by Minka Kent
The air is thick with silence, and he doesn’t move.
“What?” he asks a moment later.
“You heard me.” I reach for my lamp and turn out the light, rolling to my side, my back toward him.
It’s been a day.
Addison left early today because she had college cheer camp, which I didn’t know was a thing in the summer, and I’m pretty sure she was lying about it just to get out of work early. The kids were hopped up on candy and junk food, and they didn’t want to sit still for dinner, let alone eat dinner. By bedtime they were all whining that they were hungry, but I told them the kitchen was closed and sent them off to brush their teeth. Grace and Rose fought over who got to use the sparkly princess toothpaste first, and Sebastian jumped on his bed, kicking off the blankets and pillows and refusing to stop.
And Graham . . . Graham was “working late” once again.
“Can we just stop?” I spit my words, pressing my cheek hard against the pillow. The warmth of his hand on my shoulder makes me shudder.
“Daphne,” he says. I brace myself for a torrential downpour of excuses, lies, and alibies, ones he’s practiced for months, readying himself for this moment. “How long have you known?”
Flinging the covers off me, I scramble out of bed. I can’t be next to him right now.
“A while,” I answer once I’m standing before the window.
The soft pad of his bare feet on carpet follows, and though I don’t see him, I feel him behind me, breathing, existing, wasting this beautiful space we’ve created.
He doesn’t say anything, which tells me he’s deep in contemplation, and it hits me that perhaps I’m going about this all wrong. Maybe he’s been one step ahead of me this whole time, being careless with his activities because he wants to get caught. In his mind, maybe if he gets caught and I’m the one who ends things, he won’t be the bad guy.
God damn it.
“Daphne-”
“Save it.” I grab a silk robe from the back of an armchair in the corner and drape it over my shoulders. I’m going to go downstairs, pour myself a drink, and sit in the dark.
There’s a thump behind me, and when I stop and turn, I find Graham on a heap in the floor, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands hiding his face.
I’ve known this man almost twenty years, and I’ve never seen him like this before. Ever.
“What are you doing?” I don’t go to him, I don’t sympathize with him. “Get off the floor.”
“Daphne, I’m so sorry.” He cries, like a man-child, into the palms of his hands. His shoulders rise and fall, quick jerks between near-silent sobs. “Forgive me.”
“Seriously?”
He glances up at me, his blue eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, and then he brings himself to my level, reaching for me. I take a step back.
“The damage is done,” I say, arms folded. “I don’t know how we’ll ever be able to recover from this.”
“We can fix this,” he says, not bothering to dab the tear sliding down his left cheek. All these years together, and I never knew my husband had a penchant for theatrics.
I say nothing.
“I don’t love her,” he adds.
Still, I say nothing.
“She’s a mistake. A . . . a fling. She means nothing,” he says. “You . . . you’re my world. You’re my everything. You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved. I need you.”
His words are just that: words. They mean nothing.
“You were with her tonight,” I say. It isn’t a question, and he doesn’t respond. “So you expect me to believe that you love me and you’re so remorseful, when hours ago you were with her.”
His face is red from crying, and he brushes disheveled strands of dark hair from his brow. I feel like I’m seeing him for the first time all over again, only this time I’m not attracted to him. Looking at him doesn’t make my heart press against the inside of my chest. Being next to him doesn’t make me feel weightless and effervescent. It’s as if his charm, his magic, his allure, has dissipated into thin air and all that’s left is this tragically flawed human version of a man who sold the world.
“I was with her,” he says, voice low, “because I was ending things tonight.”
“Convenient.”
“I don’t expect you to believe me, but that’s the truth.” His hands clap against his sides. “I’ve been trying to end things for a while actually. And each time, she makes threats. She says she’s going to harm herself. Or she’s going to tell you.”
I laugh. “So you’re being manipulated by a twenty-two-year-old?”
I don’t know how old she is. I can only assume.
“She isn’t right,” he says. “She has some issues. And I never should’ve gotten involved with her, Daphne. For as long as I live, it’ll be my deepest regret. I hate myself for hurting you. You didn’t deserve it. You’ve never been anything but perfect and wonderful.”
I’m not sure when it happened, but Graham closed the gap between us. He’s standing so close I can smell this morning’s aftershave, and his hands are reaching for my hips.
“I love you,” he says, “so much.”
I don’t return the sentiment.
“How can I fix this? I want to fix this. I have to fix this.” Desperation is a terrible color on him. “We can’t throw this away. Not because of a stupid mistake.”
“I’ve been seeing another man,” I blurt. I don’t tell him it’s a drug dealer, and I don’t give him details or context. I want him to assume the worst. I want to shove the knife in and give it a good twist.
Graham’s expression fades, and I’m quite certain I’ve given him the shock of a lifetime. He finally blinks. Then swallows. His entire aura is awash in deep pain, and I so badly want to ask him how he likes the taste of his own medicine.
He slips his hand into mine and leads me to the edge of the bed, where we both take a seat.
“So we’re even then.” He snorts through his nose, pulling on his lower lip and staring ahead at the carpet.
I jerk my hand from his. “No. No, we’re not even. Not even close.”
“Who was he?”
“You have a lot of nerve.” I rise and make my way around to my side of the bed, yanking my pillow. “I’m sleeping in the guest room. I’m exhausted, and I don’t have the energy to listen to how sorry you are and how much you love me. If you actually loved me, Graham, you wouldn’t have thrown me away in the first place.”
“Are you going to tell the kids?” he asks.
My jaw hangs. Of course I wouldn’t. I don’t want to traumatize them for the sake of vindication. I’m not that evil.
“We’ll figure everything out another day,” I say, yawning.
“What do you mean, figure everything out?”
“The separation, the divorce, the splitting of the assets,” I say. “Everything.”
“No, no, no.” He strides across the room, his hand splayed. “We’re staying together.”
“Oh, so you’re just going to go ahead and make that decision for the both of us?”
“Of course not,” he says. “But can’t we try? Can’t we do counseling and work on our marriage before we throw it all away? Think about the kids, Daphne.”
I close my eyes and pull in a long breath. Such a manipulator.
“I think about the kids,” I say. “I think about the kids every second of every damn day unlike someone else I know, so don’t you dare try and exploit them to get what you want, you pathetic son of a bitch.”
Graham’s jaw drops. I’ve never called him a name in my life, at least not to his face, and never with clenched fists and gritted teeth.
“Okay.” He breathes in. Breathes out. “You need some time to cool down. I get that. I’m going to give you some space, and then tomorrow, we’ll start fresh, and things will be better. I’ll make this up to you. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. And I’ll prove to you that I meant every word I said tonight.”
; Twenty-Eight
Autumn
He needs to know.
I mean, I would want to know . . . if they were my kids.
My vision blurs. I squeeze my eyes, and he comes into focus again, his hand resting on his jaw as he scans the flower cooler and eventually settles on a bouquet of daffodils. It’s as if the last two hours didn’t happen. I have no memory of parking my car outside McMullen and Henry Corporation. I have no memory of watching employees file out the front door, shuffling to their cars until the last remaining vehicle in the parking lot was a familiar black sedan with University of Pennsylvania plates. I have no memory of watching Graham McMullen climb into the driver’s seat of his car, and I certainly have no memory of following him here, to Hiland Grocery and Deli on Pepper street.
I feel like those things happened . . .
But I have no memory of them.
And now here I am.
Standing back as Graham selects a bouquet of flowers for his wife after a long day’s work. Maybe it’s a special occasion? Maybe they have a date tonight? It is a Friday, and that would make sense.
“Excuse me, miss.” There’s a tap on my left shoulder that startles the bejeesus out of me. “Are you in line for the flowers?”
Before I get a chance to respond, Graham McMullen spins on the heels of his polished dress shoes and spots me immediately.
I stand, frozen, searching his eyes for a sign that he recognizes me from our interview a couple weeks ago.
“Hi,” I say, my hand gripping my plastic grocery basket. It’s a prop, really. I even went so far as to throw a few items in there: tangerines, a pack of bubble gum, and a rum raisin pie.
Looks legit enough.
“Autumn? Autumn, is it?” His face lights, and my world tilts on its axis. I forget, for a moment, how hurt I was that he didn’t choose me. I forget about how botched my interview was. How my time was unfairly cut short by the arrival of the next person on his list.
“Yes!” I smile and laugh, lightly smacking my leg like I’m suddenly remembering who he is. We step aside and let the others have at the floral arrangements. “How’s it going, neighbor?”
He chuckles, his gaze captured on mine, and I wonder if he looks at everyone this way . . . like they’re the only person in the world.
How lucky is Daphne that she gets to wear his ring and his name. How lucky is she to raise his children and sleep in his arms each night.
I imagine the sweeping, romantic gestures a man like Graham might make for his true love. Flowers when she’s least expecting them. Last minute tickets to her favorite sold-out musical. Surprise getaways to wine country.
“How’s everything going with the nanny?” I cut to the chase.
“Good,” he says, nodding. And staring, still. “Everything’s going really well. Her name is Addison. She’s the daughter of one of my wife’s friends. Kids seem to like her.”
Nepotism.
Nice.
Did I even stand a chance, Graham?
I watched this girl, this “Addison,” the other day from across the fence. The children were in the backyard swimming, and she, while dressed for the water, sat in a lounge chair, slathering her taut body with suntan oil and texting on her phone.
The words are right there, on the tip of my tongue.
He needs to know.
My jaw hangs, and my heart pounds in my ears. This can either go really well for me. Or he’ll see right through it.
“This nanny of yours,” I lean in, lowering my voice, and he meets me halfway. “Is she blonde? Rather petite?”
He studies my face.
Oh, god, he’s onto me.
Maybe?
“It’s just that, I saw her the other day. I was outside with Ginger, and she was outside with the kids.” I glance around, buying time. The longer I wait to reveal my information, the more he might take me seriously. And he should. His children are in danger if she’s running the show this summer.
“What is it?” His shoulders square, and his jaw flexes. When his brows meet in the middle, I know he’s officially concerned. “Did you see something?”
I lift my thumbnail to my lip, pretending to hem and haw, and then I say, “Yes. I . . . I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”
“What did you see, Autumn?” He’s impatient with me, and fatherly impatience looks beautiful on Graham McMullen.
I fight a pleased smile in favor of a worried frown. “The kids were swimming, and I guess I was surprised to see your nanny sunbathing.”
He smirks.
And everything changes.
“I’m sure it wasn’t what it looked like. She was probably taking a break. Those kids are enough to wear anyone out.” He grips the flowers and eyes the checkout lanes.
“She was on her phone,” I blurt.
He stops, returning his attention to me.
“It looked like she was texting, and I saw her make some phone calls,” I say. “The kids were swimming and doing their own thing. Even your boy – your youngest. And she was sitting in a lounge chair rubbing oil all over and paying more attention to her screen than your children.”
He’s silent.
“Anyway,” I say. “I wasn’t going to say anything . . .”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
“I guess, if they were my kids, I’d want to know,” I add. “And since I ran into you, I . . . I’m sorry. I felt I had to take the opportunity to say something.”
I turn to leave, offering an apologetic smile.
“No, no.” He captures my wrist gently in his hand and prevents me from moving. “I’m glad you told me. I wouldn’t have known otherwise, so thank you.”
“Okay, well.” I smile, pulling in a deep breath and exhaling as I switch my plastic basket to my opposite arm. “It was good seeing you. If you ever need a cup of sugar, you know where I live.”
He smiles, and I feel him watching as I walk away. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s thinking about what I shared, wondering how he’s going to break it to his wife. They’ll probably discuss it after dinner tonight, once the kids are in bed.
The McMullen children are everything to their parents, that much I know.
They’re going to ditch Addison, I can feel it. I see it written all over Graham’s face, chiseled in the worry lines that spread across his forehead when I broke it to him.
And then they’ll replace her with me.
Twenty-Nine
Daphne
“What’s this woman’s name again? The one who supposedly saw these things?” I’m rinsing a head of broccoli under the faucet as Graham leans against the island behind me, arms folded, a proud look on his face.
“Autumn,” he said.
“And where did you find her?” I transfer the broccoli to a wooden cutting board and retrieve a knife from a tall cupboard where I keep all sharp things out of Grace’s reach.
“She was an applicant,” he says. “Former medical assistant at a children’s clinic. Basically like a nurse.”
“Not the same thing, but continue.” Each spear of broccoli is met with a satisfying chop.
“Believe it or not, she lives one street over, did I tell you that? Anyway, I ran into her when I was picking out your flowers today,” he says, handing me a bouquet of lilies wrapped in brown paper, “and we got to talking and that came up.”
I knew Addison was less than ideal for this position, but the fact that neighbors are watching and seeing things and saying things, it tells me it’s time to cut her loose. The nanny a family chooses is a reflection of them, and I can’t have my reputation tarnished by some nineteen-year-old who can’t put her phone away for a few hours.
“She’s still looking for a job, and she could start tomorrow,” he says. “She interviewed well, and she was one of my top candidates. If you want her, I’ll give her a call. She knows it’s a short-term position, and she’s fine with that. Loves kids. CPR certified. More than qualified.”
“How old is she?”
; His brows meet. “Not sure? Mid-twenties? Very mature and professional for her age, I’ll give her that.”
Sighing because I don’t have a choice but to trust his judgement, I place a lid on the steaming broccoli and return to the sink to rinse the carving board.
“I’m trying here.” His voice is low and he’s right up on me, speaking softly so the children can’t hear. “Seems everything I do lately isn’t good enough for you. You’re walking around lately like you hate life, and I’m trying to make things better. I’m trying to fix things. At least meet me halfway?”
“Can we not have this conversation right now?”
Rose skips into the kitchen, her timing impeccable. “When’s dinner, Mommy?”
“Soon, sweetheart.” I run my fingers through her glossy hair before bending to kiss the top of her head. “Go play. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
Rose returns to the family room, and I begin pulling dishes and silverware.
“Graham, be a dear and set the table, will you?” I’ve never asked him to set the table until now, and the look he gives me makes me question whether or not he comprehends my request. “I could really use a hand.”
The man walks the dog every night and acts like he should get a gold star on his sticker chart for it. He loaded the dishwasher once, and it was all I heard about for almost an entire week.
“You know, I decided to reactivate my Instaface account,” I say.
“I never knew you deactivated it,” he says, breathing loudly as he hoists a stack of plates off the counter and doles them out around the table. He doesn’t care about my social media platform. He never has.
“Really? It must have slipped my mind,” I say. “Didn’t you notice? I’ve been on my phone less? You were always saying my nose is buried in my screen.”
He says nothing.
“Anyway, I’m hoping to pick up some sponsorships again,” I say, though I may as well be talking to myself.
When he’s finished setting the table, he struts to the next room without saying a word, hiding out in the den with a finger of Scotch until I call out that dinner’s ready.