by Nicola Marsh
I’m trying my best to befriend her. I know I’m prickly with almost everyone and don’t make friends easily and I get the feeling she’s the same. We’re dancing around each other, afraid of revealing too much. But I’m willing to take a chance because of my daughter, why can’t she?
I can’t hear what they’re saying through the closed glass door but I see Frankie jab Andre in the chest with a finger. She’s gesticulating wildly with her other hand and he takes a step back, shaking his head.
That’s when I spy Luna. She’s tucked in a corner of the kitchen, her face and palms pressed against the glass, watching her parents argue. I hear a muffled sob and my heart constricts. No child likes seeing their parents fight and at her age it’s even scarier. Young kids don’t have the insight to understand arguments are as natural a part of marriage as divvying up duties like taking out the trash and toilet cleaning.
She should’ve been upstairs with Vi, watching a movie. The last time I’d checked on them they’d been on the verge of falling asleep but something has drawn Luna downstairs. A window is probably open upstairs and the sound of her parents’ angry voices might’ve drifted up.
Whatever it is, I need to distract her. I approach carefully, not wanting to startle her, especially when she’s upset.
“Luna, I have a surprise for you.”
She turns and her tear-stained cheeks break my heart. “Mommy and Daddy are angry.”
I squat to her level so we’re eye to eye. “That happens sometimes. It doesn’t mean they don’t love each other and love you.”
She doesn’t look convinced so I continue. “Have you ever been mad at a friend in ballet class?”
She nods, her eyes wide and solemn.
“Yet you’re still friends, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s what an argument with grown-ups is like. We may say angry stuff but we still like each other.”
Not always. I’d said some angry stuff to Roland I can never retract. I’ve taken Vi away from her father, ensuring he’ll never come near us again, and that’s a guilty secret I’ll have to live with every single day.
“I guess that makes sense.” Her shoulders lift in a little shrug. “I know I’m not supposed to be down here but Violette fell asleep and I’m hungry.”
“Well, that’s part of the surprise I mentioned. I know you like strawberries, but do you like cream?”
“Yeah, they taste good together.”
“They do. How would you like a bowl now?”
An adorable frown crinkles her brow. “But Mom says I shouldn’t have snacks after nine o’clock.”
It’s not my place to be mad at Frankie but I am. For putting Andre through that ridiculous display at the dinner table earlier and for making her daughter cry inadvertently now.
“Just this once, okay? It’ll be our secret.”
Finally, her eyes light with mischief rather than sadness. “Okay.”
“How about you sit on one of those stools at the island bench and I’ll get it for you?”
She does as she’s told and I place some of the strawberries Saylor used to decorate the cheesecake into a bowl, and swirl whipped cream over the top. When I stick a spoon in the bowl and place it in front of Luna, she looks more like the young girl I’ve seen on previous occasions, her face alight with excitement.
“This looks so good,” she says, a moment before ignoring the spoon in favor of using her fingers to swipe a strawberry through the cream and popping it into her mouth. “Mmm… yum…”
I laugh at her ecstatic expression. Vi eats well but it requires a lot of coaxing and bribing on my part. I’ve never seen my daughter enjoy food the way Luna is.
“What are the grown-ups doing?” Luna asks, picking up another strawberry.
“Talking at the dining table.”
“Have they finished eating?”
“Yes.”
We finished dessert ten minutes ago and I can’t wait to leave. I’m not sure why Saylor hosted this intimate dinner party. She seemed on edge and I caught her casting Frankie several malevolent glares when Ruston had been flirting with her, almost like she’d been jealous.
I can’t figure this group out. Saylor should be mad for Lloyd, the father of her child. She should be focused on her pregnancy, not coveting another man. Instead, I get the feeling she has a thing for Ruston, who talked at length about his career as a model and I found him quite boring and self-absorbed. Lloyd is the quintessential nice guy; a man easily duped if his partner is so inclined and I definitely have my suspicions about Saylor. As for Frankie and Andre, I think they’re happy but tonight casts doubt on that.
I enjoyed talking to him and for a scandalous second, while we discovered our mutual love for sitcom reruns, I allowed myself to wonder what it would be like to have him in my life, a man to be a full-time father to Vi, a man to depend on.
It had been a fleeting thought and one I can’t encourage but the warmth of sitting next to a man like him, of having him pay me attention, still lingers and a small part of me is happy he’s fighting with his wife.
The whole evening has been fraught with an underlying tension I can’t define and don’t want to. I’ll make nice with these people for Vi’s sake but it’s best I don’t get too close to any of them. I never know when I’ll have to leave in a hurry again.
I’ve drifted off with my thoughts so when I refocus, Luna is licking the bowl clean. I stifle a smile. “Does your mom allow you to do that?”
She puts the bowl down, guilty yet gleeful. “No. She says it’s bad manners.”
“It is.” I see her stiffen in fear so I add, “But I won’t tell.”
She smiles and slides off the stool. “You’re nice.”
“You’re nice too,” I say, surprised when she comes around the counter and opens her arms for a hug.
As I envelop her in my arms, I’m struck by how perfect this is. I want Vi and Luna to be close and now this sweet girl trusts me.
Thirty-Nine
Saylor
Despite his initial reluctance to host the dinner party, Lloyd is the only person who actually had a good time tonight. Celeste appeared bored, except when chatting with Andre. Frankie drank too much and ended up making a fool of herself with Ruston, and he’d played up to her like an idiot. And I’d hated having to watch the whole thing unfold.
I wanted one guest in particular to feel hassled, that I can reveal their secret at any moment if they don’t pay up, and I’m not going anywhere until they do. I’d watched for signs during the evening, to see if they appeared uncomfortable. But their acting ability is on par with mine and I saw nothing. Though I sensed a general tension in the group, so I’ve done the right thing getting us all together. The more pressured that person feels, the better.
I’ve set this in motion. It will escalate. And I’ll either get everything I want or the entire thing will blow up in my face and I’ll be left with nothing.
If this stupid plan of mine goes pear-shaped, I’ll lose my family. My parents will never speak to me again. We may not be close these days but I respect them. They’re good people and don’t deserve to have their world come crashing down courtesy of a daughter who lost her mind for a few hours and made a monumental mistake.
“Everything okay?” Andre comes up beside me as I watch Ruston stalk across the park toward his place, a small part of me wishing I could run after him and demand he listen.
“Yeah, just tired.”
“I’m waiting for Luna. She’s in the bathroom.”
“Sure.”
Our conversation is stilted. We barely know each other. And no amount of dinner parties is going to change that. We have nothing in common.
“You and Celeste seem to get on well.”
“She’s nice,” he says, with a noncommittal shrug. “Good conversationalist. Easy to talk to.”
“Not sure if your wife approves.”
His expression hardens. “Frankie’s drunk. She’s probably passed o
ut on our bed right now.”
From what I’d seen, it looked like Frankie had a good time. Considering we haven’t lived in Vintage Circle long I don’t know her that well. But every time I’ve seen her she seems tightly wound, like she’s doing her utmost to pretend everything is fine when it’s not.
If anyone knows the pressure that comes with perfection, I do. Growing up, I had to ensure my skirts were never too far above my knees and my V-necks didn’t dip too low in the front. I couldn’t wear too much make-up and my jewelry remained modest, tiny silver stud earrings and a delicate cross necklace.
I’d flown under the radar at school too, trying my best to get good grades, pleasant to everyone so I didn’t get singled out by the cliques, never smoking or drinking in public where I could get caught.
Ironic, that the one night I cut loose all these years later is the one night that can unravel it all.
“I don’t know Frankie well, but is she usually that flirtatious when she drinks?”
“No, because she rarely drinks, and if she does she’s funny,” he mutters, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “I’ve never seen her like that before.”
“You weren’t impressed.”
“I was fine with it.” His reply is aggressive, snappy.
I hold up my hands. “Hey, no need to bite my head off.”
He grimaces. “Sorry…”
“Maybe give your wife a break? She’s drunk. We’ve all been there.”
He scowls, and I have no intention of delving into his marriage, so I try to deflect. “Are you sure you’re not jealous?”
“Ruston is an asshole.”
There’s no heat in his response and he’s just grouchy after an argument with his wife. What annoys me is my instantaneous reaction to defend Ruston, when in reality Andre’s right. If anyone knows I do.
“Does Frankie know the three of us worked together on that advertising campaign?”
He glares at me, his brow furrowed. “No, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
If anyone knows about keeping secrets, I do. I have no intention of divulging to anyone how Ruston, Andre and I know each other. Besides, I understand his reticence. I know too much about the last time we all worked together.
“You should go,” I say, my tone devoid of emotion, but my accusatory gaze pinning him until he practically squirms.
“I will, once Luna’s done.” He takes his hands out of his pockets, only to fold his arms, stiff and defensive. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Saylor, but I’m over the whole neighborly-buddy act, okay?”
I can say so much. I can ruin him. Instead, I force a sincere smile and shrug. “Okay.”
He glowers at me a moment longer before heading back inside to get his daughter. He’s rattled. I glimpsed a flicker of fear in his eyes before he stormed off.
But he’s not the only one floundering and I need to double my efforts to get what I want.
Forty
Frankie
THEN
I feel so guilty for sleeping with Walter I have to forgive Andre. Waking next to Walter, the sheet draped across his torso, hiding the scratch marks I made in desperation to lose myself for a few hours, rams home my guilt. I’m not this person. I shouldn’t have used Walter no matter how furious I am with Andre. And now that I’ve cheated, I’m no better than him.
Shame makes me ease out of bed, careful not to wake him. I dress in record time and take a walk on the beach to clear my head, my regret overwhelming. I can’t believe I had sex with another man while married. I hate it. Self-loathing fills me and I break into a jog, trying to outrun my mistakes and failing.
I never should’ve sought comfort with Walt. It’s wrong on so many levels. I’m mortified that I’m my parents’ daughter after all, that I use morality for my own whims.
Walter and I part ways a few hours later. He isn’t angry or resentful. Instead, he wishes me well in true Walter fashion and says to stay in touch.
With him gone, I stay on at the cottage for another two days before heading home to Manhattan. Andre welcomes me with open arms and I contemplate telling him about my indiscretion for all of two seconds before deciding to keep it a secret. Because I know my husband. He’s inherently selfish and will make our problems all about me rather than him. He’ll pass the buck, expecting me to shoulder the blame…
Not that I’m justifying my shoddy behavior. I never should’ve slept with Walter but it’s one of those things, two old friends seeking solace that is a one-off and never to be repeated.
After I return home, I sleep with Andre on my second night back. I need to forget my mistake with Walt and reclaim my marriage. I expect it to be fraught, tense, but we’re as compatible as ever and as the weeks proceed, we learn to be a better couple. I embrace hope and forgiveness, determined to move forward. We do couples therapy where we’re both as honest as can be. He admits to growing complacent in our relationship and taking me for granted, but rather than blame me he understands he could make an effort to spend more quality time together. He doesn’t take on as many freelance jobs that require travel and I spend more time with him, like we did in the first heady days when we met. In front of the therapist, I’m honest about my hurt, how I can’t understand he can “grow complacent” and feel trapped after only eight months of marriage. My resentment spills out and the mature way he handles it, taking full responsibility, goes a long way to healing the rift in my heart.
We’re in a better place after therapy, a more honest place, and we’re determined to make a fresh start. We take long walks through Central Park, we eat at new restaurants, we spend every evening curled up on the sofa watching old movies before having the best sex of our lives. I’m happy. I think. I’m making the most of our situation because I’m right about one thing: I’m not getting divorced twice by the time I’m in my mid-twenties.
I’m curled on our couch, my legs tucked under me, trying to read. But I’ve skimmed the same paragraph five times, not absorbing a word, as I listen to Andre potter around the kitchen, so grateful we’re in a good place again.
I hear him slide the leftover takeout sushi we had for lunch into the fridge, before he joins me in the living room.
“What are you thinking about?” Andre sits beside me, rests his arm across my shoulder, and smooths a finger between my brows. “You get this cute little crinkle when you’re thinking.”
“Are you saying I’ve got a frown line?”
“No, but if you do too much thinking I’d be looking for a cosmetic surgeon soon.”
He chuckles and I whack him on his chest, which he clutches with mock outrage. “Hey, watch it, Fran, you pack a powerful punch.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
It’s a throwaway line, a funny comment, but with his infidelity lingering in the background it sounds like a threat and his laughter dies.
“We’re okay, you and me?”
He asks me this periodically, usually when I least expect it, showing me he cares by checking in. I think it’s sweet, but it also serves to underline we’ll always have this shadow hovering over us and I’ll never be able to fully trust him again.
Hypocritical, considering what I did, but for me it wasn’t about sex, it was about comfort, and I know by how crap I feel whenever I think about it I’ll never do it again.
“We’re okay,” I say, surprised when my stomach churns with a sudden wave of nausea.
The sushi from our favorite café didn’t agree with me last week either and as I make a dash for the toilet, I vow to forego it for a while.
“The sushi again, huh?”
“Yeah,” I manage to say, before I sink to my knees in front of the toilet and lose my dinner.
However, not eating sushi for a while is the least of my problems as my nausea escalates over the next week. I’m woozy in the mornings, the café lattes I guzzle lose their appeal, and I can’t stomach the prime sirloin Andre cooks to perfection.
When I throw up one night, my sneaking s
uspicion coalesces into a startling truth. I’m at the pharmacy first thing the next morning and home twenty minutes later, peeing on a stick.
As I sit on the toilet seat, waiting for the result, I’m not sure what I feel. Is having a baby so soon after Andre and I worked through his infidelity a smart choice or will it put an unexpected strain on our relationship?
Will he be happy having a child or will he see it as another sign of being trapped?
For me, I’m equal parts terrified and hopeful as I wait the requisite two minutes. When I glance at the tiny box and see two blue lines, I exhale the breath I’ve been inadvertently holding.
I’m pregnant.
Forty-One
Frankie
NOW
I’m mortified. I made a fool of myself at Saylor’s dinner party last night and to make matters worse, to cover my embarrassment I’d accused Andre of flirting with Celeste when I know that’s not true. We hadn’t waited to get home either; we’d gone at each other in Saylor’s backyard. We rarely argue. Sure, we have disagreements but nothing like the verbal bashing last night. The alcohol had made me irrational and his calmness had infuriated me. Then he’d had the audacity to laugh at my “pathetic attempts at flirting with a single guy” and I’d lost it.
So it’s okay for him to smile at every woman in the room and I can’t chat with a man? I know I’m useless at flirting because I never do it, which is why him calling me “pathetic” really rankled. Does that mean he’s an expert because he does it often when I’m not around? Does he flirt at work every chance he gets?
I forced myself to move past this jealousy when we finished therapy because it would have ruined us and we’ve been happy for the most part. But it’s times like this when the vast differences between our personalities are rammed home. Andre will always be the life of the party while I only come alive in front of a camera, perpetuating a giant sham.