The Social Affair

by Britney King

  I mimic his shrug. “Be with me.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Nothing is.” He appreciates the truth.

  “I need to know I can trust you.”

  I don’t know what he wants from me. He loves me. He loves me not. “Of course, you can.”

  “Do you want children Isobel?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. My voice comes out shrill. I hate the way it gives me away when I lie. “I haven’t given it much thought…”

  “I need you to,” he tells me earnestly. “I also need you to think about how far you’re willing to go for love—for us.”

  “I think if we just talk to her—if we just tell her the truth—she’ll understand. It’s not like we meant for this to happen.”

  “You don’t know Josie.”

  I don’t know what he means by this. But I know enough to know she has a lifestyle I’d want to hang onto if I were in her shoes. Literally.

  “She’ll never let me go that easy.” He presses his lips together. “She’ll never let me off the hook.”

  “What do we do?”

  He doesn’t answer immediately. I can see the wheels turning. “You leave that to me,” he says when I reach for his hand. He doesn’t pull away. “For now— I want to make love to you one last time.”

  I climb in the backseat. He follows. He’s soft and tender and desperate and so full of shit.

  I cry afterward. It takes a lot. But I manage. “This can’t be our last time.”

  Grant wipes the tears from my eyes. “Then let’s do something crazy.”

  “Like run away together?” I ask buttoning my jeans. I realize afterward how stupid this sounds and I wish I could take it back.

  He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Something else.”

  I raise my brow and wait for him to tell me more. “Can I trust you Isobel?”

  “I told you, you could,” I scoff. This is getting annoying. I hate needy men. “I’ve said it a million times.”

  He narrows his gaze. “Good,” he says. “Now, I’m going to have to ask you to prove it to me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Josie

  “I’d like an Americano, please,” I say. I stumble on the last word. She doesn’t deserve niceties. Old habits die hard. She nods in confirmation and I can see in her expression, she knows I know. How strange to know that someone you’re so close to can have a life without you. I wonder what he’s told her about me. I shouldn’t wonder these things. At this point, it’s futile.

  “How long have you been sleeping with my husband?” I ask. She knows the answer, of course. I can see by the way she chews at her lip. I’d be willing to bet she knows right down to the minute. Grant has that way about him. Even now, even after everything, I still get it. Five weeks, three days, and two hours? Longer?

  Finally, she shrugs. She’s not very good at being direct. I bet my husband likes that.

  I study her carefully, wondering what else he likes that I’ve missed. “You don’t think I deserve the dignity of an answer?”

  This time she doesn’t just chew at her lip. She bites. Hard. It starts to bleed a little. She licks it away. “A few weeks.”

  She hands me my coffee. “Can we talk?” I ask motioning toward a table.

  “We’re kind of busy,” she says.

  “Not that busy.” I made sure to come at the appropriate time. I didn’t want to be completely alone. But I didn’t want her to be too swamped, either.

  She shrugs again. “Okay.” She goes into the back and returns with an older woman. The two of them speak briefly. I watch as the older woman takes over, and then I take a seat at an empty table in the corner. I wonder how many times Grant has been here. Did he tell her about the sandwich incident? Did they have a good laugh at my expense? Was it his way of making sure there was enough distance between his mistress and myself or was it just his usual shenanigans? I don’t know. Maybe I never will.

  Izzy slides the chair out from the table and drags it across the floor. She wants me to think she’s doing me a favor.

  I don’t waste any time. I’ve done enough of that. “My husband isn’t the man you think he is,” I pause to blow on my coffee. “But then, I don’t know what you think. I can only guess.”

  She glances down at the table. She folds her hands and puts them in her lap. She unfolds them and rubs her palms on her knees. She’s fidgeting. But also bracing herself. She expects me to be angry, probably even to hurl my coffee in her face. I surprise her when I offer a smile instead.

  “I know it’s wrong—I know what I’ve—what we’ve done is wrong. But we didn’t mean—”

  Guilt is a powerful thing.

  “I love him—” She just puts it out there just like that.

  “Don’t—” I say, cutting her off. I place my coffee on the table. “Like I said. You don’t know him.”

  She tilts her head. She wants a challenge, when she’s already entered the ring. “I know enough.”

  I don’t respond. Not at first. I wait until she doesn’t think I’m going to. Meanwhile, I nurse my Americano and stare out the window. I could cry. But I won’t. Still, even dry-eyed, I need to make it uncomfortable for her. It’s the least I can do seeing the way she’s made my life suddenly uninhabitable.

  I watch people outside coming and going. People oblivious to the fact that while they’re nonchalantly going about their simple business, I’m in here dealing with the worst kind. Betrayal. It’s hard to see it coming. Not because you trust the other person. But because you so desperately wanted to. I think about how Grant and I stopped here after seeing June. It seems like a lifetime ago. In reality it wasn’t. I think about posting a shot of my coffee on Instalook: It all started with an Americano. Or: Coffee with my husband’s mistress. It’s a new day.

  Instead, I turn and meet her gaze. “I was like you once,” I confess. “Naive. Hopeful. A fool.”

  She furrows her brow. “I’m not that green.”

  I can’t help myself. I choke on nothing. Or maybe it’s not nothing. Maybe it’s the bitterness that’s been there all along creeping toward the surface. “No?” I hear myself say. “What did you think? That my husband is going to leave me for you?” I motion around the place. “For what? For a waitress in a coffee shop only slightly older than his own daughter?”

  “He wants to be with me, Josie.” She says it matter of factly. Like it’s either true or she’s rehearsed it. Either way, my name sounds strange coming from her lips. Her eyes flicker. She looks like she wants to crawl under the table. Like she wants to hide, like she’s just spoken a secret into existence and has just realized she can’t reel it back. She drops her voice to match her eyes. “He’s scared, though,” she continues. “He’s afraid of you.”

  My eyes grow wide. “Did Grant tell you this himself? Or is it another of your childish inferences?”

  “No. I mean yes.” She backtracks. “He said you’d take everything.”

  I laugh and it isn’t the laugh of a woman who has it all together. It’s maniacal, animalistic. “If you believe that—then I was right. You don’t know my husband at all.”

  There’s a difference in thinking of doing something terrible and actually doing it. But as it turns out, it’s a very thin line indeed. What I’m still in the process of deciding is at which point you go from one side to the other. Is it possible to cross it before you realize? At which point can you still turn back?

  I should have known coming to this side of town would be trouble. Of course, my husband should’ve known, too. He told me he had to work late. That’s what they always say. Now—not only do I have a deceptive husband— I have a gun on my hands. A gun I won’t know how to explain.

  There are lots of scenarios in life that have rules. Playbooks. Like if this happens, you do that. If X, then Y and Z. But where’s the playbook for having a philandering husband and a loaded gun that isn’t yours? If I call the cops and tell them I was just almost robbed at gunpoint,
then what? That’s the problem these days. Everyone’s trying to take what’s not theirs to take. Surely, they will want a statement. They will want to know why I was here. If I explain that I wanted to see them together, that I had to see it for myself, will they think I’m crazy? A scorned wife looking for attention? Because I have to be honest, that’s what I would think.

  On the other hand, if they give me the benefit of the doubt, will they take me downtown for questioning? Will there be lineups? I have a lot on my plate right now and that sounds time consuming. Somehow I don’t think telling the cops I’m not sure how I’ll fit it all in is going to fly. Alternatively, what will I say to my husband when he realizes I was spying on him? What will I say when everyone wants to know why I was on this side of town? People want details. That’s the best part of any story. Certainly, it would be the punch line in this one.

  My husband would know what to say. I’m not as good a liar as he is. That’s why I’m in this mess.

  I text my husband. ‘Have you eaten?’

  Of course, he’s eaten.

  He texts back almost immediately. This confirms my suspicion. Whatever he feels for her, it’s more than just sex. Otherwise, he’d be in and out. My husband’s profession has trained him for this. Every minute spent is a dollar wasted somewhere else.

  I read his response: Swamped here with charts. I’ll pick something up.

  Chlamydia. Gonorrhea. Herpes. A bastard child. I turn the gun over in my hands. It’s heavier than I thought it would be. I reach over into the passenger seat and use my scarf to wipe my prints. I have no idea if this even works. I’ve seen it in the movies.

  What are you going to do, Josie? Make your move. If this were a game of chess, and isn’t all of life, then I’d have to be patient. Chess matches are usually won via a mixture of patience and the ability to predict your opponent’s next move.

  I need to know my husband’s next move. That’s why I came. But now that I’m here, I’m not sure I want to know. I picture the two of them together. I think of her in our home. A protective instinct ignites inside me.

  My mind flashes to the lilies in the coffee shop. I could be sick. You’re a fool. Everyone knew. Everyone but you. Something in me shifts. I’ve covered up bruises for years. Bruises are easy to conceal. Another woman, this kind of betrayal, is different. It can’t be hidden with a little makeup. I will not be made a fool of. I have a decision to make.

  Just then something shifts in my periphery. My husband comes bounding down the stairs. He isn’t supposed to look happy. But he does. He’s supposed to look paranoid, guilty, if nothing else. He’s light on his feet. I wonder if he’s making up his lie with each step toward our side of town. Or if he has it down already. I wonder what he’ll say when he sees my face. I wonder if he’ll pick a fight. Ask me to step on the scale. I wonder what offense he’ll come up with this time in order to shift the focus from his own transgressions. I wonder how many times he’s asked me for a blow job when he’s already been inside her. I pick up the gun, wrap it in my scarf and stuff it in my purse. It’s not like I can just dump it. That would be irresponsible. Plus, it’s nice to have a secret of my own.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Izzy

  “Relax,” Tyler tells me. He plops down on my couch and lets his head rest against the wall. Eventually, his eyes fall to half-mast. “You’re too wound up.”

  I walk the length of my small apartment and back again. “How could this happen?”

  “Like I told you—” His eyes are all the way closed.

  “Just tell me again you’re sure she didn't see your face.”

  He sits up and pulls his pipe from his jacket pocket. I watch as he lights it up. He takes a hit and then meets my gaze directly. “You need to chill.”

  I scroll through Instalook. She hasn’t posted today. I feel sick.

  “Relax,” he tells me again. He takes another hit. I stare at my phone, rereading Grant’s texts. Sometimes I just like to see his name on the screen. I want to text him now but I’m afraid. It would be an admission of my failure, and I’m not ready to concede. An image of his face in my bed flickers in my mind.

  Tyler brushes his palms across his thighs like he’s just getting warmed up. He places his pipe on the coffee table and relaxes into my couch. I want to punch him. “She didn't see my face.”

  I should have known better than to ask him. I really should have. “Jesus. Tyler,” I exhale loudly. “I told you there was a lot riding on this.”

  He motions toward the pipe and then kicks his feet up. I won’t smoke dope at a time like this. Something horrible has happened, and I feel justifiably terrible.

  “But I don't know, Iz.” His mouth stretches into a thin line. “That bitch…the way she took the gun…I'd be careful if I were you. She seems a bit off her rocker.”

  I perch on the edge of the couch. “I still don't understand how she got the gun.”

  “You told me not to kill her.” He throws his hands in the air. His tone is not apologetic. “You said you just wanted me to scare her.” He gestures widely. “What was I supposed to do? Tackle her for it?”

  “I don't know,” I admit. “This is a nightmare.”

  He cocks his head. “Where's my money? I'm going to eat now that I'm going to have to buy Big Sean a new piece.”

  “Big Sean? Seriously? What kind of name is that?” Suddenly, I get the urge to get high. I need something to take the edge off.

  He shrugs. “He's a big guy—one that I'm going to have to buy a new gun— otherwise it'll be me who ends up swimming with the fishes.”

  I roll my eyes. “Maybe I should’ve just gotten Big Sean to do the job.”

  He looks away dismissing me. “What was she doing around your place anyway? That’s not how it was supposed to go down.”

  “I don't know. Her husband was here, I guess she followed.”

  Tyler stands. He’s getting antsy. He’s probably going to ask for a fuck. “See— like I said— crazy— now where is my money?”

  “Don't worry, you'll get your money.”

  “You don't have it, do you?”

  “He doesn't want to pay people for a job that's not done. What can I say?”

  His look suggests he thinks I’m lying. “Here's what you can say— you tell that motherfucker his wife is crazy— and if he isn't careful and he doesn't get me my money, I might just tell her what he's up to.”

  “You know, Tyler, you really don't know me very well. You should be careful about empty threats.”

  His narrowed eyes open. “Who said it’s empty?”

  “Get out,” I say pointing at the door. “I’ll have your money for you tomorrow.”

  “I hope so,” he says. I feel nothing. He puffs his cheeks and exhales. “You should be careful. And not just with the crazy wife. Funny thing about that, Izzy. You don't know me as well as you think you do. I'm not exactly the kind of guy that lets himself just get fucked over.”

  Tyler leaves his pipe. I search the kitchen for a lighter, sit down, and take a few hits. I relax into myself. I consider taking the half-empty bottle I stuffed under the kitchen counter for occasions such as this but I check Instalook to buy time. Really, I need to talk to Grant, and I don’t want to be hammered when he calls. I run through my story again. I want to have my facts straight when he calls.

  Okay, sure. He wasn’t supposed to let her get the gun. But Tyler is a pussy.

  I take a third hit. The smoke settles in my lungs. The tension leaves my body.

  We were supposed to scare her. He did at least accomplish that.

  I check Instalook again. Still nothing.

  Grant should have called by now. Why hasn’t he called? Maybe Josie has gone to the police. Maybe she’s told them about me. Maybe she’s forcing him to console her.

  Thoughts race through my mind. Pot doesn’t usually make me this paranoid. Grant should have called. He must be pissed at me. He probably wants to end things. Seeing how distraught Josie had to have been
, he’s realized how much he loves her. I’m going to be alone forever. Fuck it. He isn’t going to call. Might as well. I go for the vodka. I unscrew the cap and fill a shot glass. I won’t use a chaser. I deserve to feel the burn.

  This is not the way it was supposed to happen.

  I’m itching all over. Something is wrong. I text Tyler and ask him what kind of weed that was. He texts back: Sucker. Then a smiley face emoji.

  I don’t know what this means. My head is swimming. I rub at my eyes. It doesn’t fix the blurriness.

  I stand and go into the bathroom. I splash water on my face. It helps. At least now, I can see things. Things like a nearly empty vodka bottle sitting beside Tyler’s pipe. Surely, I didn’t drink all of that. No, I would remember.

  My palms are sweaty. My heart races. I’m burning up.

  I need to eat something. I need to sober up. I have no idea how much time has passed. Everything seems slow. I check the time on my phone. There’s a text from Grant: We need to talk. Can you come over?

  Shit. I was wrong. He does want me. There’s no time to sober up. I have to go now. I walk two doors down to Tyler’s apartment and bang on the door. He opens it slowly and then leans against the doorframe. Inside, I see people strewn about the place. Music is blaring. A guy playing video games turns and glances over his shoulder. He says something to the guy next to him. They both laugh and turn back to their game. Tyler eyes me from head to toe and then runs his hands through his hair.

  “Jesus, Izzy.”

  “I need your keys.”

  He shakes his head from side to side. Very slowly. “Not a chance in hell.”

  “You fucking drugged me.”

  His brow forms a V. “I’m not giving you my keys.”

  He doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t have to.

  “You’re drunk, Izzy,” he tells me. He can’t know that. Vodka doesn’t smell.