The Other Mrs. Miller

by Allison Dickson

  “Hello?”

  “Oh. Hey.” Papers shuffling in the background.

  Phoebe waits a few seconds and frowns. “So . . . what’s up?”

  “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to pick up. Was just going to leave you a message.”

  “You could have texted or emailed if you didn’t want to actually speak with me.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” He sighs. “Listen, sorry. I was just calling to let you know I canceled that thing we had planned with Gene and his wife a while back. It was coming up this weekend.”

  It takes her a second to make all the necessary connections in her head. Gene. Gene Fielder, Wyatt’s office mate. He runs a small practice specializing in behavioral therapy for kids. He and his wife, Sarah, are the closest things Phoebe and Wyatt have had to mutual friends in the last couple years, but she can’t even remember the last time she saw them. Christmas? “What thing was that again?”

  “The jazz festival in Englewood.”

  “Ah.”

  Silence. Then he says, “I know you don’t like jazz anyway.”

  “Yeah, I hate it. Funny how you said we wanted to go in the first place.” She knows this is only going to escalate things between them, but she can’t help herself. Every day he seems to bring her a new reason to be annoyed. It isn’t the first time that Wyatt agreed to an activity one or both of them wouldn’t enjoy, just because he doesn’t know how to say no. The jazz festival doesn’t sound like it would be as awful as, say, the time Gene invited them to a sales pitch for a shady timeshare in Florida, but her night would still end with a headache.

  “It was just an attempt to be social. You know, spend time with some friends.”

  She could tell him she actually does have friends and that she’s been plenty social lately, thank you very much, but there has already been one emotional meltdown in this kitchen today, and she’s not going to add to the count. “Then why don’t you go? You don’t need me to be social.”

  Silence for half a minute, then, “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “All right, well if that’s all you wanted, I’ll talk to you later.”

  He starts to say something, but she’s already hanging up.

  * * *

  ■■■

  AN HOUR LATER, the doorbell rings again. Phoebe nearly decides to ignore it and continue watching the mindless reality show she put on to drown out the echoes in her head. But it’s probably Vicki, and she’ll undoubtedly want to smooth things over after this morning. If there even is anything to smooth over. It isn’t like they had a fight. Nevertheless, Phoebe feels like they did, or like some of Vicki’s anger was directed at her, though she can’t understand why.

  Wyatt, in his esteemed-mental-health-expert wisdom, would say it’s projection. Phoebe hasn’t been too pleased with herself lately. Hiding away from the world like a coward to avoid inheriting her father’s disgrace. Lusting after a teenage boy. Allowing her marriage to tumble into disarray. Gaining weight. Drinking like a fish. She’s guaranteed to see her loathing reflected back at her from almost anyone. That’s her problem, not anyone else’s. Vicki isn’t mad at her. She’s just mad all around. And she needs to know someone gives a damn. They both do. Maybe Phoebe will have a turn and tell her all about her so-called charmed life as a ruthless tycoon’s kid.

  She gets up from the couch and peeks through the window to see not Vicki standing on the porch, but Jake. He looks even more solemn than he did earlier, but at least he’s dry in a plain white tee and a pair of jeans. She opens the door.

  “Can I come in?” he asks.

  She stands aside to let him pass and checks the street again. Still no blue car today. This time she takes a second to consult her notebook. The last day she recorded anything was Tuesday morning. It’s now Friday. Maybe a cop paid a visit when Phoebe wasn’t looking. She can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment at the possibility.

  Jake is in the kitchen leaning against the island, his arms folded pensively across him. The silence is so unpleasantly thick she feels close to bursting out with, Gee, isn’t everyone in a fine mood today! Instead she leans against the island next to him. “Want something to drink? Some of your mom’s quiche, maybe?”

  He shakes his head. “I wanted to apologize for what happened earlier.”

  “There’s no need for that. Is everything all right?”

  “For now. We got the water shut off before things got any worse. A plumber is coming this evening. My mom’s over there right now trying to meditate herself out of having a stroke. All of this is so stupid.”

  He runs a hand through his hair, and a few strands flop down near his eye. Almost reflexively, she reaches up and brushes them away, and then realizes immediately how intimate the gesture is. Familiar. She hasn’t actually touched him before. His unwavering stare tells her he’s having a similar thought, but he doesn’t seem put off. Instead, he reaches out to tuck a small wisp of her own hair behind her ear, moving slowly, deliberately, fingertips lingering and then gently gliding down the line of her jaw before falling away. “You had one out of place too,” he says.

  Phoebe busies herself by going to the sink for a glass of water. Even with her back to him, she can still feel his gaze. “It’s only been a few weeks since you got here, you know,” she says. “Things will ease up for your mom soon, I’m sure.” She could just as easily be talking about herself, though inside her, things seem to be doing the opposite of easing up. She forces herself to drink the water. It goes down in hard, audible gulps.

  “I doubt things will get any easier for her.”

  “I’m sure that isn’t true,” she says.

  “Oh, it is. Things aren’t normal for Vicki Napier if she isn’t struggling. A big part of her loves what’s happening right now, because she gets to play victim. It’s just so embarrassing when she goes off like she did earlier. She doesn’t care how it makes other people around her feel. It’s all about her, you know?”

  “Pain and stress can make people selfish without realizing it.”

  “Of course now she feels terrible about how she acted. I told her that wasn’t good enough.”

  “Don’t be harder on someone than they are on themselves, Jake.”

  He sighs. “I know you’re right. But the longer you know her, the more you’ll see what I mean. I know she seems pretty cool at first, but trust me . . .” He trails off. She nearly presses him to finish the thought, but does she really want to know more? At this point, Phoebe feels like she’s peered deeper into the dysfunctional diorama of the Napier household than she cares to. Maybe it’s time to insist on a little more opaqueness, for the sake of remaining good neighbors.

  “Well, I’m prepared to cut her a break and move on. She’s mortified enough. I would be too.”

  “Yes, but I doubt you’d ever act like that.”

  She turns back to him. “You know that for a fact, do you?”

  “I think I have a pretty good idea what you’re like by now.” He grins. A warm ember in her gut pops alight. “You’re cool. Like . . . Blake Lively or Keira Knightley.”

  Phoebe bursts out laughing. “Wow, Jake. Have you been drinking?” She wishes she was. It will take a gallon of wine to mute the girl in her head who’s shrieking over being compared to two beautiful actresses.

  He joins her at the sink, standing close enough to make their shoulders touch. The proximity is maddening, as is the scent of his cologne. “Do you have anything I can do around here today?”

  She tilts her head up to look at him. His eyes are so blue she’s sure she’ll fall in them and drown if she keeps staring. “Jake,” she begins, wondering where exactly she plans to go with this.

  “I just need some kind of distraction. Don’t make me go back over there.”

  “You could always go for another run,” she suggests.

  “I thought about it. But I kind
of prefer your company.” He gently nudges her shoulder with his, another tiny motion bearing a truckload of intimacy.

  Okay, that’s it. Time to be the adult in the room yet again, Phoebe. Acknowledge this thing between you and then send him on his way before you do something really stupid. But her balance is so weak after the morning she’s had. It’s hard to make the right words come out, but she brings them to the edge of her lips and, with effort, pushes them through: “I don’t think you should keep coming over here.”

  He shakes his head. “Please don’t say that.”

  “I have to do the right thing here.” Yes, that’s it. It’s never easy, but it’s always worth it. Is it really, though? The right thing means she’ll go back to sitting alone and eventually drunk in front of the TV. The right thing means likely still being in that same sunken divot in the couch when the guy who knew she hated jazz but still made plans for them to go to a jazz festival comes home to remind her with his sad, mopey face what a coldhearted bitch she is.

  The prospect of doing the right thing isn’t what’s turning her heart into a trip-hammer at full power, or making her feel like she’s standing on a high, narrow ledge with a dubious pair of wings and a strong urge to jump. Maybe that makes the right thing the wrong thing. At least for right now. Oh, the lies we tell ourselves. She shoves that needling voice away.

  Jake turns to her, effectively removing any room for air between them. “I’ll go if you want me to. But why does it feel like we both want something else?”

  Where does he get such confidence at his young age? She opens her mouth to speak, but she can’t make the necessary lie come out. Just see how the next few minutes go. You won’t be able to move past this little infatuation until you’ve let it have its way with you a bit. Think of it as an attempt to cure yourself.

  She kisses him before she can offer up a sane rebuttal to this ridiculous idea. He returns it eagerly, his mouth experienced, but not overly so, more than willing to follow her lead. “We can’t have sex,” she whispers. “I don’t have any condoms.”

  “It’s okay.”

  The longer they kiss, their hands wandering first over each other’s clothes, then beneath them, the more tortured she feels, knowing she can’t have him the way her body craves him most. So she chooses the next best path to satisfaction, taking his hand and guiding it between her legs. He’s more deft than she expects. She pulls him tightly against her as he works, and her orgasm takes her so completely she doesn’t notice until he cries out that she’s dug her fingernails deep into his shoulder. “Sorry,” she breathes, letting him go and leaning back against the counter, her legs too wobbly to hold her upright for the moment. Jake doesn’t look like he’s doing much better as he lets out a long, shaky sigh and resumes his position next to her.

  “Did that really just happen?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I think so.” Acknowledging that part is easy enough. The hard part is admitting that it wasn’t enough. The thing she hoped to exorcise is now fully awake and hungry.

  As if he heard the run of her thoughts, he asks, “Will this be the only time?”

  “You know it can’t become anything more than this, right? I’m married. You’re heading off to school.” I’m also friends with your mother doesn’t feel like it needs to be said. It’s the invisible elephant in the room, one that will likely suffocate her if she lets it.

  “I can handle that.” He lightly strokes her arm, sending a wave of goose bumps down her body.

  She lays her head on his shoulder, and his arm slides around her hips, pulling her closer. Already she feels herself warming to another round, but not before they get some ground rules out of the way. “We have to be so careful. God, if anyone found out about this . . .”

  “Don’t worry. I know how to be careful.”

  She thinks of her friend in the blue car, a potential witness. “You know about the bike path that cuts through the woods behind our cul-de-sac, right?”

  “Sure. I run on it all the time.”

  “Take that when you come and go from now on. Less risk of anyone seeing you.”

  “Okay.” He grins. “I feel a little bit like your coconspirator now.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s one way of putting it.” She’ll take it over “boy toy,” anyway.

  He faces her. At first, he looks serious, but then a glint of fun pops into his eyes. “So I have to ask again. Do you have anything I can do around here today?”

  She can think of a few things.

  ■■■

  INTERLUDE

  I KNOW YOU’VE been busy lately making friends with your new neighbors, but you must have noticed I haven’t been around as much, either. I’m pushing it by being here even now, but I had to stop over before my morning shift. I can’t have you thinking I’ve forgotten you, though at first, I thought maybe you had, with nary a twitch from those front blinds once your husband left for the day. But eventually you came through. A little late, but better than never. It feels good to know you’re still looking out for me.

  You can blame Jesse Bachmann for my absence; the oily little shadow man’s behavior is escalating. He started making things at the store a lot more difficult for me right away, threatening to report me for the tiniest infractions, like clocking in a minute or two late, or not collecting carts from the parking lot at the designated times even though we’re shorthanded at registers. From there, I started noticing more disturbing things, like that the food and drink I’d been leaving in the break room fridge had been tampered with—the sandwich flattened, the seal broken on my bottled water. I threw it all away untouched, and started just buying food from the deli next door.

  And now it’s spilling over into this part of my life. A couple days ago, I received an email containing pictures of my car sitting in this very spot, letting me know he’s been following me outside of work. In spite of this great inconvenience, I can’t help but be impressed by his stalking skills. Where he’ll take it from here is anyone’s guess, but I suspect it won’t be good for me.

  If you were a girlfriend hearing all this, you’d probably think I should be scared right now. You’d probably also ask why I haven’t taken this to the management, or even the police, yet. Unfortunately, everything he’s done so far has been hard to pin directly on him without making me look overly paranoid. So, bearing that in mind, I lined up a little insurance policy against the creep by doing what I do best.

  Yesterday just happened to be inventory day, which tends to go late into the night. I was able to arrange to have the evening off. Bachmann, being on the lowest rung of the supervisor ladder, was not so lucky. He made sure anyone within earshot knew how displeased he was about that. I already knew where he lived. He isn’t the only one who can dig into employee files. Management is lax on keeping that stuff secure.

  True to the cliché of angry social rejects, Bachmann does live with his mother, just not in her basement. He stays in a room above her garage, which is situated behind a tidy little house about eight miles northwest of Lake Forest. There were no cameras or alarms on the premises, at least that my brief sweep could pick up, but the biometric lock he installed on the door was adorable. I only had to pull out a paper clip to pop it open from its manual key backup. But just knowing that he thought it was so much more secure than a high-quality traditional dead bolt told me he had stuff to hide. It felt like Christmas when I made my way inside.

  For all the stock Bachmann put into that fancy smart lock, he didn’t make much effort to conceal things behind that door. Sure, his computer was password protected, like anyone’s these days, but I didn’t need access given what I found left so brazenly in the open. Namely the dozens of printed photos tacked to the wall next to his bed featuring still frames from the store security cameras, all of them female customers and employees, including me. He’d labeled each of them with charming nicknames. Our general manager: Thunder Tits Theresa. One of our n
ight cashiers: Barely Legal Bailey. I was simply labeled “Nasty Whore,” not even worth a clever alliteration. It was the same way he’d addressed me in the emails. Not that I’d needed any more proof that he was the one behind the car photos, but it was a nice bit of corroboration, nonetheless.

  I also discovered his affinity for good old-fashioned yellow legal pads. The towering stack of them next to his bed would have provided days of entertainment if I’d had the time or stomach to read the petulant manifesto of a chronically rejected narcissist, but the one on the very top was good enough for my purposes. I took several pictures of the pages, as well as his photo collage on the wall, before making off with my little jackpot.

  Now I just have to decide what I’m going to do with this information. Do I tell Bachmann what I have on him and force us into a reluctant stalemate? Or do I use the nuclear option and deliver it to Thunder Tits Theresa? Both are tempting for their own reasons. I’ll give it some time to stew.

  I’m here past my normal time, but something else has grabbed my attention since I arrived today, and I want to see it through. Did you happen to notice your new neighbors are running a bit of a drama factory over here? They like leaving their windows open in the middle of summer, which is odd. Maybe the air-conditioning is broken, but whatever the reason, the sound of their fights carries all the way out here, and this morning is no exception. Most of the time, I hear only the husband, but sometimes I hear her too, a softer undercurrent, like the lone flute in a symphony of brass and percussion. It’s hard to make out actual words, but the tone and pitch are telling enough. People who yell like him are broken inside. It reminds me a bit too much of home.