by Joy Fielding
And then Chloe had suffered a miscarriage, and Matt was understandably upset and resentful. He’d called her names and thrown things. When she’d tried to reason with him, he’d slapped her so hard her ears rang for hours afterward. Of course, he’d apologized profusely, sworn it would never happen again. There followed a lot of late nights at the office, several disturbing hang-ups on the phone. The whispers started up again. Chloe pretended not to hear them. This was her fault, after all.
It took her nearly two years to get pregnant again. Then Josh was born, and Chloe gave up her job—she was now the store manager—to be the kind of stay-at-home mom her own mother had never been. Matt had been right about Boston’s hot real estate market and was doing very well. But Chloe was now totally dependent on her husband for money, and while he could be as generous as he was quick to anger, she’d always suspected that his generosity was tied directly to his infidelities. Still, suspicions weren’t proof.
But while Chloe may have been a fool where Matt was concerned, she wasn’t stupid. She opened her own bank account and began secretly socking money away. In the eight years of their marriage, she’d managed to save almost five thousand dollars. In case of an emergency, she told herself. If Matt ever ran into trouble, she’d be there to save the day.
After Sasha was born, Chloe and Matt moved to a house across the river in Cambridge, and a year later, Paige met Noah and moved into his downtown apartment. Chloe and Paige had remained best friends, although that friendship was sorely tested after Paige confided she’d seen Matt nibbling another woman’s neck on a night he was supposedly at the office “up to his ears in paperwork.”
“I just thought you should know,” Paige had told her, tearfully. “I’d want you to tell me.”
It turned out that nobody had to tell Paige anything. She’d come home to discover her cousin in bed with Noah, and packed her bags immediately. No dilly-dallying around for her. No second-guessing. No burying of her pride. No waiting around and hoping the affair would blow over. One strike and she was out.
And Heather was in.
Noah had replaced a diamond with a zircon.
Men! Chloe thought, wondering if Noah was sorry. Would Matt be sorry when she left him? If she left him, she corrected with her next breath. There could still be an explanation, something that would persuade her to ignore the evidence of her own eyes once again.
Her cellphone rang, interrupting her reveries. She was hunched over her kitchen table, drinking her third cup of coffee and scrolling through Perfect Strangers and Match Sticks on her laptop. The kids were asleep. The laundry was almost done, the stuffies returned to their near-normal fluffiness. It was almost ten thirty. Matt still wasn’t home.
Chloe glanced at the caller ID before answering. “He’s not home yet,” she said instead of hello.
“How are you doing?” asked Paige.
“Not great. I’m sorry I didn’t call you. I know I said I would.”
“It’s okay. I was out anyway. I was just worried.”
“Don’t be.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Like what?” Chloe asked.
“I don’t know. Slap Matt around a bit? Go all Solange in the elevator with Jay-Z.”
Chloe laughed through her tears. “We don’t have an elevator.” Besides, “going all Solange” was more Matt’s style than hers.
Not that she could ever admit that to Paige. It was too humiliating.
“Look,” Paige said. “It’s late. Why don’t you go to bed? You don’t have to do anything tonight. You can sleep on it.”
“You wouldn’t sleep on it, and you know it.”
“No, but…you have to do what’s right for you. Not what I would do. Or what I think you should do. It’s what you think that counts.”
“What’s to think about? My husband is a liar and a cheat,” Chloe said, her voice gaining vehemence with each word. “He’s on multiple dating sites, for God’s sake. Who knows what kind of STDs he’s exposing himself to, exposing me to. How can I stay with someone like that? Someone who shows so little respect for our marriage. For me. How can I have any respect for myself if I do?”
“Respect”—that word again.
There was a moment’s silence. Chloe knew what Paige was thinking because she was thinking the same thing: Because you’ve stayed before. Because you always do.
This time was different, she realized. This time he’d gone too far.
Chloe heard the key turn in the front door lock. “He’s home,” she whispered into the phone.
“Call if you need me.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Paige put down her phone, imagining the scene unfolding at Chloe’s, trying to gauge Matt’s response when confronted with proof of his indiscretions. Would he shrug and laugh it off, claiming it was all a giant misunderstanding? Or would he acknowledge the obvious and fall to his knees, begging Chloe’s forgiveness? Or worse, would he react angrily, even violently? Despite Chloe’s vehement denials, Paige felt certain that Matt had struck her on more than one occasion.
And how would she react if, despite everything, Chloe decided to stay with Matt? Yes, she’d told Chloe that she had to do what was right for her, not anyone else. But did she really mean it? Could she just stand by and continue to see her best friend humiliated and abused? Wouldn’t that make her at least partly complicit?
Paige shook her head. She couldn’t allow her mind to dwell on such troubling questions. Her head was already swimming with thoughts of Sam and the stupid thing she’d done.
“What is the matter with you?” she asked her reflection in the mirror over the bathroom sink.
True, their date had gone much better than she’d expected. Sam was attractive, personable, soft-spoken, and surprisingly modest. He didn’t monopolize the conversation; he didn’t drone on about his accomplishments; he seemed genuinely interested in hers. And he was easy to talk to. Maybe even too easy. But why had she told him about her cousin? And what on earth had possessed her to invite him to her uncle’s party? She barely knew the man. Yes, he seemed genuine, but everything he’d told her could be a lie. He could be a crazed serial killer, for all she knew.
She laughed. “Now you’re just being silly.” Sam Benjamin had been unfailingly polite. He hadn’t even tried to kiss her good night. What kind of serial killer was that?
She heard her cellphone ping with an incoming text as she was brushing her teeth. Her first thought was that it was Chloe. But surely it was too soon for it to be Chloe, and besides, Chloe would phone, not text.
Noah? she wondered, returning to her bedroom, angry at herself for even considering the possibility.
She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and saw that the message was from Sam. No doubt texting to say he’d thought things through and had had a change of heart regarding her uncle’s party.
Except he hadn’t.
Just wanted to say how much I enjoyed our evening. Hope we can do it again soon.
Paige read the simple message several times, and then several times more. Was it possible the man was as nice as he seemed? Tell him that you’re sorry, that you were too hasty, that you’ve reconsidered, that you must rescind your invitation, and hope he understands. Instead, she wrote, Me, too. Goddamn it! What was the matter with her?
Sleep well, came his instant reply.
Paige clicked off before she was tempted to respond again. She turned off the bedside lamp and climbed under the covers. But after ten minutes of flipping from one side to the other, her mind ricocheting between thoughts of Sam and worry about Chloe, she realized she wasn’t going to sleep at all, let alone sleep well. She sat up in bed, turned on the light, and grabbed her phone, checking Match Sticks to see whether she had any new hits to her online profile.
“Beats counting sheep,” she muttered, swiping left on the first th
ree responses, then staring at the fourth in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Mr. Right Now smiled back at her, bedroom eyes beckoning.
“Holy shit,” she whispered, noting that Mr. Right Now was on his computer and would be instantly aware if she swiped right on his picture. “No,” she said. “You’re way too good-looking. There’s got to be a catch.” Men who looked like models dated women who looked like models. And while Paige knew she was attractive, she also recognized that she wouldn’t be gracing the cover of Vogue anytime soon. Still, he’d swiped right on her picture, so he must be interested.
Was she?
What about Sam?
“What about him?” Paige asked. Just because they’d gone on one date, just because she’d invited him to her uncle’s party, just because he’d texted her to sleep well didn’t mean she owed him anything. She’d just come out of one serious relationship. She wasn’t about to risk another heartbreak by rushing into another. She could hardly be accused of cheating on a man she’d just met.
She held her breath and swiped right. “Oh, God. What have I done now?”
There was a knock on her bedroom door. “Paige?” her mother said.
Paige reached for her robe, securing it around her as the door opened. “Mom? What’s the matter? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, darling. I was just going to grab a snack from the kitchen, and I thought I heard voices.”
“Just me,” Paige acknowledged. “Talking to myself again.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Having trouble sleeping.”
“Me, too. Must be something in the air. How was your date?”
Paige saw the hope in her mother’s eyes. “Nice. Really nice,” she added for good measure.
“Oh. That’s so…nice.” Joan stared at her daughter, as if waiting for her to say more. “Well, I guess I’ll see you in the morning,” she said after a silence of several seconds. “Can I get you something from the kitchen?”
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
“Good night, darling. Sleep well.”
Sleep well.
“You, too,” Paige called to the closing door. She heard the familiar ping of her phone and saw a message from Mr. Right Now.
Hey, Wildflower, the text said.
That was it.
Hey, she texted back.
No response.
That’s strange, she thought, staring at her phone for two more minutes before lying back down, about to turn off the light when another text arrived.
Sorry about that, came the message. Wasn’t sure what to say next. I’m pretty new to all this. Obviously.
Sweet, Paige thought. Me, too, she replied.
So, what happens next?
Why don’t you tell me about yourself, Paige responded, intrigued.
Well, I’m thirty-six, from San Francisco originally, an only child, parents married fifty-plus years, have an MBA from Berkeley. Another lengthy pause, then, I probably should tell you that I’ve been married before. For three years. My wife died two years ago, he continued without prompting. Cancer.
How awful, Paige wrote back, thinking of her father. I’m so sorry.
Yeah, it was tough. It took me a long time to get over it. I quit my job, traveled for a while. Moved to Boston a few months ago, so don’t know a lot of people. Just starting to put myself out there. Joined a bunch of dating sites, hoping to meet someone. What else can I tell you? I like jazz.
I like jazz, Paige told him.
Another seemingly interminable pause.
Then, Look. I’m clearly not very good at this. Are you game for meeting up in person?
Was she? What about Sam? Sure. When did you have in mind?
How about Wednesday? Six o’clock? The Bleacher Bar inside Fenway Park?
Sounds interesting. I’ve never been there.
Good. I like introducing people to new things.
So okay, then, I’ll see you Wednesday.
See you then. Good night, Wildflower.
Paige returned her phone to the nightstand and lay back down, excitement over Mr. Right Now overwhelming the lingering guilt about Sam. Within seconds, she was sound asleep.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Chloe was sitting at the kitchen table, her laptop open in front of her, her husband’s handsome face smiling seductively up at her, when he walked into the room.
“Hi, babe,” he said, his voice soft and sweet. “You didn’t have to wait up.”
Chloe took note of the thick hair falling carelessly into Matt’s dark eyes and the hint of stubble framing his cheeks and chin, emphasizing the natural pout of his lips. She tried to imagine never kissing those lips again, never feeling those eyes staring lovingly into hers. Damn it. Did he have to look so good? And was there no depth to which he could sink that would make him less desirable to her? Was she really that shallow? “I thought you might be hungry,” she said, closing the computer. Was she ready to throw it all away? “I made meat loaf.” She motioned toward the plate of food sitting on the counter by the microwave.
“Ah, babe. I’m sorry. I grabbed a sandwich at the office. You should have told me you were making meat loaf.”
“My fault,” Chloe said, accepting the blame.
“Well, it’s nobody’s fault,” he corrected with a smile. “These things happen. I’m sorry. You’re the best.” He walked around the table to kiss the top of her head.
She caught a whiff of unfamiliar perfume. “What kind of sandwich?” she heard herself ask.
“What?”
“You said you grabbed a sandwich at the office. What kind?”
“Seriously?”
She twisted her head to look up at him. “Seriously.”
“Ham and cheese.” He laughed. “You want to know what kind of cheese? It was cheddar,” he said before she could respond.
“Did you close the deal?”
He looked confused by the sudden shift in the conversation. “Well, we submitted an offer. They have twenty-four hours to sign something back. Is everything okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know. You just seem kind of…I don’t know…off. Kids give you a hard time tonight?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” she said, a virtual repeat of their earlier exchange.
His hands were suddenly on her shoulders, his fingers expertly working their way into the tense muscles at the base of her neck. He knew just where to touch her, exactly how much pressure to apply. Could she really give that up? Could she bear never to feel those hands on her body again?
She was being too hasty, she decided in that instant, judging him before all the facts were in. There had to be a logical explanation, something that would justify his behavior, a reason for his presence online that she hadn’t considered. Maybe someone was setting him up, perhaps a colleague at work, jealous of Matt’s good looks and ongoing success. That person could easily have joined all these dating sites in Matt’s name, hoping to discredit him. Just a few weeks ago, they’d had several of Matt’s coworkers over for a barbecue. One of them could have found that picture of Matt and submitted it, then figured out a way to return it without anyone being the wiser. It was possible.
It wasn’t possible.
No matter how she tried to spin it, no matter how convoluted and irrational her efforts became to exonerate her husband, she knew the truth. And the truth was that Matt was guilty. Of lying, of cheating, of everything. He’d been doing the same thing for years. The only uncertainty was what she was prepared to do about it.
“I’m going to bed,” Matt said, his hands sliding off her shoulders.
No. Don’t leave me, she thought, feeling his hands hovering just out of reach, like a phantom limb. She fought the urge to grab those hands, to pull them around
her, to glue him to her side.
“You coming?” he asked, already in the doorway.
“Soon. I have to put a few things away.” She nodded toward the plate of food on the counter.
“Well, try not to be long. I’ve got to get some sleep. I’m exhausted.”
Chloe felt her own exhaustion wrapping around her like a blanket. You don’t have to do anything tonight, Paige had told her. You can sleep on it. Which was exactly what she needed to do, Chloe decided. She needed time to digest what had happened, to figure out a plan. She couldn’t go running off half-cocked. After all, she wasn’t the only one who would be affected by the decisions she made. She had two small children to consider, two children who loved their father, whose lives she couldn’t just turn upside down without serious deliberation. She owed those children a clear head. Whatever she was going to say could wait till morning.
Except it couldn’t.
“Wait,” she said.
Matt stopped, leaning into the doorway in a way that emphasized his lithe but muscular physique. As if he was taunting her, showing her what she would be throwing away. As if he knew what was on her mind. As if he was daring her to put it out there.
Chloe took a deep breath and opened her laptop. “You want to explain this?” she said.
He didn’t move. “Explain what?”
Chloe twisted the computer toward him. “This.”
“What is it?” He remained stubbornly where he was, glancing only briefly at the screen.
“You really going to make me spell it out?”
“Apparently so,” he said. Then, “What is it you think you see, Chloe?”
“I don’t think I see anything,” she said, fighting to stay calm, to keep her growing anger in check, even as she felt her voice rising. “I know what I’m seeing. I’m seeing your picture on a fucking dating site. On a whole bunch of them.”
“Please watch your language and lower your voice.”