I’m here.
When his reply came, a few seconds later, she stopped chewing and stared at the little words on her screen. It was so odd to have them directed at her. Completely improbable.
I think I like you. A lot.
“Shit,” she said.
Another noise came from upstairs. This time it wasn’t Jude. It was Mitch, and he was coming down the stairs. Quickly, like a reflex, she turned her phone off and shoved it under some dishes in the drying rack.
When he appeared in the kitchen, it was clear that he’d come to find her. His hair was sticking up at the back of his head. “What’re you doing down here?” he asked.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she said.
He scratched his stomach. “Too much caffeine today?”
“Probably,” she said, which was true. She had too much caffeine every day.
“You want me to put you in a sleeper hold?” he said. “I watched a lot of wrestling when I was a kid. I can knock you right out, Iron Sheik–style.”
“No thanks,” she said.
They both looked up at the ceiling. Another noise. The smallest one yet.
“Emily,” Mitch said.
They listened to the sound of her footsteps and waited.
“Was she still in our bed when you came down?” asked Jessica.
“Yeah,” he said. “Racked out.”
They kept looking at the ceiling. A thud, then a shuffle—like a little girl walking quickly. The noise stopped, and then there was nothing. The air conditioner clicked on and ran gently, like a faraway train.
“Maybe she went back to her room,” said Jessica.
“Maybe,” he said. “I just dealt with Jude.”
“You did? How?”
“Sleeper hold,” he said. “He’ll be out till tomorrow. It’s really effective.”
“Nice,” she said. “Want an Oreo?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
As she watched him chew, she decided not to tell him about Ryan. Not now, anyway. Her husband was a handsome guy. He always had been, and he still was. But at that moment, standing in their kitchen beside a superfluous wall in plaid boxer shorts from Target and a stretched-out T-shirt, he looked tired and unmistakably middle aged. Vulnerable in a way he hadn’t looked when he was younger. Telling him then just didn’t seem fair. So instead, she reached for him and smiled. “Come on. Let’s go up. We can eat Oreos in bed till we fall asleep, like sad people.”
Mitch looked down at her hand on his arm. “You taking a break from being married to me?”
“What?” she said, startled.
He laughed. “I’m kidding. Look, you’re not wearing your rings.”
It was one of a hundred little inside jokes, refined over fifteen years. When she took her rings off to cook or work in the yard or do the dishes, he always made this same harmless comment. “Taking a break from being married?” But this time her rings weren’t on the windowsill in the kitchen, or in their bathroom beside her sink. They were in Ryan’s room, miles away. She’d forgotten them there. Fuck. How could she be so stupid?
“Mitch,” she said. “I did it.”
“You did what?”
“I had sex with someone.”
20
Emily was alone in the woods out behind the house.
She was having a dream. And in that dream, she was cold and wet and lost. She didn’t have a jacket to wear, just pajamas, and she was shivering.
She hadn’t seen E.T. specifically, but she was pretty sure he was out there, hiding in the trees somewhere, looking for her, which was scary, because the E.T. that existed in the movie—the cute, harmless blob of a candy-eating alien—looked nothing like the E.T. that her brain had concocted.
That E.T. had teeth and jagged fingernails and pale, white, dead skin, and his breathing was like a wet hiss. That E.T. was getting closer.
It was the snap that woke her up with a start—a sound in her dream like twigs and branches breaking. Her eyes popped open, and she was looking at her mom and dad’s ceiling fan. She was in their room, lying on their floor bed. She’d climbed in earlier, carefully, so they wouldn’t wake up and make her go back to her room.
She reached for her mom first, and when she wasn’t there, she reached for her dad. When she realized they were both gone, she was terrified.
“Mommy?” she whispered. “Daddy?”
The terror she felt only got worse when she saw the figure in the corner of the room.
Moonlight slipped in through the blinds and reflected off her mom’s mirror, which was just enough light to see the E.T.-shaped shadow lurking in the corner. It started to move. It had yellow eyes that glowed in the dark, and it had a long, wormlike neck. “Elliott,” it said. “Elllllioooott.”
That was it. Emily took off running.
The plan was to jump into bed with Jude and burrow in next to him. He wasn’t an adult, but he was better than nothing, so he’d have to do.
Jude wasn’t sleeping, like she figured he’d be. When she got to his room, she found him sitting bolt upright in his bed with his night-light on, counting. “Twelve, thirteen, four—” He stopped when he saw her. “What?” he asked.
“Can I tell you something?”
“Yeah.”
“I saw E.T.”
“I think I did, too,” said Jude. “Where’d you see him?”
“Mommy and Daddy’s room. What about you?”
Her brother looked at the doors to his closet. “Never mind,” he said. “It’s not important.”
“Mommy and Daddy are gone.”
“What? No they aren’t. I saw Dad just now. I think Mom’s downstairs or something.”
Emily stood biting her nails. “I think I was the one who broke their bed.”
“What?” Jude said. “Dad said it broke by itself.”
“No,” said Emily. “A while ago. I was jumping on it while Daddy was in the shower, and I heard cracks. The wood part.”
“Oh.”
“I think that’s why it broke while they were sleeping. The cracks turned into big cracks.”
“You’re gonna be in trouble.”
“Don’t tell them. You won’t, will you?”
“Okay,” said Jude. “I won’t.”
Emily looked at her brother’s desk. He had his Legos set out, and she wasn’t allowed to touch them. “Why were you counting?”
“When?”
“Just now.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Yeah, you were. I heard you. You were on fourteen, but you stopped. Are you counting things?”
“No,” he said. “I’m practicing being brave.”
The light from the night-light made the Lego shadows tall against the wall, like monsters.
“How do you do that?”
“It’s easy. If something’s scary, you just count.”
Emily didn’t get what her brother was talking about, but she was afraid that asking more questions would annoy him, and he’d tell her to go away. “Can I practice being brave with you?” she asked.
Jude looked at his closet again. “Okay. But if you fall asleep, you have to stay still. You kick too much, and this bed is small.”
Emily agreed: No kicking. Jude pushed over, and she climbed in beside him. He had two pillows—one Transformers and one Boba Fett. He gave her Boba Fett, and she balled it up and settled in. “You’re sure they’re not gone?” she asked. “They wouldn’t leave us alone, right? By ourselves?”
“No,” he said. “Not till we’re older. They’re just…somewhere else. That’s all.”
Emily looked up at the stickers on Jude’s ceiling. They didn’t glow much, because he had so many lights on. “A lot of your stars are peeling off,” she said. “They’re gonna fall soon.”
“I know.”
“That one there. And that one, too. And that one.”
“I know.”
Jude didn’t have any stuffed animals in his room. Emily wished she’d grabbed one of hers earlier, but there was nothing she could do about it now. “I was thinking,” she said.
“About what?”
“You know how sometimes, when I jump on Daddy, I accidentally hit him in his privates and he gets hurt?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, if we see E.T. again, maybe we should kick him in his privates. Then he won’t be able to hurt us.”
“I don’t know if E.T. has privates,” said Jude. “They didn’t show them in the movie, I don’t think.”
“Everyone has privates. And Daddy said that boy privates hurt really bad when they get hit.”
“Maybe,” said Jude.
“Is E.T. even a boy?”
“I think so.”
The house made a few house noises, and Emily tried to put E.T. out of her mind. “So,” she said. “Should we start counting?”
“Okay,” he said. “Yeah.”
“Should we start at fourteen? That’s where you left off.”
“No. Let’s start over at the beginning.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”
Jude said, “One,” and after a brief pause, he said, “two.”
Emily was unsure of herself. She didn’t want to do it wrong—go too fast or too slow—but she joined him on “three,” and they fell into a pretty nice rhythm. One number after another, their voices in sync, brother and sister.
“Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten…”
21
All those goddamn movies.
All those heated conversations between famous actors and actresses.
Mitch thought of dozens of them, but somehow he couldn’t think of any quite like this. He considered pouring himself a glass of alcohol—scotch, maybe—but what, really, would that do for him? Drinking steadied some guys. Mitch just got dumber and progressively less coordinated.
“Are you all right?” asked Jessica.
Was he? He didn’t know.
She was sitting on the kitchen island now, her legs tucked up under her, like she was bracing for something. “Mitch?” she said.
“I’m okay,” he said. “It’s just…that was really fast. I didn’t think it’d be so quick. Did you, like, walk down the street, point at a guy, and say, ‘Excuse me, would you like to have sex?’ ”
“Do you really want that to be one of your questions?” she asked.
Right. The Rules. Apparently they were sticking to them. He couldn’t remember which number that was, but he had three questions, which, he suddenly realized, was hardly any. “No,” he said. “It was hypothetical. Hypothetical questions don’t count.”
“Noted,” she said. “I’ll remember that.”
He walked in a small circle, and then walked it again, from the sink to the island to the cupboard and back again.
“I take it you haven’t yet?” she said.
“Haven’t what?”
“Done it?”
“No,” he said. “I haven’t. I would’ve mentioned it.”
“Have you tried?”
“Wait, do you get to ask questions, too? How does this work? And exactly whom would I be trying to have sex with in the last seventy-two hours? I only talk to you and a bunch of teenagers.”
“We’re just talking,” said Jessica. “People ask questions when they’re talking. For example, are you breathing right now?”
He let out a breath. “Yes.”
“Good.”
“No, I haven’t tried. I don’t really remember how to try. How did I get you to sleep with me?”
“You were very charming.”
“I was?”
“Accidentally so,” she said. “Which was especially charming.”
“It’s easier for you,” he said. “It’s easier for women. You can have sex with anyone you want.”
Jessica nodded. “I don’t usually go for generalizations like that. But I’m beginning to realize that you’re probably right. It’s easier for us.”
“When did you do it?” he asked. It seemed like a good place to start.
“Today,” she said.
“Today? Like, today today? What time? No, wait, that doesn’t count. But seriously…today?”
She nodded again.
She’d come home that evening with a sports bra and some Orioles T-shirts. “Jesus Christ. Did you fuck somebody at the Under Armour store? Those dressing rooms are huge.”
She laughed.
“Is this funny?” he said. “I don’t think it’s funny. I actually might throw up in the sink.”
“No, it’s not funny. But that was a funny question. And you’re not allowed to be mad at me, Mitchell. I understand that this is a weird situation. And if the situation was reversed—which, at some point, it will be—I wouldn’t know exactly how to deal with my feelings either. But this is part of it. We agreed to this. Remember?”
Fuck. She was right. He took another breath.
“And no, I didn’t have sex with someone at the Under Armour store. I’m not counting that one, by the way. It’s a freebie. You’re welcome.”
“Thanks.” He asked his second official question without thinking about it. “You took your rings off? Why did you do that?”
Her face changed. It went softer—sweeter. “Mitch, it was just a matter of logistics. Rings cause confusion. It’s hard to explain.”
“And you left them there?”
“Is that question three?”
“Two-B,” he said.
“Yes. I know that’s gross and shitty. I was flustered. It was all very…flustering. You’ll see what I mean. Don’t worry. I’ll get them back. It’s not a problem.”
Neither of them said anything for a while. He did a few more circles. She untucked her legs and let them dangle freely over the kitchen island.
“Where did it happen?”
“In the city.”
“That’s not what I meant. Where specifically?”
“A house.”
“Fuck.”
“Would a hotel be better? A car?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
He had more questions to ask her, of course. An endless supply of them. And, to his credit, they weren’t all about the guy’s penis. He wanted to know what he was like. What he looked like. Did he do anything weird? How tall was he? Was he older? Was he younger? Was he a motherfucking Yankees fan? Did he have tattoos? What kind of music did he like? Why did that matter? He didn’t know, but it did. Did he have a stock portfolio? Was he foreign? Did he have an accent? Did he work in the city? Who did he vote for in the last election? What was his social security number? Was he married, too? Was he divorced? If so, why? Was he nice to her? Why him? It could’ve been anyone, right? Why this guy? Did he talk dirty to her? Did she talk dirty to him? If so, what did she say, word for word? Could she type out their entire interaction in Microsoft Word so he could read it? Did he wear cologne? Was he a cologne guy? Did she have an orgasm? If so, how did that orgasm compare to every orgasm she’d ever had with him? To every orgasm she’d ever had in her entire life?
But technically he was out of questions, and none of those questions mattered as much as what he really wanted to know.
“How did it feel?” he said.
She blinked.
“I don’t mean specifically,” he said. “Not biologically. I know how sex feels.”
“What do you mean, then?” she asked. “You’re over on your questions, by the way.”
“Fuck the Rules.”
She hopped down off the island
and stood, which meant she was looking up at him. He leaned back against the counter. They were in their spots now—the places where they stood for serious conversations—as if these exact spots had been assigned by the realtors at escrow.
“I mean, how did it feel? You know. To do it?”
She looked out the window over the sink. “I’m going to be completely honest with you, okay?”
“Okay,” he said.
“That’s the point of this, right? This entire experiment? This thing? We’re being honest with each other?”
“Yes. We are. Honest.”
“And what I’m about to say has nothing to do with you. Okay? You’re my husband, and I love you.”
“All right.”
Maybe he should throw up in the sink, he thought. At the very least, it would delay her saying what she was about to say. Of course, he wanted her to say that it was bad. Mediocre at best. Awkward. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, and she didn’t know what to do with hers. It was a regrettable experience all round, an intellectual exercise more than a physical one, in retrospect, like switching long-distance providers just to see what happens. It meant nothing. That was not what she was going to say. He knew that.
“It felt like being alive again.”
22
Mitch had no idea what in the hell he was doing.
He probably could’ve guessed that’d be the case if he’d thought it through. But thinking hadn’t really been a part of this operation. Not realistic thinking, anyway.
The idea of having sex with other women at age forty, it turned out, was a lot like the idea of summiting a towering, snowcapped mountain in some far-flung country. Great in theory, but not so easy to pull off.
If he’d thought it through, he also could’ve guessed how much easier it was going to be for Jessica.
No, she hadn’t walked down the street, pointed at some guy, and said, “Excuse me, would you like to have sex?” It was more nuanced than that, he assumed, but if he was being honest, she probably could have. She was an attractive, intelligent woman with a lovely body and the slightest, faintest, barely-there-est lisp, and men are stupid, monkey-brained sex monsters. The odds were definitely in her favor.
In the last week, Mitch had made two and a half attempts to engage in conversation with women he didn’t know. He was casual about it, because he remembered people always suggesting that, back in his single days. “Just be casual. Be yourself.”
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