I Don't Forgive You

by Aggie Blum Thompson

  “I don’t know either! I swear.”

  He taps at the phone. “M is working late,” he reads in a monotone voice. “And I am horny as hell.” He looks up at me. “I suppose I’m M, right?”

  “No, Mark. You’re not M, because this is fake. I told you.” My voice cracks with exasperation. Hasn’t he been listening to what I’ve been telling him these past few days?

  “How about this one?” He scrunches up his face and continues in that fake high-pitched tone. “Can’t wait until tonight. M will be there, so we’ll have to be careful.”

  I put my hand on the phone. “Stop it. Enough.”

  He tosses me the phone, startling me, but I catch it.

  “You know I didn’t write that.”

  “I don’t know what to think, Allie.”

  “Fine.” I yank open the front door. “Just go to your baseball game. I’ll keep dealing with this. I’ve contacted Tinder. I’ve contacted Facebook.”

  “You can’t blame me for being upset.” His face is red. “I mean, how would you feel if it were the other way around and you found this shit on my phone?” A man in a neon-green vest glares at us as he runs by pushing a jogging stroller.

  “You can be upset and still believe me. I’m upset, too. This is happening to me, Mark. To me!”

  A brown sedan with an Uber sticker pulls up.

  “That’s your ride.”

  Mark walks down the path to the car.

  I am half hoping he leans in the open window and tells the driver to take off, that he’s changed his mind and won’t need an Uber after all. I want him to want to stay, not because there’s anything he can do to fix this tonight but just because he doesn’t want me to be alone. But I can’t find the words to ask for what I want, and standing in the doorway with my arms crossed, I can feel the sour look on my face.

  I wait at the open door until my husband climbs into the car and it drives away.

  Then I look down at the phone in my hand, scanning all the messages, supposedly from me, to Rob Avery.

  I want to feel you rub your cock against me.

  I want your hands between my legs.

  Be aggressive, don’t take no for an answer.

  Seeing these words, I realize that I lied to Mark.

  Those are my words. Only I didn’t type them to Rob Avery. I wrote them to Paul Adamson, sixteen years ago.

  26

  When I enter the kitchen, Susan stops unpacking the groceries I brought home earlier, a box of baking soda in one hand and a stick of butter in the other. “Everything all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.” I plaster a smile on my face.

  “You don’t look fine,” she says.

  “Long day, that’s all.” I go to the fridge, grateful for the half-full bottle of wine. I pour myself a tall glass, aware that she is watching me. But I don’t care. Let her judge.

  “Well, the soup’s on the stove, ready to eat. My mother always said there’s nothing a hot bowl of soup and a warm bath can’t fix.”

  “You’re probably right,” I say. “Thank you for everything.”

  After Susan leaves, I ladle out two bowls of soup, one for Cole and another for me. Cole wrinkles his nose. “I don’t like cooked vegetables,” he says, peering into the bowl. “I want mac and cheese.”

  I am about to launch into a tirade about how you get what you get, and you don’t get upset, when I realize I do not have the strength. “You got it.”

  “Really?” His eyes bulge with shock at my easy acquiescence. “With apple slices?”

  “No problem.”

  “Skinny slices, not fat.”

  “Sure.”

  After dinner, I even let Cole have a bowl of Lucky Charms for dessert. Then I tuck him into my bed, along with about a dozen stuffed animals. When he asks if he can watch a PG-13 movie, I consent.

  “Why not?” I ask. “I watched Basic Instinct when I was twelve, and I turned out all right.”

  He scrunches up his nose. “What’s Basic Instinct?”

  I tuck the blanket tight around his legs. “That was just a joke.”

  “Were you and Daddy fighting with that lady?”

  I flinch. Cole was listening after all. “No, not fighting. Just discussing a few things.” I brace myself for him to ask me what, but he changes tack.

  “Are you getting divorced? Dylan’s parents are getting divorced. She’s moving to an aparterment.”

  “Apartment,” I correct him. “But no, Mommy and Daddy are not getting divorced. Sometimes grown-ups get mad, just like sometimes kids get mad.”

  “But if you do get divorced, can I get a bunny? Dylan’s getting a bunny.”

  “Watch the movie, Cole.” I kiss his forehead and leave the room.

  I’m on the landing, on my way down to the kitchen for more wine, when I hear a scraping sound come from the living room. I grip the banister and listen. The sound repeats. It’s like something being dragged across the floor.

  Could be Mark is home from the game, but it’s way too early.

  My skin prickles as I tiptoe down the stairs. From the foyer, I can see the lights are on in the living room. I can’t imagine what he would be doing in there. My breath quickens. I enter the room. A crouching figure shoots up, and I let out a yelp.

  It’s Leah. She rushes to me. “Hey, you all right?” She embraces me. “I’m sorry I freaked you out. Your back door was unlocked.”

  I offer a weak smile, struggling to catch my breath. “No, it’s okay, I’m just not used to—”

  “I’m so sorry! I’m just used to popping in on friends.”

  “Right. I’m just a little … I’m not used to it is all. And with everything going on—”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just wanted to check on you. See if you had any luck today, you know, with Facebook and everything.” Then she hoists a bottle of white wine that was sitting on the coffee table. “And I wanted someone to drink this Kim Crawford with me.”

  I force a laugh, flooded with relief. “I’d love to split that with you. But hold on.”

  I run upstairs to make sure Cole is occupied with his movie and find him out cold, snoring, legs akimbo. I shut the television and lights off and close the door.

  Back downstairs, Leah has found the wineglasses and is looking through a stack of framed photographs leaning against the wall.

  “Haven’t quite gotten around to hanging those,” I say.

  “These are wonderful. Did you take them?”

  “Eons ago.” I unscrew the wine and pour us each a glass.

  Leah peers at the photographs, a series of outtakes from weddings in San Francisco. None are of brides, or bridesmaids, or grooms. There’s the elderly aunt relegated to the corner of the reception room, leaning on her walker, in her brocade vest. The flower girl hiding beneath the rickety stairs of the old farmhouse, mud streaked across her dress, terrified her mother will be mad.

  “You’re really talented. I have zero creative ability. Former lawyer.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” I say, adding a “Thank you.” Leah curls herself into one of the wingback chairs, and I sit on the floral sofa.

  “Nice sofa,” she says and laughs.

  “It was my mother-in-law’s.” At night, the bare windows and minimal furniture lend the room the feel of a theater set after everyone has gone home. The awful cement-colored walls that Daisy once called “greige” don’t help.

  “How did the visit with Jeff Crosetti go? I noticed the posts are gone from the Eastbrook page.” She sips her wine.

  I describe my interaction with Crosetti.

  “Well, that’s good news, right?”

  “Well, neither Facebook nor Tinder has been the least bit helpful.” I bite my lower lip, a stinging sensation building behind my eyes. Don’t cry, I tell myself. Leah frowns.

  “But what?” she asks.

  I hesitate. “Did you see the blue BMW that was parked outside my house earlier?”

  She scrunches up her nose. “Maybe?�
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  “Well, it was Vicki.”

  “Vicki Armstrong? The PTA president?”

  I fill her in on what happened, my face warming as I recount the conversation and the embarrassing texts. “The worst part is that Mark saw them.”

  “But he believes you, right? That you didn’t write them.”

  I cringe. I did write them. And Madeline found them and posted them online, where my entire school could read them. “It was really awful.”

  “He’s in shock; give him some time. I mean, what would you think if you were in his shoes, and some woman showed up at your house, and the Tinder app was on his phone?”

  “The app is on my phone, but I swear, Leah, I did not put it there. I know that sounds crazy.”

  “I believe you, I really do.” She gathers her thick dark hair over one shoulder and begins braiding it. “You know that apps can be remotely installed, right?”

  “They can?”

  “Sure. If your phone is synced to your computer. Is your phone synced to your home computer?”

  “Yes, everything—all our iPads and iPhones—are all synced up.”

  “Well, there you go.” She raises her glass and takes a sip.

  “How do you know about all this?”

  She fixes her large eyes on me. “Believe me, I wish I didn’t. Let’s just say parenting Dustin has meant learning more about technology than I would like.”

  “Got it.” I wonder if I should mention Dustin’s proposal to help me, but I don’t. Something tells me she wouldn’t like it.

  “Basically,” she says, “anyone who had access to your computer could have downloaded that onto your phone.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. “This is so out of control. I don’t know how to fix this.”

  “Hopefully, there will be a break in the case soon, the police will arrest someone, and all this gossip will die down.”

  I look at Leah and nod. But inside I am less confident. I’m worried about the way the police have focused on me and might not be looking at other suspects. I’ve read about that happening; it’s how innocent people end up in prison.

  “You have to find out who’s doing this to you. Do you still think it might be that ex-boyfriend from high school?”

  I pick at a loose thread on the arm of the sofa. “I do. It’s the only person I can think of who might be angry with me. And also, there are just these little things that very few people know about.”

  “You mean the nude photo?”

  “Yeah. And a few other things.”

  “Is he in the D.C. area now? It would have to be someone who knew you then and lives here now.”

  I take a large gulp of wine. I’ve been thinking the exact same thought, but to hear Leah articulate it makes me realize how strange it would be. “I’ve never had any luck tracking him down. His name is so common, I’ve never gotten anywhere online.”

  “What about other friends from high school? Anyone here now?”

  “Actually, yeah. My closest friend from back then, Madeline Ashford, lives in Arlington. We haven’t spoken in ages. I’ve reached out to her, but we haven’t connected yet.” I shake my head, trying to think. “There really isn’t anyone else. I don’t really have friends from school. I was only there for two years. After that nude photo made the rounds, I left the school. They let me graduate early. I think they wanted to avoid any kind of lawsuit. I left for California and never looked back.”

  “Lawsuit?” Leah frowns.

  I’ve said too much. The wine has loosened my thoughts, and I’m having trouble remembering which bits of my story I’ve shared and which I’ve not.

  “What happened, Allie? Was it something with that guy in the photo?”

  My whole throat seizes. I don’t want to lie anymore. I don’t want to drag this cloak of shame with me everywhere I go. I want to lay it at my friend’s feet and let her kindness begin to heal me. “He was my photography teacher.”

  Leah brings a hand to her mouth. I don’t know if she’s judging me or is just shocked. Now that I’ve started telling her the truth, I don’t want to stop. “It was a huge deal. He got fired. The police got involved, although nothing ever came of that. I was gone by then.”

  “Oh, Allie. I’m so sorry.” Leah slides forward in the chair and reaches out across the coffee table for my hand. I let her squeeze it for a few seconds and then pull back.

  “I can’t believe I just told you that. I have never told anyone since it happened.”

  “Anyone?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. Not even Mark. I just wanted so badly for it to be in my past. And for a while I was able to even forget sometimes, you know? Like how they say you shed your skin every seven years and become a new person? That was the old me. I didn’t want to bring that into my new life.”

  “I think you need to tell Mark.” Her voice is very soft. “It’s not your fault, you know. This guy took advantage of you.”

  “You don’t know. I’m the one who pursued him. I used to write him these letters.” I shudder, embarrassed at the memory. They were pornographic ramblings, the pathetic attempts of a high school girl to appear sexy and sophisticated. Never in a million years did I imagine those words would be used against me like this.

  Leah shakes her head. “No, Allie, you can’t believe that. Consent is meaningless in that situation.”

  A silence hangs between us. I have always held myself responsible for my part in what happened. It was what I wanted, after all. I didn’t berate myself. But I did pride myself on not sugarcoating the role I played. I wasn’t like my sister and mother, who never took responsibility for anything that went wrong in their lives. I was different than that.

  “Allie, I’m the mother of a teenager. You have to know that you were just a kid. Kids do dumb things, and the adults are the ones who are supposed to help, not take advantage,” Leah says. “You have to forgive yourself.”

  I try to smile. Instead, I burst into tears. Leah disappears into the powder room and returns with a wad of toilet paper. “You really need to tell Mark.”

  “You sound like my sister.”

  “Your sister’s right.”

  I laugh. “That would be a first.”

  “What if he sees the photo?” Leah asks. “What are you going to say then?”

  “You’re right, that would be awful. I’m going to tell him.” I am not sure how I am going to bring myself to explain to Mark that I slept with my teacher in high school. Mark had always said my past didn’t matter, but he had no idea what was hidden there. Would he think of me differently if he knew the truth?

  Leah pulls me close to her. She smells like vanilla cookies, warm and reassuring. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this,” she whispers. “Don’t you worry.”

  Once Leah leaves, I wander from room to room, shutting off the lights except the one in the front hall, which I leave on for Mark. Then I go upstairs and ready myself for bed.

  At ten, I give up on waiting for Mark to come home. I shut off the television. I drift off into a fitful sleep punctuated by vivid dreams. Sounds from the street wake me every so often, but Mark’s side of the bed remains empty. Still not home.

  Then I dream that I’m back in the Moonlight Motel, lying naked atop the seafoam-green bedspread. Paul kisses first my neck, then my shoulder, then moves down my torso, gaining fervor. I arch my back with each delicious sweep of his lips across my skin. Outside, the roar of the trucks on Route 1 sounds like waves breaking on the shore. I clutch at the popcorn chenille bedspread, balling it in my fist. We’re safe here in our own little paradise.

  I jolt awake. It’s after midnight, and Mark’s still not home. The game must have gone into extra innings.

  Unable to sleep, I go downstairs to pour myself the last of the wine that Leah brought. I turn the lights down low and pace the kitchen in front of our huge picture window that lets in so much sun during the day. I hear distant laughter from the back, where a pedestrian alley cuts behind the houses. The one that connec
ts my house to Rob Avery’s. It would be a one-minute walk, two tops. Is that what the police think? That I snuck out in the middle of the night and went to his house and killed him?

  The laughter rises and falls. It sounds like teenage boys, laughing in that cruel way of theirs. Up until a few weeks ago, the red twig dogwood provided a green curtain of privacy. Now, in October, the denuded shrubs leave me exposed. I wonder if the boys can see me and if it is me they find funny.

  27

  On Friday morning, I wake with a pounding headache to the whir of the blender. Mark is in the kitchen, making his breakfast smoothie. The morning light slices my eyes like a blade. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I look around, disoriented for a moment, until I realize I am on the living room couch. On the floor beside me lie an empty bottle of sauvignon blanc and my laptop. Bits of the night come back to me.

  “Drink this.” He hands me a tall glass with a thick green liquid in it.

  “It looks gross.” I sit up and take it from him. The first sip tastes like freshly mowed grass. Disgusting, but it’s a peace offering, so I finish it.

  “It’s good for you.”

  I do as he says, chug it, and drag myself upstairs for a shower. Afterward, I stare at my dark-rimmed eyes and sallow skin in the mirror. The wine and disrupted sleep are catching up with me. I apply my makeup more thickly than usual, hoping to approximate the glow of a healthy woman. Back in the kitchen, Cole sits cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV, eating cereal, violating our established no-screens-before-breakfast rule. A large, animated pig with an English accent twirls on the screen.

  “Where are the photos, Daddy?” Cole asks during a commercial. “Did you remember to pick them up?”

  “I did, actually,” Mark says. “They’re in an envelope in my bag.”

  Cole rushes to Mark’s cubby in the mudroom. He comes back holding a large manila envelope, struggling with the clasp. He hands it to me to open.

  “Please?” I say and take the envelope from him.

  “Please,” he repeats.

  The return address is not for Kane & Burrows, the law firm where Mark works, but LFW Research. “What’s LFW Research?” I ask, looking up at Mark.