Apart at the Seams

by Marie Bostwick

  He glanced longingly at the plate of crackers and cheese I’d left on the counter, but I pretended not to notice. Nobody had invited him up here. If he wanted a snack, then he could go back to the city. Manhattan had delis on every street corner.

  “I did call,” he said in a voice that was carefully nonconfrontational, as if he’d made up his mind not to get into an argument with me and spent the northward drive coaching himself on how to avoid doing so. “I left several messages, but you never called back. I was starting to get worried, so I decided to rent a car and drive up here, just to make sure you’re all right.”

  “Well,” I said, holding my arms out from my sides, “sorry to have put you to all that trouble, but as you can see, I’m fine. I haven’t slit my wrists or put my head in an oven or anything. You can go home now.”

  “Any chance I can talk you into coming with me?” he asked, and smiled that smile, the impish, boyish smile he always uses when he’s trying to get around me, to win me over, the one that almost always works.

  “No.”

  His smile vanished, replaced by an expression of disappointment. Too bad. Honestly, what did he expect?

  We weren’t talking about him forgetting to pick up the dry cleaning like he’d promised or not calling to say his meeting was running late and he wouldn’t be home for dinner. We weren’t even talking about him neglecting to tell me that he was taking a job that would double his travel schedule or making up his mind to buy a cottage in the country without even consulting me first. This time we were talking about betrayal, about breaking his vows and my heart, making me doubt myself and everything I’d done with my life. That’s not something you get past with a smile and an apology.

  “Brian, why are you here?”

  “I canceled my trip to Houston.”

  Was he scheduled to be in Houston that day? Probably. He was always going somewhere. I’d stopped trying to keep track years before.

  “And this matters to me, how?”

  I turned my back on him and covered the cheese and crackers with plastic wrap.

  “Gayla, hang on a minute. Just hear me out? Please?”

  I turned around to face him, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?” I repeated, shaking my head at the inadequacy of his remark. “Am I supposed to forget everything you wrote and the fact that you slept with another woman because you’ve said you’re sorry? You can’t seriously think it’s that easy. What do you want from me?”

  “Nothing!” He spread his hands as if trying to prove that he wasn’t hiding anything. “Except . . . a chance to try to do what I should have done in the first place: tell you the truth, face-to-face.”

  I stared at him, saying nothing. The ball was in his court. He wanted to talk? Fine. He could talk. But if he thought I was going to make it easy for him, he was wrong.

  He shoved the fingers of his left hand into his hair, making a mess of it, the way he always did when he couldn’t figure out how to say something.

  “Writing that memo was a terrifically stupid thing to do,” he began, speaking quickly, as if he was afraid I might cut him off. “And cowardly. I should have talked to you before things got so out of hand. . . .”

  Out of hand? How polite. Was that British for “before I bedded some tart at the office”? I was about to ask him that, but he beat me to the punch.

  “I mean, before I cheated.” He sighed heavily, started again. “Look. I don’t care for her, Gayla. I never did, which makes it even worse. We’d been flirting for weeks—months, really. I knew she was interested, and it made me feel . . . attractive, I suppose. It was exciting to have somebody hanging on every word. It stoked my ego.

  “About a year ago, we were at a conference, about the same time that the Dyson-Marks deal fell apart. It’s not an excuse, but Mike Barrows had just chewed me out for letting the deal go south. I was sitting at the bar, feeling sorry for myself. Deanna walked by and slipped her room key in my pocket.”

  I closed my eyes, overcome by the mental images of what came next—Brian’s hand sliding into the pocket of his jacket, her over-the-shoulder glance as she walked toward the door, the locking of their eyes, the silent agreement, the decent interval before his exit so no one would guess where he was going, the way he tossed back the last of his whiskey, left a tip for the bartender, the ride in the elevator, the chance to change his mind, letting it pass, looking left and right to make sure no one from the company was in the hallway, the hesitation, the knock, her opening the door, and him locking it.

  “It was a mistake; even at the time, I knew it.”

  “Then why did you see her again?”

  “Some misplaced sense of loyalty, I think.” He pulled a chair out from the table and sank wearily into it. “Having a one-off seemed so sordid, like I was using her. But of course, that’s exactly what I was doing. I saw her again the next week, twice, when we were back at headquarters. I took her out to dinner and wrote e-mails back and forth, trying to convince myself that we had a relationship. I couldn’t pull it off, not for long, so I ended it. God . . .”

  He covered his face with his hands, pressing his fingers hard against his creased forehead, rubbing at his skin as if he was trying to scrub away the memory of what he’d done.

  “Gayla, I am so sorry. I’m sorry for the affair, but I’m also sorry that I didn’t come to you and talk honestly about our problems. But I didn’t think there was any point. I thought you were staying in the marriage out of some sense of duty.” He cast his eyes toward the ceiling. “I realize it sounds stupid, but I honestly thought that divorce would come as a relief to you.”

  I shifted my eyes away from his and took a step back, wanting to put some distance between myself and the realization that, at some level, he’d read me right.

  “I convinced myself that ending the marriage would be the kindest thing to do,” he said, “practically an act of nobility, because I knew you were as unhappy as I was.”

  “I never said I was unhappy,” I muttered.

  “Oh, come on,” he said, all but rolling his eyes. “Just because you didn’t say it doesn’t mean it wasn’t true. We both know our marriage isn’t what it was.”

  “What it was when?” I snapped. “When we were newlyweds and so hot for each other that we were jumping into bed three times a day? When we didn’t have kids? Being in a marriage isn’t like being on your honeymoon, Brian. Or having an affair. Marriage is what happens in the real world. Marriage is for grown-ups, and it’s hard. You have to work at it.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do!”

  He shouted in frustration and jumped to his feet, startling us both. Brian isn’t given to emotional outbursts. It’s just not his way. His flash of temper was just that, a flash, extinguished as quickly as it had ignited, but not without some effort on his part. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor.

  “I can’t unwrite what I wrote or undo what I’ve done. But,” he said, looking up, “I am serious about wanting to salvage our marriage. That’s why I canceled the Houston trip; I’ve canceled all my travel for the next month. And that’s why I drove out here: to ask you to give me and our marriage another chance.”

  “You canceled your business trips for a whole month?” I asked, a bit incredulous and also a bit concerned. “What did Mike Barrows say about that?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I took care of it.”

  “But what did you tell—”

  “It’s not important,” he said, shoving away my question. “I want to talk about us. I know it won’t be easy, but if you’re willing to try, I think we can get through this. I do.”

  One of the things I’ve most admired about Brian was his optimism, his unwavering confidence that everything would turn out okay in the end. I’m not like that. Brian has sometimes accused me of being cynical, but I prefer to think of myself as a realist. I know that wishing isn’t enough. If you want something to happen, you
have to work to make it so.

  Brian was obviously trying to do that. Canceling his travel for an entire month was huge for him. It made a statement about the depth of his resolve that he knew would not be lost on me. I appreciated that, but the realist in me thought it was just too late.

  “Brian,” I said, dropping my arms to my sides, “the things you wrote were so hurtful—in some ways even more hurtful than the affair. We’ve grown so far apart. Sometimes I don’t think I even know you anymore.

  “What you wrote was true. You don’t love me anymore. . . . No, let me finish,” I insisted, holding up my hand. “You don’t love me anymore, not like you did. And, if I’m honest with myself, the same is true for me. I still like you, I still care, and I think you feel the same way toward me. But if I tell you that it’s all right, that I forgive you, and if I just go home and we try to go back to pretending that everything is fine, don’t you think that, before long, it’ll get even worse? That in time, we might not even like each other?”

  A solitary tear slipped down my cheek. I wiped it away and swallowed hard, determined to say what had to be said.

  “You said that you never intended for me to see the memo. I have a hard time believing that.”

  He dipped his head low, an acknowledgment. “Perhaps you’re right. I hated knowing that there was this enormous lie standing between us. Perhaps a part of me wanted you to find out about the affair.”

  “Well,” I said, unable to keep the bitter edge from my voice, “now I know.”

  He moved toward me, as if he intended to take me into his arms, but I backed away, keeping my distance.

  “Subconsciously, maybe I did want you to know about the affair,” he admitted. “But when I said I didn’t mean what I wrote, that I’d changed my mind about wanting a divorce, it was true. I know you don’t believe me, but it is. Do you want to know why? And when?”

  I did, but couldn’t bring myself to answer, mostly because I was sure that whatever he was going to say next was a lie. How was it possible that, having finally come to that conclusion, he could simply change his mind?

  He couldn’t. I was sure of that. And yet . . .

  “It was at Maggie’s wedding. When we danced together at the reception. When I held you in my arms, you looked as beautiful as you did on our wedding day. And then I began to remember how I had felt about you when we got married and how you felt about me. We were the whole world to each other then. It all came flooding back to me that day. It was a wonderful wedding—do you remember?”

  I did remember. And I remembered our mother-and-father-of-the-bride dance, how handsome he looked in his tuxedo, the surprise and tenderness I felt when I saw the tears in his eyes, the spark of hope, quickly dismissed, that something important had passed between us.

  “I looked around the room and saw Nate, getting ready to go to Scotland for grad school, so grown-up and capable, and Maggie and Jason just starting out and so happy together. . . . I thought about what we’ve built together and how lucky we are to have such a beautiful family. And suddenly I realized I’d been a fool.

  “Because it was you, Gayla. It’s always been you. Let’s not throw away everything we’ve done and been to each other because I’m a fool. Let’s give each other another chance.”

  I pressed my hand to my head, shielding my eyes from his gaze and the memories that crowded too close.

  “I just don’t . . .” I sighed and looked at him. “I don’t know how we get past this. Honestly, what is it you expect us to do? If you think I’m just going to come home and pretend everything is fine, think again.”

  He pressed his lips together for a moment and then launched into it. Clearly, he’d given this some thought.

  “I think you should stay here awhile, maybe until the end of summer.”

  That was his big plan for saving our marriage? That we should live in different cities?

  “It’s just that I know you’re not ready to come home,” he said, reading the skepticism on my face. “I don’t want to push you. You need some space. Maybe I do too. I think we need to hit the reset button on our relationship. You said yourself that you feel like you barely know me anymore. Maybe we need to spend some time getting reacquainted, just listening to each other like we were meeting for the first time. Not that I’m suggesting we forget what has passed,” he said, holding up his hands in anticipation of my next objection. “Obviously, we’re going to have to deal with all that, but first I think you should have a chance to decide if you even like me now or find me the least bit interesting.”

  “Or you me?”

  “Oh, there’s no question of that,” he said with a smile. “I’ve always found you interesting. Fascinating, really.”

  Was he flirting with me? He was. And he was pretty good at it. Where had he picked that up? And then I remembered what he’d said about her, Deanna, the woman he’d slept with—we’d been flirting for weeks—months, really.. . .

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” I said irritably. “What exactly is it that you’re proposing?”

  He cleared his throat and adopted a more businesslike tone. “Three things. First, that we take a break and live apart until the end of summer. I think we both need some time to clear our heads. Second, that we promise not to make any moves toward divorce during that time. Third, that we do see each other at regular intervals, spend time getting to know each other again. In short,” he said, “for the next three months, I think we should date.”

  “I’m sorry?” I said, giving my head a little shake, certain I hadn’t heard him correctly. “Did you just say you want to date me?”

  “Yes.”

  I blew out a long breath. This was crazy. “Brian, you can’t seriously—”

  “I am completely serious. You don’t have to answer right now. All I’m asking you to do is think about it. Wait,” he said, once again interrupting my objections before I could voice them. “I brought you something.”

  He turned toward the back door and picked up a bag he’d left on the floor when he first came inside. I hadn’t even noticed it until now. He pulled out a notebook with brass-colored rings on the binding, covered with wheat-colored linen, and brought it to me.

  “What is it?”

  “A photo album. You bought it in that little shop in Soho about ten years ago—don’t you remember? I’ve been going a little crazy since you left, haven’t known what to do with myself, so I started cleaning out closets,” he said, looking a little sheepish about his admission.

  If only he knew.

  I opened the album to the first page, saw a picture of Brian and me eating gelato in Turano; another of us sitting on the stoop of our first apartment in New York, a studio with a toilet that ran constantly and so small there wasn’t room to change your mind; another picture taken in the hospital when the twins were born, Brian holding a flannel-wrapped bundle in each arm and beaming.

  I remembered now. I’d spotted this album on the sale table in a cute little boutique in Soho years ago, probably more than ten. I’d started going through our family pictures and pasting the best of them in the album—started but never finished. We’d had company coming for dinner, so I had to clean everything off the dining room table. The album and photos ended up in a box under the bed. Every now and then, I’d drag out the box and toss in a few more pictures, telling myself that I was going to sit down and organize them as soon as I had a little spare time, but I never did.

  “I found this in a box under the bed along with a ton of loose photographs and decided to go through them, put them in the album. Why don’t you hold on to it for a while,” he said. “And then let’s talk in a few days, after you’ve had some time to think.”

  I closed the album and laid it on the table.

  “Okay.”

  There was a moment, a silence, an awkward pause.

  “I should get going,” he said.

  I didn’t disagree with him, just walked him to the door.

  “By the way,” he said, “what
’s going on in the yard? Are we putting on an addition?”

  I shook my head. “A garden. Dan Kelleher is helping me with the design and putting in a hardscape. That’s why all those boards and rocks are out there.”

  “Dan Kelleher?”

  “Our neighbor,” I reminded him. “Drew’s dad. He owns a landscaping business. Very nice guy. He fixed the furnace and didn’t charge me for anything but parts.”

  Brian’s eyebrows shot up. “The furnace broke down? Why didn’t you call me?”

  I put one hand on my hip and shot him a look, making it clear that we both knew the reason for that.

  “I’m not saying I could have fixed it,” he muttered. “But I’d have called the repairman for you, somebody legitimate, somebody who’s been trained. How do you know he’s done it properly?”

  “Because I didn’t have heat and now I do.” I opened the door. “Anything else?”

  “You might want to ring Maggie up. She’s called twice. I told her that you’d decided to take some time off, come up here for a few weeks.”

  “Did she believe you?”

  He shrugged. “Call her when you have a chance, will you?”

  He leaned forward as if to kiss me good-bye, but I turned my head, dodging his lips. When he went out the door, I locked it behind him. It was stupid, a petty gesture, but I did it just the same.

  I stood at the living room window, half-hidden behind the curtains, watched his rental car disappear behind the hedge, and wondered if there was any chance of this turning out well or if I’d ever be able to see him drive away without having to fight back the urge to run after him.

  After I finished putting away the groceries, I made myself a cup of tea and sat down at the kitchen table to drink it—slowly. I knew that Maggie had been trying to get hold of me before Brian said anything about it; she’d left two messages on my cell phone in the previous week. I’d listened to them but put off calling her back. I couldn’t do so any longer.

  She wasn’t fooled by my casual tone of voice or by my repetition of Brian’s explanation for my sudden departure from the city—that the spring admissions season had worn me out and I was spending a few weeks at the cottage to rest and relax—but I didn’t really expect her to be. Maggie is the more sensitive of the twins, also the more forthright. And she can read me like a book.