False Step

by Victoria Helen Stone

  “It’s okay, Mom. I know you only have eyes for your granddaughter now.”

  “She needs a haircut, though. That hair!”

  “She likes it curly.”

  “Well, she’s definitely got what she likes, then.” She set two plates of noodles down, then hurried back to the counter. “I forgot the chopped peanuts. Don’t start yet!”

  Veronica waited for her mom to return to sprinkle a few peanuts on top of the dish, then dug in. “Mm. It’s really good.” It was really good. Not quite as spicy as she’d order at a restaurant, but she couldn’t expect a woman of Danish heritage to add a Thai amount of pepper.

  “This one might be my new favorite,” her mother said. “Not good for freezing, though, I’d think. Rice noodles . . .” She frowned as if she’d never considered such a thing. “They seem quite delicate.”

  “I’ve been thinking, Mom . . . Maybe you should invite someone over for a few of these meals.”

  “I invite you over.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “And Sydney.”

  “Mom.”

  Her mom waved a hand and tossed back her silver-and-brown bob. “Don’t be silly.”

  “Why is it silly? Dad is dating.”

  “Well, Dad was always dating, wasn’t he?”

  Oh.

  There it was. The topic she tried so hard to avoid. Her father and his outgoing, attention-loving, philandering personality. She hoped to God her mom wasn’t actually asking that question. “Mom . . .”

  “Oh, come on. It doesn’t matter. I’m done with all that now. Why the heck would I want to go back to it?”

  “You’ll get lonely.”

  “No. No, I don’t think I will. I have everything I want here and no one I have to cater to. I don’t have to pretend about . . . well, anything. It’s not even worth talking about, sweetheart. I’m not lonely. At all. I’m just relieved. And I like cooking for myself. I make whatever I want.”

  Veronica swallowed her bite of noodles and maybe some of the lump in her throat too. Her parents had always seemed like the perfect couple. Dad the successful, world-traveling analysis system salesman; Mom the perfect stay-at-home housewife and substitute teacher. She’d hosted dinner parties and potlucks and barbecues. He’d brought all the friends. She’d never given a hint that she’d needed any more than that in life.

  Was that the world Veronica had been trying to set up for her own life? Had she honestly thought her mother had been happy despite what Veronica herself had known about Dad? Or had she just thought that was the way it was supposed to be?

  Whatever her reasoning, she’d jumped into the deep end and let herself sink. She hadn’t realized the rest of her family was getting out of the pool and she’d be in it alone.

  “It’s really good, Mom,” she said again, as if she needed to make her feel better. But her mother had moved on. She’d quietly put up with her husband’s cheating for however long she’d known, and then she’d quietly said, “No more,” and walked away.

  It was Veronica who’d been left reeling. Mostly because her mother’s choice had devastated Sydney and therefore removed Veronica’s own option to divorce. She tried her best not to resent her mom. It wasn’t her fault, and she’d put in her time. It was Veronica’s turn to sacrifice.

  “You’re sure you don’t mind getting Sydney tonight? I’ve got my support group, and Johnny won’t be by until after eight.”

  “We’ll be fine. In fact, I have just the dinner to make tonight: chicken with mushrooms in puff pastry! I was saving it for Friday, but Sydney will love it.”

  “Thanks. She loves cooking with you. And I like knowing you’re building such wonderful memories together.”

  Maybe Veronica had built those memories with her mom too, but they’d long ago faded in the bright light of her father’s charisma. He’d been the star, her mother the moon. Just like her and Johnny.

  But that was fine. Veronica was fine. Five hours of work and then she would go home and shower and be out of the house by six thirty for the one night a week that meant something to her. The one night getting her through. Then six more days of waiting and another week would pass.

  CHAPTER 6

  Normally she felt anonymous in downtown Denver. Even on a cool October evening there were crowds of people on the streets walking to restaurants or breweries or theaters. Denver was young and hip and outdoorsy, and Veronica was just one woman among many, slipping through busy intersections, unremarkable.

  But tonight she was acutely aware that her face had been all over TVs and phones for the past twenty-four hours. Hopefully people had barely glanced at her, their attention caught by Johnny and Sydney, or Johnny and the dog, or Johnny and the little boy in his arms.

  And her sister had been right: already there was new video posted by the Holcombs. Why would anyone want to look at pictures of the Bradley family when they could watch little Tanner smiling brightly from the cocoon of his favorite blanket?

  He’d looked so happy. Just utterly . . . invincible. Veronica had cried in the shower after seeing it. Hopefully her eyes had lost all their redness by now.

  Her quest for anonymity was helped by the fluffy blue scarf she’d wrapped around the lower half of her face. The amber sunglasses added a nice touch too, as if even the fading dusk were too much for her sensitive eyes or ego. Her parking space was only two blocks from her destination, but it felt as if she held her breath until she spotted the familiar façade.

  She slipped through the glass doors of the high-rise and headed toward the lobby attendant’s desk. Her step hitched when she suddenly realized that her name could actually mean something to a stranger today. She’d been signing it for months and thinking nothing of it, but now she felt totally exposed despite her hidden face.

  The man behind the desk glanced up at her hesitation. Or maybe he was a boy. He looked barely eighteen, brown skinned and baby faced, his uniform shirt too loose around his neck. Veronica forced herself to move forward and even managed a smile.

  “Hi.” She wrote down 1505, her mind racing. If she wrote a fake name and the guy asked for ID, she’d be busted. They normally didn’t, but he looked new, so maybe he was still paranoid about being thorough. Panicked and too aware of his attention, she scrawled her own name in deliberately sloppy script; then she spun and moved toward the elevators.

  Back stiff, she waited for him to call out and stop her, but she pushed the button and the doors opened. She knew from experience that the lobby attendants were basically glorified package collectors until 10:00 p.m., when the building was locked up tight, but she still felt as if she’d run a gauntlet.

  A middle-aged woman coming up from the parking garage was already on the elevator, so Veronica kept her face averted as she waited for floor fifteen. Had anyone from this building recognized her from the news? Had anyone wondered what she did here every Wednesday night?

  She stepped out on the fifteenth floor, sure that she could feel the other woman’s gaze burning into her neck despite the coils of the scarf. Once the doors closed, she slipped off the glasses and knocked on door 1505.

  Veronica’s tension rose, turning her jaw to stone as she waited. It wasn’t fear any longer. It was hurt. Frustration. Anger. The tips of her ears burned with it.

  The door opened. She pushed words past her teeth. “Last week you promised to stop ignoring my texts.”

  He sighed and swung the door wide to let her walk past. “I wasn’t ignoring them.”

  “Oh really? Because you sure didn’t respond.”

  “I responded later.”

  “Well, I turned my phone off after three hours of waiting, so yeah. Later.”

  “Veronica, I was busy.”

  She glared at Micah. She wanted to tell him he couldn’t treat her that way. That she wouldn’t put up with it. But they both knew she would.

  “I’m sorry,” Micah said, approaching her slowly as if she might snap and attack at any moment. “I was in the middle of a
job.”

  “I just . . . I . . .” I just needed you. That was what she meant to say. That was the betrayal burning inside her. I needed you and you weren’t there. But she didn’t say it. This wasn’t love. It wasn’t a relationship. It was only sex. Sex with her husband’s best friend.

  And she needed this more than Micah did. They both knew it. Micah was single, after all. He could have illicit sex in this gorgeous downtown condo anytime he wanted. He probably did. Veronica didn’t ask. After all, she was having sex with someone else too, even if it was only with her husband on a sagging queen mattress in an unremodeled 1970s ranch home.

  Micah’s hands touched her elbows, then slid up her arms. When he cupped her shoulders, she closed her eyes and shivered, hating her weakness for this man. Hating that he could see it when she swayed closer to him.

  “I wanted to talk to you last night,” he murmured.

  She shook her head.

  “I hoped we’d get a moment alone.”

  “There were thirty people there.”

  “You know what I mean.” His voice dropped lower. “Don’t be mad.”

  “I am mad.” She heard the pouty whine in her own voice as her muscles softened under his touch.

  “I only came over so I could see you. I didn’t do it for Johnny. You know I hate those gym rats he hangs around these days.”

  Veronica laughed and let herself meet Micah’s dark, beautiful eyes. “How did you two ever end up friends?”

  “The vagaries of college roommate assignments.”

  “Yes, then. But now?”

  “Now? Opposites attract, I guess. He makes me laugh. He’s easy to be around.”

  She let him pull her into his arms. Opposites indeed. Micah was dark and lean compared to Johnny’s golden strength. Only an inch taller than her, he somehow filled her vision far more completely than Johnny did. He filled her thoughts with the same overwhelming ease. Micah was a deep, cool river of complicated nuance punctuated with little eddies and rapids that kept her head spinning. And Johnny was . . . not.

  She tucked her face against his neck. “I worried someone would see me.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes. I was all over the news yesterday.”

  “No one cares. They’re all too involved with their own problems.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  He tugged at her scarf. “Is it cold out?”

  “No. I was hiding.”

  “Well, there’s no need to hide in here.”

  She raised her head and smiled at him. “Are you trying to get me more naked?”

  “I’m trying to get you all the way naked, V.”

  Grinning, she lifted her chin so he could unwind the scarf, but when his mouth finally found her bare skin, her smile gave way to a groan. Her skin was hot where the scarf had covered her, and his mouth felt cool against it. Until he parted his lips and touched his tongue to her pulse.

  It wasn’t love. She knew it couldn’t be love. But it was life, and she craved this knowledge that she was still alive. Still vibrant. Still a risk worth taking.

  With Micah she wasn’t a mom or a wife. She wasn’t the responsible one in the relationship. It wasn’t a relationship at all. It was just . . . this.

  For a little while, at the beginning, she’d worried he was using her. That she was just a stupid, easy, desperate lay. But she’d long ago dropped that fear.

  She was the one using him, surely. He was her drug, the antidepressant that stopped her from breaking apart and running away forever. Every week, if she was patient enough, Wednesday would come around again, and she’d get her fix, and she’d be fine for a little while.

  His teeth pressed into her skin just the way he knew she liked it. They’d been doing this for months now, and it never got old. It felt new every time. New but somehow better as they learned each other’s bodies.

  She unbuttoned his shirt. He pulled up her dress. They stumbled blindly toward the couch.

  Sometimes they made love for an hour, but not tonight. Tonight it was wild and frantic and over in minutes, both of them desperate for something.

  The bone-deep satisfaction that followed wasn’t only due to her climax. She loved these wild nights the best because it meant nearly two hours of lying with him after. Talking. Joking. Stroking his skin. He always asked her to stay longer and she never could, but on nights when they moved slowly, leaving felt torturous. She wasn’t done. She needed more.

  Tonight she could have more. She stretched out next to him to absorb him into her skin.

  “Did you finish that book?” she asked.

  “Not yet. I’ve been working a lot.”

  “Slacker. Try to finish by next week. I’m dying to talk to you about it.”

  “I will. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy.” She sighed at the way he pressed a kiss to her head.

  It had all begun with a book. Micah had been at their house for dinner and he’d mentioned a book he wanted to read. Veronica had just started it. A few days later he’d texted her about a plot point, and they’d exchanged messages for days. She’d forced herself to read more slowly, trying to synchronize her consumption of words with his. A strange bit of intimacy, but a powerful one, it turned out. It was a secret. Something to steal her thoughts from work and home. She’d loved every moment.

  When they’d finished that book, Micah had asked, “What should we read next?” And Veronica had been hopelessly, happily gone. Two books later they’d met for a drink near his place. The rest had taken no persuasion on his part.

  But now ten months had passed, and he wasn’t quite as quick with reading. He’d been stuck on their latest book for a month. Because he was busy with work. Or busy not caring quite as much what Veronica thought. Or maybe busy discussing books with someone else.

  “Did you ever watch that documentary?” she tried.

  “No, not yet. It’s in my queue, though.” Another way they stole time together when they were apart. Another way he was too busy for her these days.

  She didn’t ask him what he’d done over the weekend. She didn’t want to know. Closing her eyes, she listened to his heartbeat. She breathed in his scent. It had all been so strange at first, after being with the same man for so long, but she was used to Micah now.

  No, not used to him. She knew him, but she would never get used to this.

  His breathing evened out, and she realized he’d fallen asleep. She spread her fingers wider to touch more of his chest. She wouldn’t fall asleep. She never did. She wouldn’t waste her time with him that way.

  I’m not in love with him, she told herself.

  She didn’t want to be his wife. And he had zero interest in being a husband—or stepfather—to anyone. She’d never spent the night with him. Never tended him through illness or disappointment. This affair was a fantasy. She couldn’t love him. Not really. But she still turned her head and brushed her lips over his shoulder with a sigh.

  Tears gathered in her eyes, and it was safe to let them fall. He wouldn’t notice. She never let him see her cry, because this was supposed to be fun. It had to be fun, because it couldn’t be anything more.

  His heart thumped against her ear, and she steadied her breathing to try to force her own pulse to keep time with his. Stupid. It wouldn’t bring them closer. She’d given her child her own blood and oxygen and nutrients, and now Sydney was closer to Johnny than Veronica.

  A little flare of resentment tweaked her languid mood, but it passed in an instant, barely even noticeable. It was good for a girl to feel that kind of love from a father. Sydney would grow up brave and strong. Then again, Veronica hadn’t grown up strong at all.

  Two years ago she’d planned to leave Johnny. Not in a wild, dramatic rage at his betrayal but a full three years after the affair when she’d realized she couldn’t recover from it. She’d married a man too much like her father, and those lifelong issues couldn’t be overcome. She’d grown exhausted by the idea of decades of vigilance and trying to keep Johnny’s attent
ion. Or worse, of ignoring his worst qualities just as her mom had ignored her husband’s fickle ways.

  She and Johnny had married so young. She’d still been a child, really, acting out her childhood all over again. Doomed to repeat the same dynamic. And Johnny hadn’t exactly been mature.

  She’d convinced herself that Johnny would be fine with a divorce too. It might have even been true. They would separate. He’d get a place close by. Close enough that Syd could walk back and forth between their two homes. They could both work a little more on the days they didn’t have custody. They’d be friendly. Maybe they’d even get together as one big happy family for holidays. It wouldn’t be bitter or ugly at all.

  Veronica had meticulously planned it out. She’d obsessed over it. She’d practiced a speech for Johnny and imagined what they would say to their daughter.

  But then she’d had to stay. For Sydney’s sake.

  She must have dug her fingers too hard against his chest, because Micah stirred and murmured, then pressed his lips to her head before settling back into sleep. Veronica swallowed as many tears as she could and stroked a comforting hand over his skin.

  For an hour she lay there, her head rising and falling with each of his breaths. She let him sleep. It was easier than confronting the fact that he was losing interest in their little rituals and delicate ties. If he slept, she could pretend everything was the same as it had been ten months earlier, the first time she’d come here.

  Had she realized she’d made a conscious switch then from being her mother to being her father? To being the betrayer instead of the betrayed? She shoved the thought away and breathed Micah in.

  When it was time to leave, Veronica rose and stretched. Her dress was hopelessly wrinkled, but Johnny wouldn’t notice. He’d be too busy watching a game. Or tonight he’d be too busy reading internet comments about himself. She wasn’t above suspicion so much as below notice, and these days that was just fine with her.

  She adjusted the skirt of her dress, then paused to stare down at Micah. He looked young and vulnerable like this, curled on the couch, his face soft with sleep. She’d only met him a few times before she and Johnny had married, and she’d barely noticed him then. But she pretended she remembered him and this was what he had looked like at twenty-two, before life had made him cynical. Still . . . maybe it was herself she was thinking of.