by A. J. Banner
In the afternoon, a text comes in from Jacob. Aiden shared the news. I’m so sorry.
Thank you, I type with a twinge of annoyance. Why did Aiden share this private loss with Jacob? Our private loss. My private loss. But Aiden and Jacob are friends. Aiden needed to tell his boss what was going on, especially if he’s distracted at work. He needs someone to talk to.
I don’t mean to pry, Jacob texts. But he shared on his own.
Of course, I text back. I appreciate your concern.
If there’s anything I can do . . .
Thank you, I say again, but what can he do? What’s done is done.
The next two evenings are quiet, and Aiden and I tiptoe around each other, speaking little, focusing on inconsequential subjects. Neither one of us can bear to go into the nursery. We’ve closed the door. We walk past the room, giving it a wide berth, as if we might step on the sharp glass of our shattered dreams. We plan to see a movie Friday evening, to distract ourselves from grief. He hasn’t repeated the idea of moving away.
But Friday afternoon, he calls to say he’s going out with Jacob and a few other colleagues after work. He sounds strange, his voice hollow. I sit at the kitchen table, listening to the dishwasher churn, and I burst into tears. He should be here with me.
In bed, I lie awake, and at eleven o’clock, I hit speed-dial for his cell. The phone rings and rings, then the call drops into voice mail. “You’ve reached Aiden Finlay. You know what the hell to do.”
“Where are you and what are you doing?” I say, and hang up. Fine, let him stay away forever. I hope he never comes home.
I’m just drifting off when the call comes through. I jolt upright and grab the phone without looking at the screen.
“Where are you?” I say sleepily. “Why aren’t you home?”
“Because I’m at my home?” a deep voice says. “Is that the right answer?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Jacob,” I say, sitting up. “What’s going on? It’s late.”
“Uh, it’s just . . . Aiden had a little too much to drink.”
“He what?”
“He can’t drive. I put him to bed in my loft.”
“In your loft.”
“I keep a loft downtown,” Jacob says smoothly. “For situations like this. He’ll be okay here. He’s safe. I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Wait,” I say. “Don’t hang up.” Questions tumble through my mind. Where is this loft?
“He’s dealing with some heavy emotions,” Jacob says.
“Not very well,” I say.
“Yeah,” Jacob says, and sighs. “Listen, I’m sorry I upset you, but I thought you should know, so you don’t worry.”
“I’m worried.”
A beat of silence follows, then he says, “Come down and I’ll buy you a cup at Café Presse. I’ll pay for the cab.”
I blink, look at the clock, processing his invitation. “Right now?”
“It’s only eleven thirty,” he says.
Only? Does this man stay up all night? “I’m usually asleep by ten,” I say.
“I’ll get you some tea, and drive you home.”
The café is oddly comforting, with its soft classical music and dim lighting. Jacob steers me to a table in the shadows. Why did I put on a touch of lipstick and eyeliner in the middle of the night? Comb my hair and wash up? Why did I try on three sweaters before settling on a soft black turtleneck? There is something about Jacob—the smooth, deep voice, his self-assurance, his command of a room. The way conversation stops as he passes and he doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are on me. He gives me the mug of tea.
“You say this will put me to sleep?” I say.
“It’ll knock you out,” he says.
“But not knock me up.” I can’t help the bitterness in my voice.
The smile drops from his face. His eyes are so blue, so clear. So different from Aiden’s eyes. “I’m sorry about what happened.” Somehow, his hand is over mine. Comforting, but I am wide awake now.
“I can’t believe Aiden got drunk.”
“Aiden’s a great guy, but in many ways he’s still that perpetual college kid. We were talking, and he was drinking, and talking . . . and . . .”
“And?”
He looks out the window, then at me. “And, I’m not sure if I should tell you.”
“Tell me what? You have to tell me now.”
“He’s not certain,” he says.
“Certain of what?” But already I know. I push the cup away.
“You two had a whirlwind courtship . . . You broke the news to all of us at the last minute, about your wedding.”
“It was quick,” I say.
“He said it might’ve been too quick.”
“He said our marriage was a mistake? He really said that?”
“What matters is what you do from here. What you decide.”
“Did Aiden decide something?” I say.
“He thought you two had been hasty about everything, that’s all. And now with this horrible news. I think he just feels . . . unprepared to handle it. To help you.”
I can’t stop the tears, the upwelling of emotion, of betrayal, even though Aiden has not slept with another woman. I grip Jacob’s hand so tightly I could break his fingers. He grips me back, providing a lifeline.
“I know it’s hard,” he says softly. “You deserve to have someone you can lean on, especially right now.”
“I’m starting to think maybe I don’t know Aiden at all. Now I’m not sure about us, either.”
“Are we ever sure of anything?” He’s looking at my lips, or maybe it’s just a trick of the light.
“Maybe he’s right,” I say. “Maybe we should have thought it all out.”
“Nothing should ever be rushed,” Jacob says, looking into my eyes. “I’m never hasty, when I’m focused, when I’m certain. I do everything in my power to get what I want. And I always get it.”
I didn’t understand then what he meant. I thought he was telling me that I needed to focus on my marriage. But it wasn’t about that at all. Jacob did not rush his plan to be with me, but he stuck to a definite goal. He was telling me that he was the grown-up, that he could be the one who was steadfast. He must have pushed Aiden away from me. I can see it now, Jacob plying Aiden with alcohol, suggesting that our marriage was shaky. The truth, with a flourish, an embellishment or two.
In the morning, when Aiden staggered home with a hangover, we argued, and over the next several days, he often worked late. We spoke less and less. We avoided the nursery. Sometimes we avoided each other. We made love infrequently, and when we did we were tentative. I could get pregnant again, and we might have to grieve yet a third miscarriage. The anxiety darkened our lives. But Jacob was always there for us, providing his loft couch for Aiden, taking me out for tea.
Gradually, inexorably, Aiden and I drifted apart, until I could no longer stand to watch the bedside clock on a Friday night, wondering if he would even come home. One evening, while he was still at the office, Jacob came to the house. He sat on the porch with me, watching the stars. I pictured my husband hunched over his desk, oblivious to my pain. Leaving me to suffer and grieve alone.
But I wasn’t alone. Jacob’s presence had become a familiar comfort. He did not make a move, did not expect anything from me. He simply offered his ear, his presence, his soothing support. “I understand how you feel. The loneliness, the frustration, the dashed hopes and dreams. I have felt the same way before. But time passed and I came to realize I needed a new plan for my life.”
I was the one who suggested a trial separation. The qualities that had drawn me to Aiden—his spontaneity and exuberance—now seemed like impulsiveness. But still, when he reluctantly agreed to move out, I cried all night. He stayed in a nearby hotel. Soon after that, he took leave to visit his ailing father in New York. How had our marriage come to this?
“You have every reason to resent him,” Jacob said. “How could he walk away during your hour of deepest suffering?”
“He didn’t walk away,” I said. But the more Jacob suggested that Aiden had abandoned me, the more I believed it.
“He can’t come back and expect everything to be okay,” Jacob said. “He can’t expect you to forgive him.”
Jacob sensed my anger and grief, and he swooped in. He had been waiting. He changed lightbulbs for me, made me dinner. He took care of me, listened to my woes. I was vulnerable.
“I know a great place,” he said. “My family’s vacation home from a long time ago. Mystic Island will heal you.”
I agreed to come here.
Even as we boarded the ferry to our summer getaway, my stomach churned with guilt. I had removed my wedding ring and put it away. With the wind in my face, I felt that I would pay for betraying Aiden, but we were separated, and I couldn’t forget the way he had reacted in my moment of need, could I? Somehow, Jacob’s words altered my memory. I forgot Aiden’s concern. What did Jacob tell him about me? How had this psychopath poisoned my husband’s mind?
I didn’t know what would come next. I didn’t know if I would sleep with Jacob. All I knew was that he nurtured me when I needed someone, held me when I cried, wiped my tears. He was my escape.
“Don’t worry about the real world,” Jacob said on the ferry. “Anything is possible on Mystic Island.”
Was it worth destroying my marriage to run away with him? I had to admit, the sexual tension had simmered between us for a long time.
On the ferry with Jacob, I’m exhausted, full of mixed emotions.
“So, we’re really going to do this?” I say, as Mystic Island comes into view.
Jacob grins down at me. To anyone looking through the ferry’s glass windows, we are a couple. When he slides the wedding ring onto my finger, I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re bold.”
“It’s a small island. Provincial. People talk if you come as an unmarried couple.”
“Let them talk. We’re grown-ups.”
“But you can be anyone you want to be. We could play pretend.”
“Pretend,” I echo.
“Let’s pretend it’s just you and me in the world. Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop.”
I look up at him and smile. “Okay. For a little while, I’ll play the game.”
“I was hoping you would say that.”
The force of his charisma eclipsed my judgment. I was empty inside, depleted, and at that moment, my husband seemed very far away.
I remember now. The letter I wrote last summer, when Jacob and I were here on the island. Aiden and I had already separated. Jacob asked me to divorce Aiden and marry him, and I believed it could be possible. I believed maybe I could marry Jacob and live happily ever after in this beautiful fantasy world.
He asked me what I would say, if I could write a letter to Aiden. To say good-bye. I wrote that our marriage was over, that I’d met someone. A man who wouldn’t waffle, who wouldn’t be unsure of our relationship.
But I didn’t send the letter. I burst into tears and dropped the paper on the floor. That was a mistake, I said. I reached down to grab the page, but Jacob put his arms around me. Don’t be afraid of change. I’m here with you.
He must’ve kept the letter, which I never intended to send. I threw it into the recycling bin, Jacob said. Would you like me to retrieve it for you? Have you changed your mind about sending it?
No, I said, relieved. Go ahead and recycle it.
But he didn’t. He kept it, and he gave it to Aiden. He intercepted Aiden’s emails to me. Not only that, he replied to them.
I meant what I said, he typed from my email address. Please get on with your life. We can’t undo what happened.
It was all a lie, just like my marriage to Jacob. Every moment, every kiss, every intimacy. A complete fabrication. But I slept with him. Everything we’ve done . . .
I run to the bathroom and vomit into the toilet. I dry heave until I’m spent. My mind tumbles like a tiny boat caught in a giant wave. Had Jacob been planning this whole charade all along? But why?
I have to find a way to contact Aiden. But the minute I pull up the Web browser again, the Internet cuts out. It’s gone, just like that. The rain pummels the roof, the wind screaming in from the sea.
I run back to the house. The rooms look menacing now. Jacob created this world with the things I love—my seashells on the windowsill, this view of the ocean, my lecture notes, and my books. All a facsimile of the truth, like the abandoned shell of the Dungeness crab, perfect on the outside but hollow inside.
In the bedroom, I empty my purse again. Lingerie, Print ticket, Get you know what . . . I was preparing for my summer on the island with Jacob. A man who wasn’t my husband. The condom is still in the drawer—but this time, when I hold it in my hand, I see Jacob handing me the condom from a full box. We’ll use these until you’re ready, he said. As if he was certain I would end my marriage to Aiden. I put everything back into my purse, drop the condom in the garbage.
I take the wedding photograph off the shelf. The formality becomes apparent in the way Jacob and I dance together. I’m leaning back, away from him. My wedding dress fans out as he spins me around, and I’m smiling, but not at him. From this distance, I’m looking off slightly to my left, over his shoulder. I recognize Linny, smiling and clapping. Aiden is standing next to her. The groom.
I can’t breathe. I have to get out of here. Now. But there is no boat off the island before tomorrow. I stuff some clothes into my backpack. In the bathroom, I grab my toothbrush, a small bottle of lotion. That image of Jacob in the shower, the anticipation running through me—it was the nervous excitement a woman feels when she’s about to sleep with a man for the first time. Not for the fiftieth time or the hundredth time. I felt the anticipation of discovery. But now, my heart blackens with guilt. Of all things, I should have remembered Aiden. I should have been there for him. Every extra minute I spend here is a new blight on my soul.
Back in the bedroom, I pack a few of my most precious seashells, but not all of them. I can’t let Jacob know I’m gone for good. I need a head start. But how will I escape the island? I have to leave most of my belongings behind. I don’t even know what’s mine and what Jacob planted here to fool me. In the kitchen, I write a note, Out for a ride. I put on my rain gear, strap on my backpack in the garage, and take off on my bicycle. My heart is in my throat on the ride south on the only route—the main road. The whole way, I recite an internal mantra, You’re okay. You’re alive. I’m hoping Waverly’s telephone works, that she can call the authorities.
I’m a mile from the house when Jacob’s truck comes hurtling toward me, bouncing over potholes. My heart plummets. To the right, nothing but forest. It would be stupid to take off into those woods in the cold, with the rain shooting sideways in the wind. Where would I go? To the left, more forest. I won’t get far on foot.
Jacob pulls up alongside me and rolls down the driver’s-side window. “Where are you going?”
“Just into town for a few things.” Somehow, I manage to smile. I want to kill him. He motions me over to kiss him. I have to pretend, but I want to throw up.
“Get in, I’ll take you home.”
“I’m okay—I’ll go on my bike.”
“You won’t make it back in the storm.”
“I’m okay,” I say, trying to sound confident.
“Get in. The wind is picking up.”
I look down the road, but I can’t outpedal him. I couldn’t outrun him. Breathe, think. I get off my bicycle. He hoists my bike into the bed of the truck. He opens the passenger-side door. The hinge squeaks. I hesitate for a long moment, looking into the truck, down the road. Run. Don’t get into the car. No, don’t run. He’ll know. He’ll catch up. You’re still weak. He’s faster, stronger.
“Hurry up, get in,” he says.
I slide in and sit down, putting my backpack on the seat between us. Thankfully, he doesn’t ask me why I’m carrying a backpack.
He gets into the driver’s seat and presses a button to
the left of the steering wheel, locking all the doors. I look forward through the windshield, the glass spotless, scoured by Jacob’s incessant compulsion to keep surfaces clean.
“Where did you go off to?” I ask on the bumpy drive home.
“Nancy needed help fixing a leak. Van’s AWOL.”
“He’s on a dive in Colombia,” I say.
Jacob glances sidelong at me. “He told you that? When?”
“I visited him on the boat, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. The guy gets around.”
“What about us? A trip to the mainland tomorrow?” I’m surprised I sound so casual.
“The ferry won’t be running for a while.”
“What?” My voice comes out high-pitched.
“Eighth breakdown this year. They need to replace that damned boat.”
“How does a ferry break down?” I keep my voice measured. But I want to throw the backpack at him, scream, jump out of the truck, run forever.
“Something about the drive motor. Tugboats towed the ferry into the harbor. It stalled a distance out. There were maybe a dozen people aboard at the time.”
“So it could be days.”
“At least.” He pulls into the garage. I could make a run for it now. And then what? He would come after me. He would be relentless. I’ve got to think. He turns off the engine as the garage door slams shut. We plunge into momentary darkness, and then the overhead light flickers on.
We’re inside the house now, taking off our shoes. My clothes hang heavily on my body, my skin clammy. I shove the backpack in the closet in the bedroom, take a deep breath, and lean back against the closed door. My heartbeat gallops. The floor creaks in the hallway. I can hear him breathing on the other side of the door.
“You okay?” he says.
“I feel a little sick. I might be coming down with something.”
“I’ll make you some ginger tea. Good for digestion.” He goes into the kitchen.