I Don't Forgive You

by Aggie Blum Thompson

  He blinks at the shirt and then at me. “What? No, Allie, I didn’t buy that shirt.” His words are deliberate and slow, and I am impatient. I want him to be as upset as I am.

  “Who did?”

  “Umm, I don’t know. I’m sorry, I’m going to bed. You coming?”

  “This is a big deal. I need to know where this came from.”

  “First of all, please stop yelling.”

  “I didn’t yell.” But he’s right. My voice is loud, my tone strident. “How did this get here?” I shake the shirt at him.

  He bats it away and stands up. “I have no clue, Allie. I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

  “I want you to be concerned.”

  “About a T-shirt? I was asleep.” He starts to leave the room. “Why don’t you ask Susan? It probably came in the mail or something.”

  I don’t answer, just watch him leave. The energy between us isn’t good at the precipice of an argument. I know that when Mark is this tired, the only thing I’ll get by pushing him is a massive fight.

  I need to calm down. I sit in the empty room for a minute trying to inventory my thoughts. I wish I had a best friend whom I could tell everything to, someone who would help me sort out what are legitimate feelings and what are overreactions.

  But maybe that person doesn’t exist, it’s just a trope from cheesy movies, as clichéd as true love. Mark and Krystle are the closest people to me. I know they love me, but I don’t dare tell them everything, show them everything, about me.

  I pour myself a glass of wine and sit down in front of the computer. Within moments, I am looking at the picture of Rob and me on the Eastbrook Neighborhood Facebook page. Someone named Barb McLaren posted it. I click on her profile. She looks to be in her early fifties, with a gray-streaked blond bob and a lot of pink-and-green resort wear.

  I don’t remember seeing her at Daisy’s party, but clearly, she saw me.

  Can anyone identify this woman talking with Rob?

  I think her name is Allie Ross. Lives on Worthington. Husband Mark. New to the neighborhood.

  Looks very chummy to me. Wouldn’t want my wife talking to a man like that.

  STOP GOSSIPING!!!

  I shut down the page. I should never have opened it. What did I expect? Of course tongues would be wagging. I had the bad luck of being the last woman Rob Avery hit on before he was killed. As much as I do not wish Rob’s boorish behavior on anyone else, I would love for some other women in the neighborhood to step up and share similar experiences.

  But I’m not about to put any feelers out.

  Instead, I take a brief look at the online calendar—tomorrow night is Mark’s mom’s birthday, which means dinner in downtown Bethesda with Mark’s whole family.

  As for work, tomorrow I have Heather’s referral—Sarah Ramirez—on the schedule. Like Heather, Sarah also works for Senator Fielding from Rhode Island—Heather as the communications director and Sarah as a caseworker. But Sarah doesn’t want a headshot. Sarah wants something romantic for her fiancé who is about to leave for Africa.

  I can’t help myself. I go back to Facebook and do a search for Robert Avery. I find his page easily, covered in condolence posts. From his photos, he looks like the perfect suburban dad who hadn’t lost his youthful edge. A photo of him kayaking the Potomac in a Fugazi T-shirt. Another of him with a lithe blonde, hoisting beers at the Bluejacket microbrewery in D.C.

  Good-looking, mid-forties. Not a monster.

  Why did he pick me? And why did someone kill him?

  I need to talk to someone, but who?

  My computer, phone, and laptop are all Apple and linked through my Apple ID. That means photos, texts, almost anything I do on one appears on all the devices. I text Krystle from the computer: Sorry about before.

  Krystle’s reply is immediate: NP. You know I love you, Allie.

  Have you had a chance to check for my fake Tinder account?

  Will check Tinder tonight.

  I hover over a photo of Rob and then click on it, saving it to the computer. Then I copy it into a message for Krystle.

  Does the guy I am talking to in this pic look familiar? I pause and then take a chance. Also, does the name Robert Avery ring any bells? From back home?

  Nope. Any yearbooks you want me to check?

  For a while, my entire childhood and adolescence were condensed into three banker’s boxes that sat in the house in Westport, Connecticut, about five miles from where I grew up in Norwalk.

  But when I transferred my mother into assisted living three years ago, I discarded those boxes, though I hadn’t told Krystle. I was married, had a child. My past had no hold on me anymore.

  Or so I’d thought. But for the first time in years, I have the urge to delve into those Overton yearbooks. Maybe somewhere, among the senior photos and candids of kids playing Frisbee on the great lawn, is some kind of clue as to what is happening to me.

  I shut the computer and head upstairs. The wine has made me sleepy, and I climb into the warm bed beside Mark. He’s on his back, and I slide my hand under his T-shirt, tracing my finger down his chest until it arrives at the elastic waistband of his boxers. Territory I haven’t explored in months. I slip my hand inside. He lets out a low groan and rolls toward me, his body responsive even as his mind has not quite caught up.

  A quote I once read comes to me: “There is love, of course. And then there’s life, its enemy.” You can find a pedestrian article on that theme in every women’s magazine in every doctor’s waiting room. How domestic routines can destroy romance. Mark’s eyes open; his face is a question. Before he can articulate it, I lean in and we are kissing.

  Soon he is inside me, and even though we haven’t been together for almost two months, we move with the familiarity of bodies that instinctively recognize each other. We are quiet, efficient, practiced at the art of domestic sex.

  “Harder,” I whisper, and he complies. I want him to nail me down to the bed. I want to be stuck in place like a piece of paper under a rock on a windy day. Fuck the book club, the neighborhood gossips, the internet. Mark is my husband, Cole is my son, this is my house, my life.

  But I can’t shake the feeling there is more to this Rob Avery thing than just bad luck. The Overton shirt, him calling me Sexy Lexi. Those details are like bits and pieces of some complicated mathematical equation that I don’t yet know how to solve.

  And deep in my bones, I know when the answer comes, it will not be good.

  16

  In the photo, my breasts pour out of a cobalt-blue bikini top.

  Below the picture, it says: Alexis, but my friends call me Sexy Lexi. Married, but I don’t mind if you don’t.

  I look up from my phone to make sure Cole has paused at the corner to wait for my signal like he’s supposed to. I nod at him and he runs ahead. The streets are empty this morning, we’re running a bit late, and the rush of hurrying children has subsided.

  “You there?” Krystle’s voice sounds tinny coming through my phone at arm’s length.

  “I’m here,” I say.

  “You recognize the photo? That could be a clue.”

  The blue bikini had been a bad online purchase. I wore it to our local pool once, on Memorial Day, the day after we moved into our new house, before I decided it was not family-friendly.

  My stomach churns. Someone has been stalking me since I moved in.

  “How did you find this?” I ask.

  “On Tinder,” she says. “It was pretty easy, actually. I just looked for women seeking men within five miles of you. This is no random Russian hacker.”

  “No. Whoever made this page knows about Overton.” My skin prickles with the electric sensation of being watched. My tormentor lives right here, I think, as I pass by a row of picture-perfect colonials with manicured lawns.

  “Who?” Krystle asks. “Who lives near you that knows about that shit?”

  I don’t have an answer for that question. All I know is that I need to shut this Tinder accoun
t down, and fast. I tell Krystle I’ll call her later and jog to catch up to Cole. He points to the last few riders spilling off the yellow school buses.

  “We’re not late!”

  Then he stops short and screws up his face in outrage. Out comes a shriek, sent straight up to the milky-white sky. “It’s Blue Day! I was supposed to dress in blue!” Tears spring from his eyes as if they have been ready on standby.

  As I glance at the other children going in, I have a vague recollection of an email about Blue Day, a show of solidarity with all the endangered marine mammals of the earth.

  “Your shirt has blue in it, look.” I unzip his pink hoodie coat and run a finger along a sky-blue strip of material.

  Cole snaps at me like a cornered dog. “No! It’s striped. That doesn’t count. I need to go home and change.” He stomps his foot once and then, pleased with the sound, a few more times.

  “Honey, it’s too late.”

  “You forgot to tell me.” He zeroes in on my face. “You forget everything.”

  His accusation stings. A woman in an orange safety vest approaches and, after a few tense words, ushers Cole inside the building.

  I turn and hurry back up the hill toward home, passing a black Audi with Virginia plates. The car is parked across from the school on the side of the street that is supposed to remain clear during school hours. This is the kind of infraction that brings down the wrath of the PTA moms, and sure enough, Vicki comes striding across the street toward the car. The first three license plate letters are FCS, which remind me of Sharon’s favorite expression—“For cripes’ sake.”

  I have no desire to cross paths with the woman who humiliated me over mini–hamburger buns on Saturday night, so I quicken my step to avoid having to pass her. I’m feeling raw and vulnerable; I don’t have the energy to even pretend to be friendly.

  Vicki is sure to have heard about me and Rob Avery. Maybe she’s even seen the photo. It’s possible she even took it.

  I chide myself for my paranoia. There has to be a reasonable explanation for everything.

  I sense someone behind me and turn to see Daisy and another woman hurrying toward me. It’s too late to turn away, so I offer a small smile, hoping they will walk past. But as they near me, they slow down. All the muscles in my neck tighten.

  “Good morning, Allie,” Daisy says, falling into step beside me. “Do you know Priya? Priya Carmichael, this is Allie Ross. Priya is Micah’s mom. He’s in first grade.” Turning to Priya, she adds, “Allie and her family just moved into the Vanniers’ old house.”

  I keep walking, sure that my distress shows on my face. I was photographed, without my knowledge, at the neighborhood pool. I remember the day well. The morning after we moved all our furniture and boxes in, Leah knocked on the door and introduced herself and Ava. Come to the pool, she said, explaining that although there was a seven-year wait list to become a member, we could be her guests. It’s going to be a hundred degrees.

  “I love the Vannier house,” Priya says. Her long, thin face and black eyes remind me of a Modigliani painting. “It’s so funny,” she adds, “I’ve seen you at drop-off, but I figured you were a nanny, you look so young.”

  Priya reaches out a slender hand and touches me, sending a shudder down my forearm. I move my arm away, shoving my hands into my coat pocket.

  “I want you to know that you should pay no attention to what people are saying about you and Rob Avery.”

  I stop short. “I’m sorry, what are people saying?”

  Priya looks nervously to Daisy for guidance. “Oh, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’m not upset,” I say through clenched teeth. “I just don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, some people are saying you were having an affair, and now that there’s attention being paid to his death, you’re claiming he sexually assaulted you.”

  I gasp. “What? Who said that?”

  “I don’t believe it for a minute.” She holds her hands to her chest.

  “Priya is a counselor at Georgetown.” Daisy wears an earnest expression on her round face. “Isn’t that right, Priya?”

  Priya nods. “Yes. I run the sexual assault survivors’ program there. I always believe women.”

  “In fact, Priya’s the one who found us a therapist for Gabriella.”

  “Is that working out?” Priya asks.

  Daisy lets out a little guffaw. “Don’t ask me. Gabriella tells me nothing. Although, I heard her throwing up in her bathroom last night, so I wonder if the bulimia is back.”

  “I’m sorry, ladies, but I have to get to work.” I turn and continue walking. Ridiculous. Every woman in this neighborhood appears to know what happened at Daisy’s party, and they seem to feel entitled to pick at my experiences the way little boys gleefully pick the legs off insects. And as sweet as Daisy is, it is obvious she cannot keep a confidence—whether it’s about me or her stepdaughter’s problems.

  “Bye, Allie!” Daisy calls. I turn and wave goodbye.

  A mucky sense of unease envelops me as I drive down Mass Ave. toward D.C. Things are spinning out of my control. I’d rather be a nobody to the moms in the neighborhood than a topic of gossip. What happened at Overton scarred me. How quickly everyone turned against me.

  The whispers of Sexy Lexi.

  The police showing up during math class.

  I shake the awful memories away. Maybe I’m just not used to having girlfriends. Take Daisy: while she overshares, she is also kind and loyal and clearly knows how to make and keep friends. I will try to stop reacting so negatively to everyone’s concern. I want friends. I need them. The kind of support network you read about in books, a group of women who show up for each other. And that begins with me giving people the benefit of the doubt.

  The car speaker shrills with an incoming call startling me. It’s Mark.

  “Hey, hon,” he says. “I’m heading into a meeting, but I wanted to let you know that I talked to a guy from law school who’s now a criminal lawyer—”

  “You did? Why?” The words criminal lawyer immediately trigger a sense of guilt.

  “Hold on, I was just running the scenario by him. What happened to you at Daisy’s party and what you should do.”

  “Let me guess. He says that I should tell the police everything.”

  “Actually, yes. You have nothing to hide.”

  A tiny laugh escapes me, not loud enough for Mark to hear. As if having nothing to hide has ever helped a woman who’s been assaulted.

  “He strongly recommends that you lay out the facts as soon as possible. He knows a criminal defense lawyer who can go to the police with you if that’s what you want. The lawyer’s name is Artie Zucker. I think we should call him.”

  “Right, because nothing sends the message that you have done nothing wrong like hiring a criminal defense lawyer.”

  “I know you don’t want to talk to the police. And I don’t blame you. If it were just a matter of what happened at Daisy’s party, it would be one thing, but Allie, a guy is dead. Murdered.”

  “I’m not guilty of anything, Mark.”

  “This is D.C. Everybody has a lawyer. It’s like having a dentist. Tell you what, I’ll call him.”

  “No. I can do it. Just text me his info.”

  We say goodbye just as traffic slows to a halt outside the vice president’s residence at the Naval Observatory. A caravan of black Lincoln Navigators emerges like a giant snake from the property onto Mass Ave. I know Mark is right, but I can’t shake the sense of unease, a sort of dark, swampy feeling in my gut that I am being pulled into some dark vortex that is going to swallow me whole.

  Those detectives are probably getting all kinds of “tips” about my supposed affair with Rob, and it would probably be better just to tell them what happened. Not that I’m looking forward to it.

  And then I see it.

  The black Audi with FCS on the Virginia plates. It’s right behind me.

  17

  At Dupont Circle,
I take a different route than normal, winding my way through the neighborhood. The Audi falls back, but never out of sight.

  A flash of red before my eyes. I slam on the breaks just inches from a woman pushing a stroller across a marked intersection.

  The woman stops and wags her finger at me. “You crazy bitch!” she shouts. “Watch where you’re going!”

  My heart thumps like a drum as I drive on, eyes glued to the road. She’s right. I am crazy. I’m becoming paranoid. So a car from my neighborhood is heading in the same direction I am. Lots of people have reason to be driving into downtown D.C. this hour. It doesn’t have to mean something.

  Sure enough, by the time I get down to H Street, the Audi is nowhere in sight. I need to get a grip, I tell myself as I park the car and walk to my office. I can’t let neighborhood gossips get to me.

  “Good morning,” I say and put my laptop down on an empty table. I want to contact Tinder as soon as possible, but I don’t want to be rude to my boss.

  “Hey, Allie. Any chance you could edit the Dwayne-and-Kylie shoot today? I told them we’d expedite it.”

  “Of course.” I boot up my laptop. Dwayne and Kylie are planning the perfect wedding, and they want engagement pics that Dwayne can send to his family in Trinidad. Normally, engagement shoots are a breeze, but their newborn was being very fussy that day.

  Mike grabs his jacket and stops in front of my desk. “I’m heading out for coffee. You want an espresso?”

  “Yes, please. Double.” I hand him my Chicago Art Institute travel mug. It turns from pink to blue when filled with hot liquid.

  He laughs. “Rough night?”

  “Yeah, drama in the suburbs.” I mean my tone to sound light. Mike frowns.

  “Everything all right at home?” Mike is a sensitive guy who likes to take the emotional temperature of everyone he meets. Divorced for about three years from his high school girlfriend, he had kids early, and now his twin daughters are already in middle school. I’ve heard him drop comments about his online dating experiences, and I consider mentioning the Tinder issue to see if he has any insight. But I decide against it, not because he wouldn’t listen but because I want him to leave so I can email Tinder.