He doesn’t answer, but takes my elbow as we cross the street.
“Can we just get a car home? I’ve been in the same boots all day, and the subway is still blocks away.”
“I need the fresh air.” He takes out his cell. “Want me to get you a car? Who knows what the subway’ll be like at this hour.”
“No.” I yank on his arm, and he drops his phone.
“Sadie,” he groans.
“I’m sorry.” I pick it up, brush it off, and hold it out to him. “It’s fine, babe. Not a scratch.”
He glances at me sidelong as he sticks it back in his pocket. “What were you drinking?”
I grin. “Old-Fashioned.”
His raises his eyebrows. “Thought you hated those.”
“I figured they’d do the trick if they’re potent enough for my dad.”
“Potent, huh?”
I hope he’ll ask what I’m trying to accomplish by choosing my alcohol by that criteria. At least it would start a conversation. He leads me across another street. I glance at his hand on my arm. I’m not even sure he realizes he’s doing it. “You’d save yourself some trouble if you just held my hand.”
“It’s no trouble,” he says and lets go of me when we’re back on the sidewalk.
“Oh.” I nearly trot just to keep up with him. “Did you win tonight?”
“We were just screwing around.”
“But you kept score. I saw. I saw three of your strikes.”
He rubs his nose. “I guess, technically, I won. But it wasn’t really—”
“I knew it,” I say, clasping my hands. We’re nearing the subway, where it’s more crowded, so I’m not the only loud girl. “You’re the VIP.”
“VIP?” he asks. “You mean MVP.”
“You’re my VIP and my MVP.” I slur the last part because of my goofy grin. I think I’ll make those girls at the bar my new friends. Assuming none of them are sleeping with my husband, that is. The thought makes me snort. “Hey,” I cry, suddenly remembering my talk with Donna. “Donna invited us to Park Slope for dinner and sangria. I think we should go.”
Nathan nods at me. I swear he’s holding back a smile. “Yeah? You’d leave the city for once?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I ask. I’d prefer we were in Manhattan, where a cab ride home would take five minutes, but I keep that to myself.
“I guess,” he concedes. “Thanks for coming.”
It takes me a moment to register his unexpected gratitude. Maybe all Nathan wants is for me to take a little more interest in his life. If that’s the case, I’ll definitely show up for the next Wifey Wednesday. “I really like the girls,” I say and mean it. Riding the Brooklyn wave that got us into safer waters, I continue, “They made Park Slope sound great.”
Instantly, he tenses, and I watch his almost-good mood extinguish. “Really?” he asks, pursing his lips. “Is that what the girls said?”
I frown. There’s no missing the sudden irritation in his voice. What set him off, though? Does he not like me hanging around them? Joan, specifically? “What’s wrong?” I ask. “You don’t like them?”
“I have no problem with them.” He kicks a beer can on the sidewalk. It flies into a brick wall with some Banksy-style graffiti. He sighs. “Awesome. We’ll go to Park Slope if that’s what you want.”
I furrow my brows at his sarcasm. “I thought you’d like the idea.”
“Whatever.”
My smile fades. “Whatever,” I mimic. “So grumpy all the time.”
He glances at the ground but quickly looks back up. “Are you really coming next week?”
“Yes,” I say. “One-hundred percent. I will be there.”
He scratches his jaw and squints ahead of us. Bedford station is in sight now. People of all sorts are gathered around it, loitering by storefronts, smoking, playing music. Others are just trying to get through. “I don’t think you should.”
His words sting, transporting me right back to this morning’s rejection in the shower. I felt like we were making progress just now. I keep coming back for more, though, and I struggle to get words out. “You don’t want me there?”
“I don’t know. I think I need these nights to myself right now.”
Without warning, tears scald my eyes. Maybe it’s the bourbon. Maybe it’s the ache of my feet, swollen from a long day in heels. It’s hard to swallow the truth—but in a way, these little jabs, like his earlier dismissal in the shower, are breakthroughs. Before now, he hasn’t really admitted anything is wrong. At least we’re no longer on different planets.
“Don’t cry.” He mutters too softly for me to determine if he’s annoyed or concerned. I don’t know how he can tell. He didn’t even look at me.
Our footsteps are hollow on the sidewalk. I wait until I’m sure the threat of tears has passed to ask, “Why don’t you want me to come?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I have time.”
He shrugs. “I don’t want to talk about it. For one, you’re wasted.”
“I’m sobering up fast.”
He swallows, focused on the subway stop ahead. “You won’t even remember this tomorrow.”
“You know that isn’t true,” I argue. “You just want an excuse not to talk. It’s really unfair to shut me out like this.” He picks up his pace, and I pick up mine. My boots are getting tighter and tighter, the balls of my feet screaming. I avoid making eye contact with people I pass. “Nathan,” I say. “Hello?”
He turns on me. “It’s unfair, is it?” he asks. “Is it fair that I’ve told you a hundred times about Park Slope, yet you act like you’ve never heard of it until Donna mentions it?”
Between his pace and all the people around, I have to concentrate to catch each of his words. I’m shocked. It’s entirely possible he’s mentioned Park Slope before, but I usually wave it off when he talks about moving. Gramercy Park is perfect for us. Growing up so close to Manhattan, it was the only place I ever wanted to be, and it has everything we need. “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just that Brooklyn—”
“Is it fair that every other wife shows up for her husband but mine?” he continues. “And when you do, you have the gall to accuse me of not wanting you there. No, it’s not fair, but that’s how it is in Sadie world.”
My mouth falls open. Sadie world? I have no response. If I live in my own world, it’s not news to Nathan. He used to love doting on me. I’ve always made sure he knows what an important part of that world he is.
I’m a few paces behind him, and my feet start to cramp. They hurt. I hurt. “How long have you been feeling this way?” I ask.
He gets out his subway card and wipes his forehead on his sleeve. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”
“No,” I say.
He heads down the stairs, and I hobble after him, rifling through my purse for my wallet.
Nathan waits at the platform entrance for me. “Midnight in a subway station is not the time to have this discussion,” he says.
“Fine.” I swipe my subway card and go through. “Go sulk by yourself. When you’re ready to talk, find me.”
“Come on, Sadie,” he says. The turnstile beeps at him when he tries to pass. “Wait. My month is expired.”
“I don’t care,” I call behind my shoulder and storm away. An overhead marquee tells me the subway is five minutes away. It should be enough time for Nathan to buy a new monthly pass, but still, I glance over my shoulder for him. I have to stop at a bench to take off my bootie and massage my foot.
Nathan walks in my direction, putting his new pass away and sliding his wallet into his back pocket. “I don’t like when you run off like that,” he says as he approaches.
“Tough shit.”
He nods at my feet. “Cramp?”
“It’s fine.” I look up at him and then away. “Are you going to tell me what your problem is?”
“Not tonight,” he says. “I wish you would respect when I tell you I’m not ready.”
/> I shake my head, done with this. “And I wish you would respect when I tell you not to talk to me until you’re ready to work this out.”
He puts his hands in his pockets and hesitates. “Look—”
“That was a nice way of saying leave me alone.”
I stare at his feet until he finally walks away. He goes to the next bench and sits.
Nathan and I suck at this. Maybe we should’ve fought more over the years—maybe it would’ve prevented things from getting this far. The worst part is the fresh, sharp memory of how we used to be. How he used to know me. It wasn’t long ago that Nathan brought home the coffee table of my dreams because he’d spent months stopping by flea markets to find it. He listened to me. He sensed what I needed. He always knew how to make me happy.
It’s been seven years since he walked into my line of sight and flipped my world right-side up. What hurts the most is that I remember that happy moment like it was yesterday.
TWELVE
Nathan and I met at a summertime barbeque in the Hamptons. It was an engagement party for Jill, my closest friend, and Victor, the man I’d introduced her to. They’d rented a house for the weekend. Victor and his friends were short players for a beach football game, so they invited some guys from the house next to theirs.
Jill and I came onto the deck wearing skimpy bikinis and sipping strawberry margaritas. The tall, muscular quarterback was getting rushed when our eyes met. He dropped the ball immediately and jogged toward us. Since he looked as though he had something to say, I leaned over the railing to hear better.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
The glass was sweating in my hand. He had large, cappuccino-colored eyes and a suntan to match. Jill nudged me to prompt my answer.
“Oh.” I looked up from his broad chest, which was slick with sweat and sand. “Sadie,” I replied, wary of his question but smiling. It’s hard not to smile when a man like him pays you attention.
“Have you been here before, Sadie?” he asked.
“To the Hamptons? Yes—”
“No, here.” He pointed down at the sand under his feet. “Have you stood here?”
Jill put her ice-cold hand on my forearm and squeezed. She told me later the sparks between us were flying.
I giggled nervously. Having seen my reflection in the sliding glass door earlier, I knew my mouth was red from the drink. “Yes. We had a bonfire on the beach last night.”
“Okay.” The handsome quarterback dropped to his knees and looked up to the sky. “Thank you, God. If I ever doubted you—”
“Hunt, what the fuck’re you doing?” called one of the players from the beach.
The man met my gaze again and responded only to me. “I’m worshipping the ground she walks on. Literally. It calls for at least that.”
I blushed profusely while Jill clapped. “Are you all watching?” she yelled at the gawking men. “That’s how it’s done.” She winked at him. “Bravo.”
It was too much, but it worked. I would’ve swooned if he’d only offered to refill my drink.
“Stay and watch the game,” he said. “Will you, Sadie?”
My cheeks ached from smiling. “Yes.”
“Don’t skip out on me. Okay? I’m coming back for you.”
And he did. His name was Nathan. When football ended, and they’d cleaned up, Nathan and his friends came over for dinner. Later that night, he and I shared stories and a blanket on the beach. We made wishes on shooting stars. I was twenty-four.
From that day on, Nathan adored me. And I let myself be adored. That didn’t mean I loved Nathan any less than he loved me, though. It was just how we were. How we used to be.
A bottle shatters on the ground. My sunny Hamptons afternoon is swallowed up by a frigid, starless subway station in Brooklyn. I’m shivering, my shoe in my hand. Nathan, on his bench a few yards away, doesn’t look over at me. Maybe he can’t worship my ground anymore, because he’s found a new place to kneel.
The subway was supposed to arrive three minutes ago. My body sags. I just want to be home in bed.
“Hey,” I hear. “You. You lied to me.”
It takes me a moment to realize I’m being addressed. I look at the group walking toward me—the bespectacled man and his friends from outside of Brooklyn Bowl.
He plops his ass next to me on the seat. “You told me you were married,” he teases.
I spare him a sideways glance, but I’m hardly in the mood. “I am.”
“Liar.” He makes a face like he’s constipated. His glasses slide a millimeter down his red nose. “You hurt my feelings.”
I wedge my bootie back onto my bloated foot. “You’ll survive.”
“I won’t. I need a kiss to make it better.”
His friends laugh. A woman nearby looks up from her book then back down.
I stand up and walk away. He yanks my elbow, pulling me back. With a flutter of his eyelashes, he shuts his eyes, puckers, and breathes beer fumes on my face. “Just one. Please?”
“Let go, asshole.” I pull too hard and stumble back into a wall of a body. My heart leaps as two hands land on my shoulders, trapping me.
“It’s me,” Nathan says above my head.
I exhale as the tension in my body eases. I turn to thank him, but he steps around me. Spectacle’s eyes are still shut when Nathan shoves him backward. He stumbles across the platform, and his glasses clatter to the ground. “Hey, what the—”
“That’s my wife.” Nathan’s shoulders are nearly at his ears as he stalks toward the guy, who’s probably half a foot shorter and starting to look more like a kid.
“Are you crazy, dude?” he asks when he’s regained his footing. “You could’ve killed me. You don’t push someone in the subway.”
Nathan leans down and nabs the glasses. “Don’t forget your hipster crap. Who do you think you are, Clark Kent?” He throws them at the guy, who catches them at his stomach like a line drive.
Some people snicker. The group he’s with collectively oohs.
“Fuck you. I’m not the one pushing people around like some stupid superhero.”
“I’m teaching you some respect,” Nathan says. He’s outnumbered, but he doesn’t seem to care. “She told you she was married.”
“Twice,” I add.
“She doesn’t look married.” The kid puffs his chest out triumphantly, as if he’s insulted us.
His friends begin to disperse one by one, apparently bored with the confrontation. “Come on, dude,” one of them says. “Back off.”
He follows them, scowling as he inspects his lenses.
I’ve had my fair share of drunken admirers. Nathan usually lets me handle them unless I need back up. Tonight, I’m glad he was here. I look up at him. “Thank you.”
The platform trembles as the L train approaches. Nathan just nods and pulls me by my bicep up to the yellow line. We wait in tense silence until the doors open. There are plenty of open seats, but I take a middle one so Nathan can have the end. He stays standing. Once we’ve crossed back into Manhattan, I get up to be next to him. The late-night train moves fast, rattling us around. I let my shoulder bump his.
“You’re quiet,” I say.
Predictably, he doesn’t respond.
I grab the lapel of his coat and run it through my hand. “That was sexy,” I say.
He arches an eyebrow. “Getting hit on by a drunk hipster?”
“You know what I mean.” I pull him a little closer. “The way you defended me.”
“I would’ve done it for anyone.”
For some reason, he wants his words to sting. They don’t. He might do it for anyone, but he’d never not do it for me. I keep my hold on the soft wool. There’s one thing that can obliterate my anger from earlier, and it’s arousal. I lean into Nathan. It becomes clear to me that I don’t truly believe he’s been with Joan. If I did, I wouldn’t be able to stomach having sex with him. And right now, I definitely can.
I slip my hand into his coat. “
You’re getting so hard.”
His nostrils flare as he glances down at me. “Hard?”
“Your muscles.” I rub his flat, ridged stomach. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. And your hair. It’s different, but I like it—”
He grabs my wrist, stopping me. “Don’t.”
Don’t. The other night, during sex, he covered my mouth when I said his name. He still doesn’t want me, his wife. It’s okay, though. I’m turned on enough by the way he claimed me in front of those guys to play along. “I don’t normally do this,” I say, glancing around the car. “But I was wondering if you’d like to come home with me tonight.”
“What’re you doing, Sadie?”
“Sadie? Who’s that? Your wife?” I shrug. “I don’t mind. I can keep a secret.”
“This is ridiculous.”
The subway stops. Someone gets off, someone else gets on. I blink up at Nathan a few times and slide my hand through his, back to my side. “You’re a faithful husband,” I say. “I get it. But we don’t have to touch to have fun.”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Haven’t you ever talked dirty?” I ask. “Or doesn’t your wife like that?”
He hesitates, but responds, “She does.”
The subway jostles us, throwing me against him. He catches me, and I’m hit with the smell of cigarettes. “Have you been smoking?” I ask, surprised enough to break character.
He pinches his eyebrows together, but then his expression eases. “Don’t tell my wife.”
I bite my lower lip. Bingo. He’s interested. I rise onto the balls of my feet. When he doesn’t move, I motion for him to bend down. He does. I whisper in his ear, “You’re making my knees weak. Not sure I can stand much longer.”
“What . . . what do you suggest?” he asks.
“How about I kneel? Right here. Take you in my mouth.”
His breathing deepens. “We’re not alone.”
“Who, them?” I ask, nodding to the other passengers. “They can fuck off. Or watch. If you don’t mind, that is.”
Slip of the Tongue Page 11