44
Mitch might’ve beaten her home.
And how would that’ve gone, exactly? Him walking in the front door to find his wife gone and his frightened children huddled on the sofa with Luke from next door.
But that’s not what happened.
For Jessica, every traffic light glowed green—an unbroken string of them—from Locust Point down Key Highway, around the Inner Harbor, and onto 83. As for Mitch, as he left Terry’s apartment and got off the elevator in the lobby, instead of making a beeline for the door, he stopped to watch highlights of the Orioles’ dramatic victory on the small TV that the doorman, Gilberto, kept at his desk.
“Four hundred and twenty-five feet,” said Gilberto. “A bomb!” He mimed the shortstop’s perfect swing.
“No shit?” said Mitch. “A walk-off?”
And then, instead of immediately calling an Uber, even though he wanted so badly to look in on his sleeping kids, he decided to hit the all-night convenience store at the end of Terry’s block for a soda. Some caffeine would clear his head for the ride back to the suburbs, and more important, when he kissed Emily’s and Jude’s foreheads in their rooms, maybe he’d smell like a fountain drink instead of beer and tequila.
“Hashtag parenting,” he said to himself, aloud. A couple walking together nearby looked at him, probably wondering if he was insane. “Good evening,” he told them.
Consequently, Jessica and Mitch pulled into the driveway at almost the same time: first Jessica in her car, then Mitch in his Uber.
* * *
—
“Looks like you have a friend, sir,” the driver said.
Mitch looked up, confused. He’d been zoning out in the back seat on the way out of the city and into the burbs, playing on his phone and fielding texts from the Husbands.
Dude, where’d you go?
Did you ghost us?
Mitch “The Phantom” Butler.
He hadn’t even realized the car they were following was Jessica’s until that moment. He finished the last of his soda and dropped it in a small trash bin that hung from the seat in front of him. “That’s my wife,” he said.
* * *
—
Jessica had more time to prepare herself than Mitch did.
She’d watched the Uber in her rearview as it followed her up their street, knowing, somehow, that it was him.
She pulled into the garage and thought about what she was going to say—how she’d explain all of this—as the headlights lit up the driveway behind her. She wondered what would happen if she told him everything. Just one long, rambling release of truth, starting with the feel of Ryan’s number being teased across her wrist at Bar Vasquez and ending with nearly being taken from behind half an hour ago in the city. After all, that was one of the Rules, right? Not a formal one, but probably more important than any of the others. Total honesty.
* * *
—
His Uber backed out and pulled away, and then it was just the two of them there in the driveway. He flipped his wrists gently at his sides, the universal sign for “What the hell’s going on?” Mitch didn’t know where she’d gone, of course, but he knew enough. There were so many questions to ask that he couldn’t decide which one to start with. Instead, all he could think to say was, “Jesus Christ, look at your dress.”
“Mitch,” she said.
He waited.
“We’re gonna go inside, okay? Luke’s in there with the kids.”
“Luke?” He looked next door and thought of Ellen, over there in that dark house somewhere.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’ll explain everything, okay? I promise. But for now let’s just go inside.”
She was walking away from him, toward their front door. “Or maybe you don’t,” he said.
“What?”
He thought of Kristen’s tongue on his neck, of the casual intimacy of leaning into each other like they had. He thought of hiding his ring, and of Ellen pressed up against him, and of dream Jenny in her cross-country outfit and running socks. He didn’t want to tell Jessica about any of it. And he sure as hell didn’t want to hear about her night—about where she’d been and who she’d been with, dressed like that. “What if we just go inside, and that’s it?” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“What if we just tuck the kids in and pretend none of this ever happened? All of it. The whole thing.”
Jessica stepped out of her heels right there in the driveway and stood barefoot, her costume removed. “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” she said. The floodlight behind her lit up an elaborate spiderweb over the garage, like a piece of Gothic artwork.
Mitch nodded.
“Okay,” she said.
She picked up her heels, and Mitch followed her into the house.
45
Scarlett Powers was smiling.
She was an intimidating girl on an ordinary day, but sitting there in Jessica’s office, legs crossed, uniform skirt hiked, she looked positively frightening.
“Sooooooooo,” she said, long and slow. “How ya doin’?”
Jessica held her writing pad in her lap, squeezing the edges. This was their first session since Ryan’s kitchen. She’d been dreading this. It was going to be awkward, obviously; the entire situation was endlessly embarrassing. But more than that she dreaded what she knew she was going to have to do.
She’d played their moment at Ryan’s house over and over in her head. Scarlett standing there in her underwear. Ryan and Darnell frozen to the point of utter stillness, like the dug-up remains of some ancient people wiped out by sudden plumes of volcanic ash.
Jessica cleared her throat. She picked up her pen and then set it back down on her pad. “Scarlett,” she said.
“At first, I seriously thought I was hallucinating,” said Scarlett. “I was like, am I dreaming this? Did Darnell drug me or something?”
“Scarlett,” she said again.
“So, you and Ryan? You’re doing it? He’s like, what, your side piece? How did that even happen?”
“Scarlett, this is a very unusual situation.”
She snorted. “Ya think?”
“Yes, I do.”
“It’s actually kinda funny, you know, from my perspective, if you think about it. The tables have turned pretty hard here, Doc. I mean, we have you slut-shaming me nonstop for, what, like ten months? Like some kinda nun in a convent. And then I find you with JBF hair at my boyfriend’s house. You gotta admit, it’s pretty validating.”
“I haven’t been slut-shaming you,” said Jessica. “Scarlett, is that honestly what you think I’ve been doing?”
“Don’t get me wrong. I don’t blame you. God, look at the guy. I mean, how could you say no to something like that? Girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Hashtag I Want It Too, right? Like we said.”
“It’s not like that,” she said. “It’s not what you think.”
“It is a little sad, though. Mr. Butler and all. I feel bad for him. He’s, like, the only teacher in the whole school that doesn’t make me wanna gouge my eyeballs out from boredom. This oblivious guy, going about his daily English-teacher life, while his wife gets raw-dogged by, like, the hottest guy ever. What if he finds out?”
Jessica gripped the arm of her chair. She imagined Scarlett raising her hand in Mitch’s class. Mr. Butler, I don’t really have a question. It’s…more of a comment.
Scarlett read her perfectly. “Relax. That’s not what I meant. I’m not, like, gonna tell him. This is…this is your shit. He doesn’t have to know. None of my business.”
Jessica didn’t relax, though, and she was fairly certain she never would. Information was like a virus, and this girl was patient zero, wandering carelessly through Smalltimore, talking to everyone she saw.
“So anyway,” said Scarlett. “What’s R
yan like? Is he sweet? I always imagined the two of them running this game, like, two hot guys with a revolving door of vag parading in and out, all day and all night. But I think they’re both a lot more down-to-earth than that, you know. Surprisingly.”
“Scarlett, listen to me,” she said. “In therapy—in this business—for things to work, there need to be boundaries.”
“We’re talking about boundaries again? Come on. I think we’re well past—”
“You’re absolutely right,” said Jessica. “Well, well past boundaries. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. There’s a reason I don’t talk about Mr. Butler in here. Or my children. Or…well, anything, really. My private life. Because if you know too much about me and my life, it compromises us. And you and I having connections, links to each other outside of our working relationship, also compromises us.”
Scarlett’s smile faded for the first time since she sat down. “What’re you saying?”
“I’m saying that, in light of recent events—”
“Are you dumping me?”
“No. It’s not like that. This isn’t something you should take personally. I’ve made a list for you. Some really good therapists that I think you’ll—”
“But you’re my therapist.”
“Scarlett.”
“You’re the fucking voice in my head. Who’s gonna tell me when I’m being a fucking idiot?”
“Well, in fairness, Scarlett, you rarely seem to listen to that voice.”
“Yeah, but I like that it’s there.”
Jessica wasn’t expecting this. This sullen, infuriating girl looked genuinely hurt. Worse, for the first time since Scarlett became her patient, she looked like the kid that she actually was. “I’m touched that our time together has meant something to you. I’ve also enjoyed having you as—”
“Can’t we just, like, erase it? The other night? You saw me in my undies. I saw you with some guy. No biggie. That’s life.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not how it works. You can’t just pretend something didn’t happen.”
Fuck, Jessica thought. She was doing it again. The patient as mirror. The night before, she and Mitch had made fajitas. The night before that, they’d played Connect Four with the kids. They’d ordered a new bed online. They’d pretended nothing had happened.
Honey, use your napkin.
Pass the shredded cheese, please.
Should we stick with a queen, or should we try a king?
“So, that’s it?” Scarlett said. “You can’t keep it in your pants, so I get screwed? I get ditched? Like, what, disposable fucking Scarlett, as usual.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to be like this. You didn’t do anything to deserve this.”
“You know what?” Scarlett said. “Maybe I was wrong before. Maybe Mr. Butler does need to know about this. I mean, it’d be kind of a dick move on my part to just sit there in his class talking about plays and shit while you’re off—”
“Scarlett,” Jessica said.
“What?”
“He knows.”
“What?”
“Mitch knows.”
“He knows? Like, knows knows?”
“Yeah.”
As Jessica said this, it didn’t feel like a lie. And, in some ways, it wasn’t. It was more complicated than simple truth or untruth.
“Goddamn,” said Scarlett. “What the fuck’s wrong with you people?”
46
The school billed itself as “college preparatory.”
The deluxe laminated recruiting brochure, which Mitch helped update and edit every other year, used that term no fewer than a dozen times. The curriculum, environment, extracurriculars, workload, even the sprawling, leafy campus itself, surrounded by woods, were all designed to emulate some of the best universities in the country.
The same went for the faculty. They were high school teachers, but the understanding was that they were to conduct themselves more like college professors. Which was why, on that particular Friday afternoon, his classes done for the week, Mitch found himself sitting in office hours.
The school year was winding down—the students largely checked out—so it was a slow day. Mitch was on his laptop chatting with Alan on Facebook Messenger.
Alan: I’m going to tell her that I love her.
Mitch: Do you think that’s a good idea?
Alan: It’s what I feel.
Mitch: You’ve been drunk a lot since your divorce. Are you thinking clearly?
Alan: Clearer than ever.
Alan included two emojis: a heart and a peach, which symbolized love and…maybe a butt? Mitch briefly flashed forward and imagined the utter absurdity that would be Jenny and Alan’s wedding. There’d be a modern, broken version of the Core Four, scattered about in nice clothes, avoiding eye contact with one another. There’d be twentysomethings galore begging the DJ to cut it out with the vintage rap already. Kristen would be there in a dress. She wouldn’t wear Wonder Woman Vans to a wedding, he guessed, but her shoes would definitely be something interesting, and she’d be looking at Mitch like he was a dick the whole time. Jenny’s parents would be doing their best to smile, despite being heartbroken, because the last thing they wanted for their lovely young daughter was some divorced guy with a fresh coat of cologne and a shitload of baggage. Mitch laughed to himself in his silent little office on the third floor of the English Department.
Jessica and Mitch were done evolving.
At least he thought they were. They hadn’t formalized it, but that was what he’d chosen to believe, based on their driveway conversation from the previous Saturday night. When they’d walked into the house, the kids were watching late-night cartoons with Luke, who’d looked very confused. The kids’ faces were streaked with dried tears. From Jessica and Mitch’s floor bed that night, lying in the dark, Mitch considered saying, “So, ‘The Relaxed Marriage’ is done, right? Now we’re on to the sequel, ‘The Closed Marriage?’ ” It didn’t seem like a moment for Cheever jokes, though, and frankly, he didn’t want to ask—in case she gave him anything other than an immediate and resounding yes. What if this was what she wanted? An open marriage. It was far more comfortable to assume that it wasn’t.
Sure, the metal box in which he kept the image of her with another guy had sprung open a few times that week and melted his face off, like the lost ark in the first Indiana Jones movie. But honestly, isn’t that adulthood in a summary? Constant feelings of pure, overwhelming dread?
Alan: I see my future with her.
“Jesus,” Mitch said, and then, since he was indulging in flash-forwards, he allowed himself a moment to consider what a life with Kristen would be like. He imagined going to concerts and making out in public, because these seemed like the kinds of things one would do with a much younger girlfriend. Although what the hell did he know? Either way, honestly, it sounded exhausting and just plain wrong.
Mitch: If you have babies, will those babies naturally call you grandpa?
Alan: Ha-ha-ha
Mitch: You know, because you’re so old.
Alan: I get it.
Mitch’s office door was open, and there was a knock. When he looked up, Luke stood at the threshold, a huge backpack slung over one shoulder. He wasn’t smiling like he usually did. Luke had been different all week, less engaged in class, less friendly to Mitch.
“Luke,” he said.
“Hey, Mr. Butler.”
Mitch noted that it was Mr. Butler, not Mr. B. “Hold up a sec,” he said. “Let me get rid of someone.”
Mitch: Gotta go, you lovesick asshole.
He snapped his laptop shut.
* * *
—
Luke hesitated to sit down.
That had been his plan—to walk in and sit down immediately and just start talking—but now he wasn’
t sure of himself, so he just hovered there by the door. “Are you busy?” he asked. “I could come back.”
“I couldn’t be less busy if I tried, Luke,” said Mr. Butler. “Sit.”
Luke did, dropping his backpack on the floor with a thud like a small house collapsing. “Why were you with my mom the other night?” That was what he had planned to say. He’d practiced it on the walk up the stairs to the English Department, along with: “Why was she in your car?” and “Why was she upset when she got home?” But he took too long, and Mr. Butler started talking.
“So, 1984. You through it yet?”
“Twice,” said Luke.
“Show-off. Ominous, right? The classics always feel relevant. You could read that thing aloud on CNN and it’d sound like it was written yesterday.”
Luke didn’t say anything. Neither of them did. Whistles blew faintly through the walls from the soccer fields, a few hundred yards away. Now was his chance to talk.
“Listen, Luke,” said Mr. Butler. He put his hands to his chin like he was praying, and then he touched his desk. “The other night.”
Luke hadn’t thought of this—of Mr. Butler bringing it up first. He waited.
“I want to thank you,” said Mr. Butler. “For stepping in there and helping out with Jude and Em.”
“What?” asked Luke.
“Saturday. For babysitting.”
Luke thought of Mrs. Butler’s dress. “Oh,” he said. “Right. Yeah, no big deal. It was nothing.”
“Well, it was appreciated. Really. I don’t…I don’t think that sort of thing will be happening again.”
“Cool. So, why—”
“I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you,” said Mr. Butler.
“Really?”
“School’s almost out. You’ve got the summer to relax. Be a teenager. But when you get back in the fall, we should start seriously discussing your college essays.”
“My essays?”
“Yeah. You’re gonna need them. Part of the application process. Every school requires them. I’m thinking you could craft something on your Romeo and Juliet riff from class. Flesh it out a little. Hope in the face of hopelessness—the power of empathy in fiction. Something like that. It could be great.”
Last Couple Standing Page 21