A Life Well-Hidden

by Emily Nealis

  Did I want that?

  Did I want to be one snide comment away from being carried like a stray calf out of my own house?

  Who did that kind of thing?

  Rolling over to the edge of the bed, I stared at my nightstand. A shoebox printed with fake thatches and lime green fronds on the lid sat on its shelf just above the floor. I put the photo of Adam and me from the wedding inside the box on the same day he gave it to me. I lifted the box from the shelf and set it on my lap. I read and re-read the note Adam gave me written on the back of the photo. It was short and to the point. He loved me, and he wished everyone else knew it. He wasn’t a great writer by any means, but I thought he made up for it in other ways.

  I set the picture back inside the box with all the other sentimental artifacts of my life—in a worn card box on a shelf. I began rifling through the snapshots of my past. In the process, I found a lost note. It was buried under birthday cards and concert tickets—a memoir stashed in a card box I’d dragged to each home I’d had since middle school. I fished out a worn, creased sheet of college rule notebook paper folded into a rectangle. Andrew Dale wrote me a love letter when we were 13. To my surprise, it still gave off a sharp, clean scent of body wash with too much fragrance that all middle school boys used. He wrote the note in the dark one night in April of 2001.

  It was 1:28 in the morning and he couldn’t sleep. In 8th grade, I didn’t really know what the “I love you” written twenty times on the page meant, scrawled down the lines of recycled pine. He said I reminded him of stars and satellites, loving me the way he loved that Dave Matthews song, “Satellite.” I hated Dave Matthews, but I liked that song because Andrew Dale said it reminded him of me. I swayed around my bedroom to that acoustic picking and Dave’s high-pitched crooning because I was head over heels for Andrew Dale.

  Some kid who rode his expensive mountain bike to my house after school dedicated a song to me, which was the most romantic thing I’d experienced up to that point. Even when we were seniors in high school, years after we’d broken up in dramatic 8th grade fashion, he would pick me up late at night in his souped-up Mazda he was constantly working on. I rode with him out to the country roads that wound around the horse farms and he would just drive. This was after we transformed from fickle children into partners in crime who rebelled against our parents and claimed we would never grow up, back when we stayed lost in those hot hay field summers that would never end.

  Last I heard, Andrew Dale married his high school girlfriend. I heard this from my mother, who I suspect wishes I married Adam Dale because he races cars in the desert with his dad. I imagine he still looks the same, like he was birthed from a carburetor and baptized in motor oil, black hair spouting from a trucker hat with the name of some redneck town stamped on the front. I imagine Andrew Dale still looks like high school, back when style meant flannel shirts and Airwalk nostalgia.

  As I read that letter over, and over again, much like I read the back of Adam’s photo, I hoped Andrew Dale wrote his wife letters like the one he wrote me all those years ago. I hoped he didn’t forget how to write letters like this and I hoped his wife kept them to remind herself who he was whenever their life became heavy and complicated. At the very least, Andrew Dale’s wife didn’t have to keep Andrew’s letters hidden.

  I felt the bizarre need to discuss this with Haley—to ask her about her own experience being married to a man like Adam. Of course, no one in their right mind would do that, especially if they were trying to avoid any kind of altercation. Hey, your husband told me he wants to leave you and be with me—do you have any advice? By the way, I heard he threw you out of your own house. The more I thought about Haley, the more fascinated I became. Was she completely blind, or had she already made peace with what she wanted and what she was willing to trade for it? The same could be asked of me, after all.

  Had I decided what I wanted, and was I willing to trade part of my life for it? Was I willing to sell my soul—trade time in a life I would never get back—for Adam Hunt?

  Haley

  When I was 15, my friends and I used to walk to the park two blocks from my house to drink the alcohol we snuck out of our parents’ liquor cabinets. We crept down the street, over the creek, and through the darkest parts of the playground away from the lights of the basketball and tennis courts. Inside the thick wooden structures that notoriously housed hornets’ nests in the warmer months, we hid crammed together, giggling, and passing around a quarter-full water bottle of whatever wouldn’t be missed by our parents. We were three high school girls with freckles, braces, and no sense of fashion to speak of, but we were living on the edge with our stolen alcohol. Granted, it wasn’t anything hardcore—usually Triple Sec or some kind of schnapps—but it might explain why I preferred sweet, fruity drinks when I was old enough to legally drink.

  That was the extent of my teenage rebellion until I met Adam.

  I remember the first time I met him; I was a sophomore, riding home with my best friend, Finley Combs, and her brother, who was a junior. We walked halfway down one of the side streets, where all the non-seniors parked. Her brother was standing with a couple of other guys at the tailgate of a black Chevy pickup with a red stripe that ran along the side of the body. The one who owned the truck was leaning his elbows on the edge of the bed. His black hair was buzzed all over and he didn’t have any of the tattoos that would adorn his arms later. I recognized him and already vaguely knew who he was because we had an advanced math class together.

  It wasn’t love at first sight. I don’t think he even noticed me until after we saw each other a few times, always incidental moments with mutual friends. A couple of months later, he finally spoke to me in the same park I snuck off to with my friends to secretly drink. It was there that he asked me on a date. Days later, Adam became my first boyfriend.

  At first, my friends encouraged me to go out with him because he was older, he had his own car, and it seemed like the most exciting thing imaginable. He also came with a reputation—one that involved rule-breaking and a revolving door of girls, many of which were either older or didn’t go to our school. At first, Finley encouraged me to go out with Adam, as he seemed so much more exciting than anyone else we hung out with. The irony of this fact was never lost on me. Even now, I never would have predicted what was about to happen between Finley and me.

  After Adam and I had been dating for the better part of a year, she came to me and revealed that she was worried. Having known Adam longer than I did, he was a regular fixture among her brother and his friends. She knew who he was and what kind of trouble he’d been in. I reassured her and told her not to worry because I wasn’t afraid he would do anything to hurt me. Even so, she kept coming to me, telling me he’d been in this fight, or that fight, she’d seen him talking to such-and-such girl, she heard him say this and that to her brother.

  Adam never did anything to hurt me, and I never got the impression that he would. We argued like teenagers and we did break up a couple of times, each time reconciling. Each time we made up, he would say, “There’s just something about you. We were made for each other, I guess.” I believed him because, each time, he would come back a better person than before. And, each time, Finley looked at me with the same expression of disappointment. It became a tremendous strain on our friendship, a strain that culminated in an argument one night during our junior year after a birthday party for Finley’s brother, Luke.

  The day after Luke’s birthday, I was at Finley’s house, waiting for Adam to come over and meet us. Finley seemed uncomfortable and, finally after a few minutes of prodding, she told me an incredible story about how the boys had gone out for Luke’s birthday and ended up at one of the strip clubs on the north side of town. This wasn’t shocking, but she went on to say that when they left, Adam left with another girl—and not just any girl, one of the strippers, no less.

  I just looked at her, dumbfounded and totally unsure of how to respond. Anyone else might have started blubbering and sobb
ing over a story like that, but not me. I didn’t believe her. I was so angry and fed up with Finley’s constant disparaging of Adam. It was obvious she never liked him, but I didn’t understand why. The rest of my friends liked him; why didn’t she? Every incriminating thing Finley said about Adam had a reasonable explanation, and the absurd story she was telling me right then was just another example of her negative bias toward him.

  When Adam and Luke arrived at the house, I asked Adam about the validity of Finley’s story. He admitted they went to a strip club but promised me that he never spoke to another girl that night. Finley began yelling at him, pointing her finger in his face; this petite girl up against a muscular guy nearly a foot taller than her, telling him she knew what he did, that nothing stayed a secret forever. Even with the bizarre drama playing out before me, the even stranger part was that Luke didn’t say a word. He stood behind Finley, watching the entire scene play out, and was completely silent.

  Even with Finley shouting at him, Adam appeared unfazed. He scoffed at her, telling her she had erroneous information, that he had a girlfriend, that she needed to get her facts straight before making wild accusations. But Finley didn’t let up. She told him she would do anything to protect her friend and that included exposing him for what he was. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing—my worst high school nightmare was playing out. My best friend and my boyfriend were doing battle with one another before my eyes.

  A moment later, Adam took a step forward, staring down into her face. Finley didn’t move; instead, she leaned into him, staring right back up at him. To her credit, she was not one to back down. I admired the way she was unafraid of even the most intimidating situations. I could never be like her. Adam asked her if she was doing this because she was angry that he didn’t reciprocate her feelings for him. I was taken aback by this revelation. However, not as much as I was when Finley reeled back and smacked Adam across the face. The crack of her palm against his cheek echoed through the room.

  In a flash, Luke was between the two of them, blocking Adam’s access to his sister, holding her behind his back. Adam didn’t reach for her, he only stared over Luke’s shoulder at Finley. I had had enough at that point., and just wanted to get out of there. I took Adam by the arm and pleaded with him to leave with me. I also recognized that look in his eye—the one that appeared when he was ready to fight. At first, he didn’t move, and it took a shove from Luke to break his focus away from Finley, still shouting at him, daring him to lay hands on her. Luke, still holding Finley behind him, pointed to the door and told Adam to get out of his house. He warned Adam to stay away from Finley, threatening violence if Adam ever spoke to her again.

  Ushering Adam toward the door, I looked behind me one last time. Still standing behind Luke, protected by her brother, the rage disappeared from Finley’s face. Instead, it was replaced by a look of complete anguish. Her hand covered her mouth, tears welling up in her eyes, as she watched me leave her house for the last time. The days of spending summers together, vacations, swimming, running around town, planning our lives out together, crushing on boys, even secret drinking in the park were over. At the time, I didn’t care, I was so angry that Finley told such an absurd story about Adam, possibly with more insidious intent than I was aware of. Whatever it was, all I knew was that I didn’t believe it.

  Days later, when I asked Adam’s friends about that night, they assured me Finley’s story wasn’t true. Although a relief, it did little to comfort me. Even if it wasn’t true, the fact remained that Finley and I were no longer best friends—or friends at all, for that matter. To cope with the loss of such a significant friendship, I held tighter to Adam. Even with what had transpired, he supported me while I mourned the end of the friendship. He went so far as to say that maybe he should do what’s best for me and let go, maybe we shouldn’t be together because he didn’t want to negatively affect my friendships. I would hear none of it. I was so angry with Finley and anyone else who’d ever told me that Adam and I were wrong for each other that I was dead-set on proving everyone wrong. Even though Finley accused Adam of such terrible things, he refused to speak ill of her, regardless of what she said about him.

  After the devastation of that night, Adam and I spent nearly every free moment together, riding around town in that black Chevy pickup truck when gas cost less than a dollar and we had nothing else to do. It was funny, in a morbid way, that I had no doubts back then, even going as far as to walk away from my best friend.

  But now, suddenly after 12 years of marriage, I had doubts. The only difference was that I was riding next to him in a brand new pickup truck with our two daughters in the backseat, on the way to a barbecue at my parents’ house—the same house that fostered the friendship between Finley and I and the same house where I chose Adam over my family all those years ago.

  The irony of this was not lost on me. I’ve known Adam for almost 16 years, 12 of which I’ve been married to him. I know how he communicates—or doesn’t—during any given situation. I was amazed, or rather shocked, when I realized I had no idea how to comprehend the thoughts that came flooding into my mind that moment in the passenger seat of his truck. Until then, I believed the weight and longevity of our relationship all but guaranteed that I would never have to consider such a thing.

  What would I do if I found out Adam was seeing someone else? How did it begin? How long has it been going on? Who initiated it? Are they sleeping together? Does he love her? Women were always trying to flirt with Adam and get on his good side—this wasn’t anything new. But Adam always blew it off; he was a polite person, a good man, and he let them down easily because he’s so nice to everyone. I know this because he’s open about it, because we don’t have any secrets from one another and, usually, it makes for an entertaining story.

  The day after we were married, some girl even called his parents’ house wanting to talk to him. Adam’s mother Lisa answered the phone and told her, “Adam’s not here, but you can speak to his new wife if you want!” It was a good thing the girl on the other end hung up when Lisa handed me the phone because I was laughing too hard to speak. It was ridiculous.

  I tried to shake the very thought from my mind; there was no way Adam was cheating on me. We’d been through so much; the problems with my family, barely scraping by while he was in school, the miscarriages before finally having June, moving our family out to the farm, and now maybe—maybe—starting a business together, if Adam would make up his mind. We were finally where we wanted to be in life. Why would Adam jeopardize all that?

  I had spent the past few hours consumed by my own doubt, and I was ready to put it behind me for at least one evening. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I’d become quite skilled in compartmentalizing my emotions. I learned early in our relationship that it was vital to mesh with an intense personality such as Adam’s. At times, it was difficult, but it was worth it because it’s one of the things I loved about him; as much hostility as he worked to suppress, he possessed exponentially more love and kindness. That’s what I told myself on the way to my parents’ house, cruising down the winding county roads toward town, that I was overreacting and misinterpreting a situation that didn’t exist.

  I was so wrapped up in the strange events that transpired that afternoon and making sure the girls packed their overnight bags for a stay at their grandparents’, I completely forgot to call in an order of cupcakes from the bakery a mile from my parents’ house. I should have just made them myself, but I decided at the last minute that I didn’t have as much time as I thought I would. It wasn’t the end of the world, as this particular bakery held regular hours on Sundays and conveniently offered online ordering. Unfortunately, my phone’s battery was nearly depleted, and I hadn’t had a chance to charge it in the chaos of preparing to leave the house. Suffice it to say, I’d been preoccupied for a variety of reasons. I turned to Adam, holding up my phone with its dim screen, already in the process of powering down.

  “My phone’s almost dead—le
t me use your work phone to call in the order for the cupcakes.” I tossed the phone in my purse and prepared to commandeer his. Instead, I ended up reaching for nothing.

  “No, that’s not what it’s for. It’s for work,” Adam’s focus remained on the road, “and I’m not entering a credit card number on it.”

  “They wipe the phones when you turn them in, right?”

  “That’s not the point. As long as my name’s associated with the device, you’d better rethink that.”

  I rolled my eyes at him and his paranoia.

  “Well, then at least let me have it to look at their menu.”

  “No, you’re not using my work phone for anything. Just wait until we get to the house.”

  “Are you serious right now?” Adam’s obstinance caught me off guard, “This would save so much time! Why can’t I use your phone to look up this information?”

  “I’m not arguing about this with you, Haley.” Adam stared straight ahead, indicating the conversation was over. The girls prattled away in the backseat, completely oblivious to the conversation heating up in the front seat. I also knew that, no matter what I said, Adam would never lose his temper around them, especially about something like this.