whose breath is hot on the back of her legs. If I can’t know what is in her dreams, then how could I possibly love her best then? Dreams are mere by-products of the daily housekeeping our brains must undertake, but that doesn’t rob them of their emotional significance, only of their meaning. So, no, Jackie asleep is beautiful, but that is not how I prefer to think of her.

  When she is distressed and that distress is colored by indignation or frustration, Jackie is simultaneously the epitome of fierce strength and vulnerability. She could explode or implode; all bets are off, unless you know her like I do, and even I have judged wrongly which way she would fall. Today, for example, she was there, on the precipice, but too exhausted to give in to the anger, to allow it to ignite her so she could then extinguish it with a flood of her own tears. I brought her to that perfect point once, the day she left me. Ironic, yes, but it was nearly worth losing her. Today confusion and exhaustion muddled her emotion and kept her from telling me her problems and her secrets, or what she believes are her secrets. They are, in truth, already mine.

  It’s nice to share something even if she isn’t aware of it.

  Jackie mistrusts Nasira. I’ve helped it along but it’s a natural impulse. Women point the finger at other women whenever they can, even when a man is a more worthy target. So much for female solidarity. I assume there is something biological in this tendency, an assumption, perhaps, that men are hapless victims of a woman’s power to bewitch. Another way to put it would be that men follow their dicks and can’t be held responsible. The woman who entranced him, however, can. It’s all hopelessly sexist and outdated, as all good biological imperatives are, but they don’t call them imperatives for nothing.

  Jackie blames Nasira for another reason: Nasira is taciturn and allows people to write motivations all over that perfect blank face of hers. Jackie also has more interactions with Nasira than with me, so I can stay safely in the background with my faultless dick and let the ladies tear each other to pieces. I could see it in Jackie’s eyes today, the itch to trust me, to believe I have answers, not just riddles. I have never openly betrayed her trust, you see, but she’s simply unsteady enough at the moment to be confused about that, too. Granted, she doesn’t know what Nasira has told me. I almost forget, myself, at times.

  No matter, because I’ve benched Nasira. She’s hurt, which is sweet, but I don’t have time for her emotions, not since fortune brought me Peter Durbin, Miles’s prep school chum. He’s a real type, Durbin, shaking my hand and right away digging around for who we knew in common, as if influence and success could be calculated using the dynamics of a LinkedIn network. What a fool. I saw through him immediately, with his falsely jocular, regimental-tie-and-family-shield sensibility. A bit like my father.

  Durbin’s social ferreting did lead to our mutual connection with Miles, and to what I have long suspected about my friend. It was all very English—nudge-nudge, wink-wink—and Durbin held me to the understanding that Miles was only a boy at the time. Boys will be boys! I don’t believe that for a minute. People are born as they are and only get into trouble if they deny their true natures.

  Miles, my dear, sweet friend. Jackie miscalculated—again. If only she had listened to me, stayed with me.

  I was amused when she started dating Miles, never thinking for a moment she would marry him. Their Vegas wedding stunned me; my beautiful Jackie in a quickie wedding in the crassest city in the world. Well, Atlantic City might have been worse. The news enraged me, and I feared I would lose control and, in doing so, lose everything. It was touch and go, but the damage was confined to my house. I decided that same day to take my overdue sabbatical, to drop through a trapdoor and regroup in private, where I didn’t risk running into Jackie and exposing myself.

  I went to Madison and grew a
shell. And from inside of that new carapace, I took control once more.

  And here I am.

  CHAPTER 18

  Jackie ascends the porch steps. Music is blaring from inside, the screech of electric guitar and the thrum of a bass. Miles’s taste runs more to R&B, and in any case, it’s not like him to play it so loudly. The nape of her neck prickles, and she wonders if she should go in.

  Honestly, she thinks, whoever it is can just do me the favor and shoot me.

  She unlocks the door, pushes it open, and shouts over the noise. “Hello?” The hall is empty, as are the portions of the dining area and kitchen she can see. A pizza box lies open on the counter. It would be unusual for a burglar to order in. She closes the door behind her and proceeds down the hall. “Hello?”

  Sprawled on the living room couch is Antonio. He’s gaming and hasn’t noticed her entering. She walks in front of the set and points to her ears. He nods, grabs the remote, and turns down the volume.

  “Hi, Jackie.”

  “Hi, Antonio.” If Miles said anything about his son coming over today, she’s forgotten, although it seems unlikely. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  He shrugs and shuffles his feet. “Something came up and I couldn’t stay at my place.”

  “Something came up?” Her head is throbbing. She doesn’t want to play twenty questions.

  “Yeah. My dad knows.” His tone suggests telling his father fulfilled his obligation to keep parents informed.

  “I see.” Jackie sighs. “How’re your classes going?”

  “I was just taking a study break.”

  Jackie spreads her arms. “Innocent question.” She nods at the pizza box. “Do you want anything else to eat? A sandwich?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m good.”

  “Do you happen to know where your dad is?” She has questions, terrible questions.

  “He went to get some stuff for dinner.”

  “Okay. Listen, can you use the headphones?” She flinches at the piercing sensation behind her eyes. “Actually, can you use the TV in the guest room?”

  Antonio sighs. “This one is so much better.”

  She can’t do it. She can’t argue with him. The thin piece of string that has been holding her together all day is frayed and about to break. Without a word, she hurries into the kitchen, grabs a bottle of wine from the rack under the counter and a glass from the cabinet, and heads upstairs. She will draw herself a scalding bath and barricade herself in the bathroom with her wine. It won’t fix anything, except perhaps her headache, but right now she doesn’t give a damn.

  Jackie sits cross-legged on the bath mat in her fleece bathrobe, having given up on the bath when the water became tepid. The wine, at least, has not failed her in this way, though only a glass or so remains. The three ibuprofen she swallowed as she waited for the bath to fill have her headache on the run. She does not, however, feel better, just numb to whatever she might feel. This is excellent news, but no way will it last.

  Miles knocked on the door a while ago. She ignored him until he said he was worried about her. She said she was fine, a lie of course, but he did go away. She is just so fundamentally sick of everyone, especially husbands who might be cheating. What else could Harlan have been alluding to? And why did he bring up Nasira in the same breath? The idea that Miles is having an affair with Nasira is outlandish, but, as Jackie is learning, that’s no reason to reject an idea.

  She pours herself the last glass of wine, congratulating herself on not spilling any on her robe. She wants to stay in here, but when the wine runs out, seclusion will be the room’s only attraction. The bath mat is damp and not that comfortable. She would like to be in her bed now, but it’s Miles’s bed, too. Her desire to be alone is powerful, and she imagines staying the night (or two or a week or forever) in a hotel. She could stay in her robe, throw a coat over it, call an Uber. The plan is taking shape but her phone is elsewhere. Downstairs maybe. What she would truly like is to close her eyes and wake up in a hotel bed. The pizza box would be left behind, as would the laundry. In the hotel, there is room service.

  Jackie finishes the wine and stands to stretch her legs. She looks in the mirror, at her too-red cheeks and her wild, damp hair, and the spell is broken. There will be no hotel, no room service. There will, in all likelihood, be more of the same: many, many questions, all with unsatisfying answers. Riddles.

  She opens the door. The air in the hall is cool and dry. Antonio’s voice drifts up from below; he’s talking on the phone. Jackie pads to the bedroom—the door is ajar—and goes in. She is clean and warm and tipsy and, underneath that, frustrated and quite possibly furious.

  Miles is sitting on the bed, fully dressed, leaning against the pillows, his legs angled so his feet are not touching the covers even though his shoes are off. He’s holding his phone, but his gaze is toward the window, which faces the backyard but is dark now except for the neighbors’ lights. Jackie has no idea what time it is.

  He turns to her and sits up. “Are you all right?”

  “I guess so.” She comes to the end of the bed. “I drank a bottle of wine and should probably eat something.”

  He frowns. “There’s dinner downstairs.”

  “Antonio was a surprise.”

  “I texted you. Didn’t you get it?”

  “I haven’t looked at my phone. But wasn’t he here already when you texted me? I mean, was it a question?”

  He rearranges himself on the bed, pulling one leg up. “There was a problem with his sublet, and he had to leave his place. I couldn’t just turn him away.”

  Jackie is dizzy, but doesn’t want to sit, so she steps forward and presses her thighs against the bed. “I have another question. Have you done something that would upset me?”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “What are you talking about?”

  “I wish I knew. Harlan seems to think that if I’m upset or troubled or frustrated or losing my mind—and all of those things are true—that you must be the reason.”

  Miles frowns so deeply it’s almost comical. She can’t read his expression, though; is he worried about her or about himself? “Harlan said that? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Well, he started to say that. Got my attention, that’s for sure, then he said he didn’t want to meddle.”

  Miles spreads his hands. “I have no idea what he could have meant.”

  “He mentioned Nasira.”

  “In connection to me? I hardly know her.”

  “Hardly?” As far as Jackie knows, Miles’s only contact with her was at the Dinner.

  “From the dinner we all had. From the football game. From once when she was at Harlan’s.”

  “She was at the football game?” Jackie doesn’t know why this bothers her, but it does.

  “Yes.”

  “The one you forgot to invite me to.”

  “Really, Jackie? If I didn’t mention Nasira was there, it probably had something to do with Antonio getting absolutely plastered and me having other things on my mind.”

  Jackie blinks at him, remembering the scene—and getting vomited on. She and Miles had been pulling in the same direction then. It feels like eons ago.

  Miles is watching her. From his expression, he’s likely having the same thoughts. “What difference does it make, Jackie, if I’ve talked to Nasira a few times? You are making too much of this.” The anger in him fizzles; he is never successful at holding on to it for very long. He comes over to her, holds her arms. He waits for her to lean into him before he pulls her into an embrace. His warmth, his strong arms melt the top layer of her resistance.

  Miles lays his cheek on her head. “You’re fatally tired, darling. You’re seeing problems everywhere.”

  Was she? She decides to apply Occam’s razor, the centuries-old guidance for deciding between competing explanations. If you can’t decide based on evidence, then choose the simplest one. That Harlan is causing trouble—or meant something else entirely—is a simpler explanation than that Miles an
d Nasira are having an affair. Nasira is living at Harlan’s by her own admission. It would be bad form to be sleeping with Miles, too, especially given that the men are friends. Jackie is the one who’s a mess lately, not Miles.

  Jackie squeezes him and kisses his neck, embarrassed that it took so much thought to decide he is blameless. He’s her husband, after all, and he’s never given her reason to doubt him.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, and lets go of him. “I’ll put on some clothes and be down to eat in a second.”

  She retreats to the closet and slips on flannel pajama pants, a sweatshirt, and her sheepskin slippers. As she hangs up her robe and throws her work clothes in the hamper, she thinks again of the hotel, the simplicity of it, the anonymity. Over the last three months, her relationships with Miles, Harlan, Nasira, even Antonio, have had the quality of a rickety roller-coaster ride. It’s as if she doesn’t know these people, or they have somehow changed, and she can’t focus on what’s happening because she’s being thrown all over the place. The hotel fantasy appeals to her because she can disconnect and do as she pleases instead of being yanked around by forces she cannot see much less control.

  Jackie leaves the bedroom, walks down the hall, and pauses halfway to the stairs.

  The hotel fantasy is about becoming her mother. She sees that now, and, surprisingly, the realization does not spoil the fantasy.

  The morning breaks clear. Without waking Miles, Jackie dresses in a thermal base layer, leggings, a wool vest, a zip-front top, gloves, and a wool hat and leaves the house with a travel mug of coffee. She drives to the boathouse to administer the antidote to too much wine: a long session of rowing on the Potomac. Her phone tells her the temperature is thirty-eight, warmer than yesterday but not by much.

  Jackie sets the shell in the water, latches the oars into the gates, and climbs in. She stores her running shoes, slips her feet into the shoes on the footboard, and gently nudges the shell away from the dock. The shell slides out in a whisper. Jackie points it away from the sun and sets up a rhythm, dipping the oars for the catch, stretching her back muscles for the full stroke, skimming the blades an inch above the surface on the return. The self-made breeze steals her breath, leaving white clouds in front of her. Her hands warm.