Slip of the Tongue

by Jessica Hawkins

  “Would he notice?”

  His question physically pierces, like a little knife. Nathan knows the contents of our closet. He would notice if he cared enough to look. All my pulse points throb at once for what seems to be slipping through my hands more every day.

  “I’m sorry,” Finn says. “That was insensitive. Please don’t frown.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Why don’t you keep it at my place?” he suggests. “At least for a little bit.” Without waiting for my answer, he takes my hand. We cross the street. When we’re on the other side, he ducks into a cramped doorway of an apartment building. He pulls my front flush against his, drapes me back over his forearm, and ghosts his mouth over mine. His whiskers tickle my upper lip. “By the way, it’s blue,” he says. “My favorite color.”

  I try unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. “So what does the color blue say about you?”

  He studies all the parts of my face—mouth, nose, ears, chin—as if he’s memorizing it for an exam. Then his eyes return to mine. “It says I never had a favorite color until I met this girl in a coffee shop with eyes so blue, they’re almost purple, like the absolute final moments before sunrise. This girl stayed on my mind. When I saw things like a cluster of irises or a peacock at the zoo, I would think of her and say to myself, that is my favorite color.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Amelia pays the cab fare and meets me on the busy curb outside of Chelsea Market. Without even a glance, she swipes away the one wrinkle in her loud DVF wrap dress. “As I was saying,” she continues our conversation from the car, “Misty Burroughs is not a woman we want to disappoint.”

  “Who do we want to disappoint?” I ask.

  She narrows her eyes at me. “Watch it. As much as I like you, I’m still your boss.”

  “Oh,” my tone and movements are flowery as I pull on the marketplace’s heavy door, “let me get that for you, Miss Van Ecken.”

  She grins smugly. “That’s more like it, minion.”

  Once indoors, I pluck my gloves off by the fingers and stick them in my pocket. Amelia unfurls her scarf. I automatically fix the static flyaways that stick to her collar.

  “The coat was a good choice,” Amelia says, eyeing me. “Misty can probably pick out Burberry blindfolded.”

  I unbutton the collar. It’s funny how quickly a person can go from freezing cold to burning up in this city. When Amelia called me this morning to say we had an impromptu lunch meeting with the on-fire online entrepreneur, I’d waited until Nathan had left for work to knock on Finn’s door.

  “You wore me out Sunday,” he teased, still half asleep. Two days later, my body was also still stiff. He passed me my brand new, navy Burberry coat, then kissed me. “Sorry for my morning breath,” he said, and I sighed, “I wish I cared.”

  “That’s why I picked you for this meeting,” Amelia is saying. “I don’t know when or where you got that coat, I’ve never seen it before, but you’re good at pulling things out of your ass right when we need them.”

  “I assure you, this did not come from my ass,” I say. We cross the indoor, warehouse-style food hall packed with gourmet eateries, curated gift shops, and bookstores. “Where are we meeting her?”

  “Friedman’s.”

  The rustic restaurant is small, with glass windows and a door that opens to the market. “There’s not a lot of space,” I say.

  “I know, but she insisted. She swears by their Reuben.”

  I’m quite sure Amelia hasn’t looked at bread in years, but I’m a regular consumer. “I’m surprised I haven’t been here,” I say. “I’m always on the lookout for good sandwich spots.”

  “I would’ve taken her to Cipriani, but word on the street is that she’s leaving her current firm because they’re too stuffy. So, this is me, going with the flow.” She looks around. We avoid the community tables and pick a four-top near the front. “Let’s set up. We have about ten minutes before she arrives.”

  We clear off empty cartons and balled up napkins. Thanks to the lunch crowd, it’s noisy and warm. Amelia pulls out a file. I’m about to sit when I do a double take at the counter. Nathan is in line waiting to order. He throws his head back and laughs. Bumping into my own husband is strange enough, so it takes me a moment to notice he isn’t alone.

  I shift my eyes to the woman next to him and recognize her immediately, even without her Quench Coffee apron and nametag. There’s no mistaking Gisele’s petite frame and long, black curls. Her youthful glow.

  Heat races from my chest to my neck and ears. The din of the crowd becomes excruciatingly loud, the overhead lights searing.

  “Sadie?” Amelia asks. “What’s wrong?”

  My hand is clenched around the back of the chair. Nathan is hard to miss. He’s tall, lean, with a full head of beautiful, brown hair. But this can’t be him. He hasn’t laughed like that in weeks.

  I tried to make him lunch this morning—I used to do it a few times a week before I was promoted—but his distracted “no thanks” felt like a slap in the face. Now, I understand. Why would he want his wife’s boring lunch when he could have the city’s best Reuben with adorable, perky Gisele?

  I’d convinced myself I was paranoid. But am I really one of those wives who chose denial over reality? It hits me that I never truly believed Nathan could cheat on me. It’s too out of character, even with his recent distance. But here’s my proof, right in front of my eyes. And I can’t ignore it anymore.

  “Excuse me a second,” I tell Amelia as I walk away from the table.

  “I thought we’d wait for Misty to order—” The ringing in my ears drowns her out. My eyes are lasered on Nathan’s back. He sticks his hands in his pockets like a smug bastard.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask as I approach.

  Nathan pauses a second, then looks back. His face brightens, but he shuts it down immediately. “Sadie.”

  Gisele turns around too. “Hey, Sadie. I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “I asked what you’re doing here,” I say to Nathan.

  He thins his lips, gesturing toward the register. “Getting lunch. What are you doing here?”

  “Meeting a client.” I wait. For what, I don’t know. A bumbling excuse? A confession? An outburst? This is new to me, but I know one thing—Nathan is a shit liar. It won’t be long before he breaks down. “You just randomly walked all the way here from work?” I accuse.

  “It’s only a few avenues. I come here all the time.”

  “That’s news to me,” I say.

  “I’ve told you about this place lots of times, Sadie,” he says. “I’ve tried to lure you to meet me here with sandwiches, remember?”

  “Bullshit.” The word sandwiches jumps out at me, but whether he’s actually mentioned this place before isn’t important. I turn on Gisele. “What about you?”

  She shifts her doe-brown eyes up to Nathan. “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong?”

  “No—”

  “Wrong?” I ask. I’ve known her almost a year. That’s almost a year she’s looked me in the eye each morning and smiled as if we were friends. “Answer my question. Why are you here?”

  “Sadie,” Nathan scolds, shocked.

  “Well, I’m not really supposed to tell,” Gisele says, hedging. As if she recognizes I’m about to explode, she talks faster. “They’re trying to keep it a secret until we know more, but we’re looking to open a second location here in Chelsea Market. You wouldn’t believe the foot traffic this place gets.”

  I purse my lips. Convenient. She’s made that up on the spot and has the audacity to stare up at Nate as if he’s going to come to her rescue. As if he has all the answers. My blood boils at the way she innocently draws her eyebrows. I should win a medal for not wringing her neck. “How opportune. So you just happen to be here, walking around?”

  “Kind of.” By her hesitation, she’s choosing her words carefully. “I mean, the owner and I just met with the property manager about a space a few doors
down. I decided to stay for lunch and ran into Nathan. He let me cut in line.”

  “That’s true,” gruffs an old man behind them. “She cut.”

  I return my glare to Nathan, who’s looking at me like I’m a science project he can’t figure out, and shake my head. “Liar.”

  The area immediately around us gets quiet. Slowly, he narrows his eyes. “Excuse me?”

  We stare each other down. Neither of us speaks. My heart beats everywhere—in my ears, my throat, my stomach. “You heard me,” I say, “you fucking liar. I’ve been tiptoeing around, trying to play nice for you, giving you the benefit of the doubt. But all this time—months—” My throat locks up, strangling my words. I can barely get them out. “I was right.”

  “Right about what?” he asks.

  “You’re having an affair—”

  “Oh, no!” Gisele gasps as her chin wobbles. “No, no, no. Sadie, you have it all wrong. I swear.”

  Nathan’s mouth is as wide open as his brown eyes. He doesn’t even blink.

  “You must think I’m an idiot,” I say, not bothering to hide the anger in my voice. “That I had no clue what was going on. Well, I’ve been onto you for weeks, Nate. At first, I thought it was Joan—”

  Nathan takes my arm roughly. I go immediately silent, surprised by his grip. “Excuse us, Gisele,” he says. “And I have to apologize for my wife. I am so sorry about this.” He pulls me out of the line, over to a corner that’s marginally more private, and loosens his hand but continues to hold me. “What is the matter with you?” he asks. “Joan?”

  “I thought she was the one,” I say, shaking my head. “Maybe she is. Is she? Is there more than one woman?”

  He barks out a short, surprised laugh. “You need to calm down. You’re making a scene for no reason.”

  “No reason?” I try to wiggle loose, but he won’t let me. Gisele rushes by us in a flurry of black ringlets, her head down. “This explains so much about the past few months,” I say loudly enough for her to hear. “Why even put me through this? Why not just cut me loose?”

  Nathan’s eyes go round, and he turns sheet-white—as, likely, do I, because blood drains from my face. This is it. I can see his realization that he’s been caught. This is really happening. “Wait,” he says. “You seriously think I’m having an affair? Like seriously?”

  “How many?” I ask quietly.

  “How many . . .?” He closes his mouth and swallows hard. “There’s only you, Sadie. How could you possibly think I would . . . that I could even touch another . . .?”

  I close my eyes. Even if he deserves it, I don’t like the pain in his face. “I know about the lipstick on your tie.”

  He releases me, and I look at him again. “What lipstick?” he asks, pinching his eyebrows together.

  “After bowling practice a couple weeks ago.” I can’t help picturing the deep red smear, and it spurs me forward. “I was going through the laundry, and I saw it.”

  “Saw what? Lipstick? On my tie?”

  I’m growing tired of this back-and-forth, of feeling like I have to watch where I step and plan my maneuvers. Finn was right. Nathan is playing games, and it has to end here. If he doesn’t stop, he’ll push me right into Finn’s arms. “This isn’t a game, Nate,” I say, steadying my voice. “I don’t deserve this.”

  “Game? You think all this has been a game?”

  “Whose lipstick was it?”

  He slow-blinks. “I don’t know—it was probably ketchup. I eat a lot of fries when we play. Nine times out of ten, I spill on myself.”

  “Ketchup,” I repeat without inflection. Red and sticky, it’s a handy excuse, but I’m not buying it. “What about the other night when you came back from the hospital smelling like a bar?”

  He scoffs. His unfamiliar disdain makes me feel even further from him. “You’re accusing me of lying about visiting my sick dad?”

  When he says it out loud, it sounds so unlike something Nathan would do, I have to pause. I put the brakes on my rage and think. Nathan would never lie where his dad’s health is concerned, and I should know that. But it can’t all boil down to something as stupid as ketchup. “Well, I’m right,” I say, lowering my voice, “aren’t I?”

  Nathan gets very still and quiet. There’s depth in his eyes I haven’t seen since he broke the news to me his dad was dying. With just a glance, he has the power to inspire a wave of doubt in me. My legs, and my resolution, waver. “Aren’t I?” I repeat.

  “You mean to tell me,” he says softly, “for the last few weeks, you thought I was having an affair—and you said and did nothing? You waited, hoping to catch me in a lie?”

  I open my mouth and pause. “Well, no,” I say. Unlike my palms, which have begun to feel sticky, my throat dries up. “I didn’t have actual proof or anything. And I didn’t ‘do nothing.’ I tried talking to you so many times—”

  He shakes his head hard. “Not about this you didn’t. I wouldn’t have ignored an accusation this serious.”

  “How was I supposed to know you’d listen?” I ask. “Every time I’ve tried, you shut down.”

  “It shouldn’t even be a question,” he says cuttingly. “You should know I would never do that. Ever.”

  I take a breath and step back. The truth is, if I’d really believed Nathan had betrayed me, I would’ve said something sooner. I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself from finding out the truth, because until recently, we’ve always had honesty. “I hoped I was wrong—”

  “You are wrong.” I feel people’s eyes on us, but I can’t look away from him. “Jesus Christ, Sadie,” he says, running a hand through his hair and messing it up. “I had no idea our marriage was this weak. So this is where we end up when things get tough?”

  “Things haven’t just gotten tough—you disappeared on me,” I shoot back, but my resolve falters. Nathan’s no actor. I can tell by his reaction that I’m wrong. Dead wrong. By a thousand miles, ketchup makes more sense to me than Joan. We’ve been together in Gisele’s presence more times than I can count, and never once did I suspect anything. Because it wasn’t there. “It’s been two-and-a-half months of this. Is it so unreasonable I would jump to this conclusion?”

  He frowns. “To me, it is. After seven years, I’d hope you know my character better. What have I not given you during this marriage?” he asks. “I live where you want. I do what you say. It’s exhausting, but I do it because I love you more than myself. I’m not saying things haven’t been difficult these past few months, but that love doesn’t just go away. My character doesn’t change.”

  I look up at him and try to see myself through his eyes. He’s always bent over backward for me, and maybe I don’t always thank him or return the favor as I should, but I thought it made him happy to treat me that way. I thought I made him happy. But if I was self-centered over the years, it was because Nathan’s world revolved around me like I was the sun. I didn’t ask for that. “I’ve never made you do anything against your will. I’ve always told you, if you’re unhappy—”

  “I’m free to go,” he finishes wryly. “Right? I just need to say the word?”

  His words resonate with a physical pang in my chest. He thinks I don’t care enough to fight for us. And based on my short history with Finn, maybe Nathan’s right.

  He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I have to get back to the office.”

  “What about lunch?”

  He gives me a look that conveys his lack of appetite and turns away. “I’ll see you at home.”

  Amelia comes to my side. “Sadie. What the hell was that?”

  I stick my hands under my armpits to stop their trembling, but instead, it spreads to my shoulders, my torso, my legs. I’ve made a serious and wrong accusation about something I’m guilty of. I hope Nathan understands I was driven to this conclusion by the depth of hurt his distance has caused.

  Amelia squeezes my bicep. “That was brutal, but right now, you need to get it together or excuse yourself.”

 
My vision clears. Misty Burroughs is standing at our table with her arms crossed, and her lips thinned into a line.

  I swallow down the last few minutes and walk directly to Misty, who’s an embarrassingly short distance from me. “Miss Burroughs. I am so, so . . . sorry—and mortified.”

  “What was that?” she asks.

  I bite my bottom lip with a belated and unexpected wave of tears. That was my marriage bottoming out. I expect a complete reaming out from Amelia later, even though she stands quietly by my side now.

  “It was personal business she should’ve taken somewhere else, right?” Amelia answers for me.

  I inhale through my nose and nod, afraid I’ll cry if I try to speak. I’m a second from wiping my eye with my sleeve when Misty jumps to catch my wrist. “Honey, no man is worth mascara stains on Burberry.”

  I pause. The three of us laugh stiffly and awkwardly, but it breaks the tension a little.

  “So your husband’s cheating,” Misty says with a shrug. “Fuck him.”

  Amelia smiles, relief clear on her face. “He blindsided her just now.”

  My instinct is to defend Nathan, but I don’t. It won’t help the situation. “This is very unprofessional,” I say and apologize again. “I assure you, this is a first for me—and it shouldn’t reflect on the firm.”

  Misty pulls out a chair and sits. “Look. I’m not married, but my sister’s husband did a number on her. When I call and tell her about this, because you bet your ass I will, she’ll cheer for the way you confronted him. So, why don’t you go compose yourself, and we’ll get on with this meeting.”

  “Of course,” I say. “Thank you, Miss Burr—”

  “Nope.” She stops me with a hand in the air. “It’s just Misty.”

  “Thanks, Misty.” I excuse myself and find public bathrooms in the middle of the market. Of course, there’s a line. I skip it and go inside to check my mascara, which is really an excuse to stop and take some deep breaths. I can’t cry a single tear in this meeting. Misty seems patient, but she’s also a businesswoman. She won’t put up with this.