Slip of the Tongue

by Jessica Hawkins

  A nurse answers. I ask if Ralph Hunt is still there. “He is,” she says after a few moments on hold. “But he’s asleep right now.”

  “So everything’s okay? There’s no emergency?”

  “Emergency? No. Although, he doesn’t seem to be responding well to his latest rounds of radiation.”

  I rub my eyebrow. “Yes, that I knew. I’m looking for my husband—his son, Nathan. I thought he might’ve stopped by after work. Do you know if he’s there?”

  “Ralph hasn’t had any visitors today.”

  I thank her and hang up. I can’t enjoy my relief, because it doesn’t give me any resolution. I try his office, but nobody’s there. Feeling helpless, I go into the bedroom and reluctantly put on chunky socks. Nathan sees me all the time in loungewear, but I wanted to catch him off guard in our own home. But then, after another fifteen minutes of watching the candles burn down, I remove my socks to sit on the bathroom counter and change my toenail polish. I’m not sure what else to do. It isn’t like Nathan to disappear, but then again, is it? Last night gave me hope, but it wasn’t the breakthrough we needed by any means. Considering the way things were going before that, it was only a matter of time before he stopped communicating altogether.

  Was I right to worry when he turned away from me in bed? Did last night not mean to him what it did to me? After all, the night he called me a slut during sex, he went back to being a dick the next day. And after he came in my mouth in the doorway, he didn’t even wait until morning to blow me off.

  So I offended him at some point in our marriage—does that give him the right to treat me like this? To leave me waiting at home without so much as a phone call? I hop down from the counter and stride through the apartment. When I stub my toe on a chair, I smudge my pedicure and curse.

  With my third drink, wine sticks in my throat, turns my teeth blue. My lipstick has rubbed off onto the edge of the glass, but I don’t bother reapplying it. I call Nathan again. His phone is still off.

  The food is getting cold. I eat a few bites of salad before shoving the rest down the garbage disposal. Would he really have stayed at work this late? Or did he stop by the downstairs bar again? Where else could he be? I’m staring down the black drain when it hits me—and I can’t believe I didn’t realize it earlier. It’s Wednesday night, and that’s when Nathan bowls. Instead of relief, though, rage blazes through me like wildfire through brush. After last night, and considering the state of our marriage, he should know it’s not okay to skip dinner to be with his friends. And not only did he not tell me, but he turned off his phone.

  And I sat here like an idiot, worried about him.

  Painting my face, my nails, thinking it would make a difference.

  Wearing lingerie for him, going out of my way to get the flowers he likes, washing a blanket that was only dirty because he used it to sleep somewhere I wasn’t. I grip the counter until my knuckles are white. I’ve had enough of this. Enough walking on eggshells around him, enough pandering to his moods.

  Do I even know my own husband anymore? Brooklyn Bowl didn’t occur to me because I never would’ve guessed he’d choose it over working on our marriage. Over me. That isn’t the Nathan I married, but it’s the Nathan I have now. Maybe The Shining isn’t even his favorite book. Maybe he doesn’t care if I’m eating enough. Maybe he’s used up all his kindness, and he’s out there right now, laughing at me and my pathetic ribs.

  I wasted an entire day on cooking him dinner, and he doesn’t even have the decency to come home and eat it. For months, I’ve taken his bullshit and tried to make things right. For months, I’ve bitten my tongue.

  I whirl around, knocking over the plastic salad bowl and anything its path. I yank the oven open and pull out the food. I’m so livid, so embarrassed, I lift up the heavy baking sheet to smash it on the ground, but at the last second, I freeze. Food is how I show Nathan I love him—but he doesn’t want to eat what I make anymore? Fine. I know someone who does.

  With a cold, untouched rib dinner weighing in my arms, I bang on Finn’s door with the heel of my foot. It takes a minute until he answers, his hair disheveled, and his shirt halfway on. “Sadie?” He looks behind me and around the hall. “Jesus. What—”

  “You like barbecue ribs?” I shove the food between us. “Here, have it. It’s good. Or, at least, it was two hours ago when it was hot. I made it for Nathan, but you—” A storm of emotions catches up with me. Anger heats my face. A sense of loss makes my eyes wet. “But I thought you might appreciate it more.”

  “Sadie,” Finn says sadly and takes the sheet. He sets it on the entryway bench and wraps me in his arms. I burst into tears. All that time I spent on my makeup—pointless. All that time I spent in my marriage—wasted. Is this my fault? Did I let Nathan slip through my fingers, and if so, when did he get so far out of my reach? When did it become too late to bring him back? Did his love go away or, worse, did it turn into indifference?

  “Shh.” Finn lets me cry over my husband. He massages my back but doesn’t hear my hiss when he kneads the shoulder blade where Nathan bit me. “It’s okay,” he says. “These things happen.”

  I sniffle. When I’ve calmed a little, I look up at him. “What things?”

  With an amused look, he pinches his shirt and dabs under my nose.

  “Sorry.” I grimace. I’ve snotted and sobbed all over him.

  He’s smiling, though. “It starts small.” His expression sobers. “An anniversary forgotten or a water ring on the fancy coffee table. Then it escalates over a long time. Those little frustrations become maddening. Sometimes they explode, and sometimes they just . . . fade. You stop caring.”

  I look at the damp spot on his t-shirt. I don’t believe almost three months counts as a long time. Nathan’s personality changed overnight, without warning. But Finn only has his own experience as reference. “Is that what happened to you and Kendra?”

  He sighs. “We were always doomed, I guess. I’m the one who forgot dates or kept not doing what she asked me to, like use a coaster. Not on purpose. I just didn’t think about what made her happy. Kind of like Nathan doesn’t.”

  His words are eerily wrong, as if he accidentally swapped Nathan’s name with mine. Finn has only ever known Nathan as a neglectful husband, but I’m the one who forgets little things. I rarely throw out the coffee filter. I don’t buy body wash when we’re low. I eat the cherry off my sundaes first, while Nathan waits to offer his to me. That doesn’t mean I don’t think about what makes him happy, though. I show my love in other ways.

  “But I won’t be that to you,” Finn backtracks, reading my thoughts. “That has more to do with the dynamic of my relationship with Kendra than with the kind of husband I would be.”

  My attention snags on the confidence of his statement. “To me?”

  “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” His question is less demanding than suggestive. “Don’t come running to me when you’re upset if you don’t want my comfort. The best way I know how to make it better is to tell you how it can be if you choose me.”

  The elevator dings. My breath catches. It has to be Nathan. I wiggle in Finn’s arms, but he holds on tightly. “Ask me to let go,” he says. “Things will just go back to normal, and normal isn’t good enough for you.”

  I look up at him. Not only does he want me, not only does he want to love me, but I want him back. Against all odds. It’s rare to have found such a strong connection even once in my life, but have I found it again with Finn? I stop squirming.

  6D gets off the elevator. As he passes, he doesn’t hide the fact that he notices our embrace. He’s been in the building longer than any of us and knows this isn’t my husband.

  Finn ignores him. “Come inside,” he says when we’re alone again.

  “I don’t have anything.”

  “What do you need?”

  “For one, I’m barefoot.”

  “We have shoes in here.” He slips his arm around my shoulder. Instantly, I’m comforted, sa
fe, sheltered from the storm. My heartbeat calms. “Do you have your keys?”

  I open my palm. The teeth have made indents in my skin.

  He smiles. “What else is there? You haven’t eaten, have you?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Then come in, and let me feed you.”

  THIRTY

  Finn carries Nathan’s platter of cold ribs to the kitchen. At least the love I put into them won’t go to waste. Even though Finn has been in his apartment for weeks, there are still boxes on the floor. A couple cupboards sit open. I take it all in. “Finn, you’ve barely done anything since I was last here.”

  “I’m doing the best I can in a state of transition,” he says flatly, as if it’s rehearsed. He leaves the room and comes back with a pair of wool socks. “Sit.”

  One chair is stacked with photography manuals, a George Steinbrenner biography, and a DVD of The Secret Garden. Another is the new home of his record player, a box of Legos, and an army-green jacket. “Where?”

  He comes over, lifts me by my waist, and plops me on the kitchen counter.

  I giggle, and his face visibly brightens. He shoves a sock on my foot and bunches it over my ankle. It’s like slipping under the covers after a long, cold day, and I don’t even care if it ruins my nail polish. I realize I’m not sweating. “You fixed the radiator?”

  He winks at me. “This morning. I’ve been in heaven ever since. This is shaping up to be the best day of my life.”

  I can see it in his eyes—he’s temperate. Happy.

  He finishes pulling on the other sock. “There. It’s either that or my size twelve sneakers.”

  “That would be awkward.”

  “Yes. And this isn’t at all,” he says, grinning.

  “It’s sweet.” I put my arms around his neck and pull him in for a kiss. “Thank you.”

  “No problem, princess,” he says and goes back for the ribs. I’m grateful he walks away at that moment. I don’t think I can hide my once-sweet, now-depressing memory from showing on my face.

  “I’m no princess.”

  “Then I guess that makes you a pea.”

  Finn opens the microwave, but the platter is clearly too large for it. He looks at me helplessly. “Should we do half for now?”

  I roll my eyes, slide off the counter, and playfully push him out of the way. “I didn’t slave over dinner for hours just to zap it in the microwave.” I turn on the oven. “Needs a few minutes to warm up.”

  “Right.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I told you, the kitchen hates me.”

  “A kitchen is like a woman,” I say, leaning back against the counter. I don’t know where it comes from, so I make it up as I go. “You can’t just dive in and make a gourmet meal. It takes time to explore her, to learn what she keeps in which drawers, to play with seasoning and proportions.”

  He stands across the room. A smile slides over his face. “So, in this example, you’re the gourmet meal?”

  “No—” I’m about to explain it further, but I stop. He’s teasing me. “I’m just saying, don’t go around banging pots and pans.”

  He shrugs. “Sometimes pots and pans just want to bang. Then you bring a spatula into the mix—”

  “All right, I get it,” I say, laughing. “Do you even know which one the spatula is?”

  “Hmm.” He stalks toward me, and my legs falter. The laundry room memory comes back too quickly. He reaches around me, though, and then pulls back to show me his spatula. With smiles on our faces, we look from the utensil to each other. “This one, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Turn around.”

  “No. We need that to serve the food.”

  He doesn’t budge, his expression playful but determined.

  “Fine,” I say and turn to face the counter. “Be gent—”

  He smacks me on the ass, but it barely stings. I break into a fit of giggles.

  “Feel better?” he asks.

  I nod back at him, sincere. “Thank you. You really know how to cheer a girl up.”

  “Anytime. I mean that.” He winks. “Want a tour of the apartment?”

  Despite the fact that we’ve been intimate here, I realize I’ve never seen his bedroom. Just being here with Finn is making a decision, but I’m not sure I’m ready to dive in head first. “Okay . . . but—”

  “Just a tour,” he says, raising his palms. “Promise.”

  I nod, grateful he can read my mind. I stick the ribs in the oven and follow him out of the kitchen. He opens a door in a short hallway. I’m hit with a chalky, pungent smell. The tarped floor is littered with paint cans. One wall has a half-finished mural of horses. “Marissa wanted horses,” he explains.

  “You did that?” I ask. It’s by no means Michelangelo, but that doesn’t matter. It’s a father’s dedication to his daughter.

  “She sketched it with me. Some of her stuff is here. I was going to get the rest after Thanksgiving.”

  I rub my eyebrow. “But not anymore.”

  “The house is sold, so they have to move. But—I mean, obviously, I’ll help Kendra find . . .” He looks around the room a moment. “We haven’t worked out any details yet.”

  “Oh.” My gut smarts. I look into a box by the door. This is real. Frozen-coloring-book, Shopkins, fuzzy-pink-socks real.

  “Don’t,” he says, looking me over.

  “Don’t what?”

  “This would’ve happened eventually, Sadie. It’s not your fault.”

  I tuck some hair behind my ear. I was a little girl once with fucked-up parents. As I got older, I convinced myself it would’ve been better if my dad had just divorced my mom and put each of them out of their misery. “Should you maybe slow it down a little?” I ask. “Give Kendra some time to adjust to the idea?”

  He shakes his head. “She’ll convince herself I’ve changed my mind. That’s just the way she thinks. Would you want to be strung along?”

  If the last few months are any indication, I don’t do well with ambiguity in my relationship. “I guess not.”

  He shuts the door. “Not much to see in there. Or anywhere in this apartment, really.” The next room is just the standard eggshell-white. To the right of a desk, three canvas photographs are propped against a wall. “These are yours?” I ask, walking in.

  “I’m not pretentious enough to hang them,” he says, following, “but I’m not sure where to keep them.”

  The first photo is a sunny landscape shot of the steps in Union Square. A teenage boy is midair and blurry on his skateboard, flying off a railing. Other kids on boards surround him in various states of movement. A woman on a step has a sandwich in one hand and an e-reader in the other. The rest of the people in the photo are using a phone, watching the teens, or having conversations. Off to the right, a man in a folding chair is surrounded by artwork with price tags. Finn has precisely captured in detail a normal day in the park off Fourteenth Street.

  “This is my boss the day I quit,” he says, drawing my attention to the next photo. A gray-haired man has one hand steepled on his desk. He arches an eyebrow at the camera, his mouth set in a tense line, his face a topographic map of pockmarks and wrinkles.

  I glance at Finn. “You just . . . quit? And then took a picture?”

  “I want to remember that day forever,” he says. “I brought the camera into his office and snapped it without his permission. It’s not the best shot technically since I took it fast, but his expression says everything.”

  “He looks pissed. And annoyed.”

  “He was. About my exit and the photo. I thought he was going to break my camera, but instead, he just told me to get the fuck out.”

  “You weren’t scared to quit your job?” His ex-boss’s swanky office is stark white with sharp-cornered furniture and a view of the river. He has an entire shelf of awards.

  “It was more adrenaline than fear.”

  “Why’d you do it?”

  He doesn’t answer. I look back at him
. “Just needed a change,” he says.

  “You’ve made a lot of changes lately.”

  He shrugs. “Kendra likes to point that out. I’m working on myself. I don’t get why it’s a problem.”

  “I guess when you’re responsible for a young family—”

  “I’ve never let them down,” he says. “Not financially. The kind of money I was making, I was able to save a lot. I didn’t buy into material shit like my colleagues did.” He makes a point of looking around the nearly empty room. There are two boxes labeled equipment and office. “As you can see.”

  Our eyes drift to the last picture of coffee grounds piled and scattered on a familiar-looking tile floor. “Was that here?”

  “Yeah.” He grins. “Evidence of my kitchen klutziness. Kendra usually makes the coffee.”

  “So does Nathan. Even the mornings he isn’t having any, he brews it and puts a mug out for me.” Aside from the fact that each photo makes me feel something, there’s no discernable connection between any of them. There’s a stack of 4x6 prints on the desk. The top is a Terrier leashed to a park bench. The rest stick out the sides—a wrinkled finger, a rusted bike chain, a rose petal.

  I realize Finn’s been quiet for a while. “Sorry,” I say, realizing my last comment about Nathan. “I shouldn’t share so much.”

  “Why not?” he asks.

  “It’s weird.”

  “This is all weird. If we can’t talk about that stuff, it’ll do more harm than good to our relationship.”

  “That’s mature,” I remark.

  “But it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  It’d be a relief not to edit myself. I nod. “It makes sense.”

  He comes over and wraps me in a sideways hug. “I want you to feel comfortable enough to talk about what you’re feeling. Even if it’s hard at first. I understand love doesn’t vanish overnight.”

  “Do you still love Kendra?”

  “I meant you and Nathan.”

  “I know.” I blink. Even if it makes me a little uncomfortable, I don’t think I want him to stop loving her all of a sudden. It shouldn’t be that way when you’ve been with someone so long. “Do you, though?”