The Other Mrs. Miller

by Allison Dickson

  And speak of the devil. The gentleman of the house appears to have tapped out early. He’s now on the front porch, pacing back and forth, raking his hands through his hair. Cool down, bro, before you have a heart attack. He delivers a swift kick to the porch rail, which must hurt. Those loafers don’t look like they have steel toes. And now he’s glancing my way, which feels like my final cue to go. I know you’re still keeping your eye on me, but I do hope you’re looking out for these people too.

  CHAPTER 7

  THEY’VE BEEN BURIED under the sheets for the last hour, pressed together like a pair of spoons, drowsing in and out of sleep. If she keeps her eyes closed, she can almost pretend this isn’t the boy next door she’s been sleeping with every afternoon for nearly the past two weeks. But if she lies in still silence for too long, a curtain pulls back in her mind, revealing a dark gulf filled with all the worst thoughts. Like that Wyatt could have a canceled appointment and come home early. They may be only a step away from divorce, but the shame if he discovered this would overwhelm her. Even worse would be if Vicki found out, and there are myriad ways she could. Young people in particular can be careless. He might leave his phone in the wrong place, exposing some lurid text or picture they’ve shared. Or one of his shirts carrying Phoebe’s scent might get too close to Vicki’s nose; she’s already complimented Phoebe twice on her choice of Black Opium.

  But plaguing her worse than any nightmare scenario of discovery is the voice of her own conscience, whispering to her that she’s no better than her father. Cheating on her spouse with someone so young is textbook Daniel. As is wallowing in the thrill that such a power dynamic brings. She hates that, of all the behaviors she couldn’t relate to—his drive to hoard money, his crude humor that often strayed into cruelty, his tacky taste in décor and cars—this is the one to which she can. And because of her father, she’s more vulnerable to scrutiny right now. She isn’t directly part of Daniel’s world—doesn’t work for the company, doesn’t speak for him in any capacity—but the Noble name is on a lot of lips lately. If this affair became part of the media’s conversation, the fallout would crush her. And has she forgotten so soon that someone is still watching her? Someone who might be looking for anything at all to blackmail her with? The blue car hasn’t been coming around quite as often lately, but the visits haven’t stopped yet, and she isn’t sure what will need to happen before they finally do.

  She’s behaving more and more like a drug addict, where the fix is everything. It comes in many forms: the first kiss of the day, the feel of his warm skin pressing against hers when they quickly jettison any clothing between them, that moment when she isn’t sure she has one more orgasm in her and then proves herself wrong. The pleasure eclipses any threat of consequences, no matter how dire. Unchecked, it will be her undoing.

  At least there is an expiration date for all of this. In a handful of weeks, he’ll go off to Stanford with a nice packet of memories to keep him warm until he finds someone his own age. Meanwhile, they’ve worked overtime to cram as much as they can into the few stolen hours they have together every day, and in doing so, they’ve rapidly evolved into something more than a fling, which is as lovely as it is troubling. They cook for each other. They watch each other’s favorite shows. They have similar wits, falling more into the irony and humor of a mature couple than the saccharine romantic platitudes of the young and naive. She’s also opened up to him about her father, and all the pain he’s caused her in both life and the aftermath. Jake’s youthful way of seeing the world in starker terms of justice and injustice, fair and unfair, means he can comfort and validate her in a way Wyatt and his middle-aged pragmatism never could. In their best moments, she feels like she’s back in the earliest days of that relationship, which in turn makes her feel nineteen again.

  But age and experience are never too far away to remind her these feelings are an illusion. When Jake leaves out the back door every afternoon, Phoebe returns to reality with a man who can no longer disguise his contempt for her. He slams every door he closes, chops every other word he must exchange with her down to a single frost-rimmed syllable. He’s emptying far more bottles of his beloved bourbon, but mostly behind the shuttered door of the spare bedroom, where, not so coincidentally, he’s been playing a lot of John Coltrane and Miles Davis at just a high enough volume to dig at her. But isn’t this the last stage of ugly limbo for most relationships before the inevitable fade to black?

  She doesn’t see this fling with Jake as being any exception, and wouldn’t, even if it didn’t already come preloaded with so many moral failings. She’s carrying this knowledge of the future around with her like a secret tumor. And there’s no use telling Jake that he’ll have one just like it someday. He’ll have to grow one himself, and only then will he understand. It may not bear her name when it finally happens, but she’s definitely planted the seed.

  As much as it might pain her to think about it, he really can’t leave for California soon enough. Let her have this Bridges of Madison County moment and return to some semblance of sanity. Her marriage is beyond saving at this point, but there is life on the other side of a divorce, if she can find the courage to get there.

  She rolls over to face him and is taken all over again by how handsome he is. It’s far too easy to imagine sleeping all night with him, and then waking up and planning their whole day together.

  “What if we stop doing this now?” she asks. “Would you be upset?”

  “Yes.” He isn’t one to waste words, which is one of her favorite things about him. He knows what he wants, which is so rare in a man even twice his age. “Are you saying you want this to end?” He’s sporting a crooked grin, but it isn’t entirely playful.

  “No, but it will soon no matter what we want. Stanford calls.”

  He sighs and rolls onto his back. “I’m trying not to think about that. But my mother won’t shut up about it, almost like she can’t wait to be rid of me.”

  He hasn’t directly mentioned his mother since they started this, which has been a good thing, considering Phoebe and Vicki have more or less resumed their old rhythm from before the awkward brunch, and she’s struggled to keep these two very distinct worlds separate in her mind. But now she sits up and takes interest, because it isn’t quite the same between Vicki and her, is it? Vicki seems more distant, not as keen to open up. She hasn’t spoken again about problems with the house or Ron, and Phoebe has been reluctant to trigger another emotional torrent by asking her. It just seems easier to be a cheerful harbor from whatever storms Vicki is dealing with, and if such a time comes that she needs something more, Phoebe will do whatever she can.

  But she can’t help but be curious about whatever’s happening over there. How could she not be after the little peek she’s had behind the curtain?

  “I very much doubt she’s looking to get rid of you. She just wants you to enjoy this opportunity you have and realize how lucky you are.”

  He laughs silently. “The funny thing is, when she made the decision to move here, I wanted to stay in California. I had this plan in mind to live with some friends until I started Stanford in the fall, but she wasn’t having it, said she didn’t want to separate the family any sooner than she had to. My dad sided with her, because he didn’t want one more thing for them to fight about. I finally gave in, and I hated her for it all the way out here. I wanted this whole thing to blow up in her face. Part of me still does, actually, because all she’s done is upset our lives over some crazy belief . . .” He stops and stares at his lap for a minute, and then shakes his head. “It doesn’t really matter anymore, because I’m glad it happened. Coming here is actually the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  Now it’s Phoebe’s turn to shake her head, because she sees what’s coming next. It’s bearing down on her like the high beams of a truck on a lonely country road, and panic has rooted her to her spot. “Jake . . .”

  “Maybe Stanford is overrated
. Chicago has some great schools. You and your father both went to Northwestern, right? The way I see it, if it was good enough for the Nobles, it’s good enough for me.”

  She pulls away from him. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Reneging on your plans. You can’t just make snap decisions like this. Stanford is a big deal, and it’s too late to enroll anywhere else for the fall anyway. You’re not jeopardizing your education because of me.”

  “So I take a gap year and think things over. I’d hardly be the first person to do that. Why would it be so terrible if I decided to stick around?”

  She wants to scream all the obvious facts into his pretty face. Because the longer this goes on, the more likely it is that they’ll get caught. And the promise of its being short-lived was the only reason she allowed this to happen in the first place. The Bridges of Madison County doesn’t become The Bridges of Madison County until Francesca refuses to leave with Robert. Remembering her obligations is Phoebe’s only path to redemption; otherwise she’s no different from Daniel, ruining the lives that stand between her and whatever she wants.

  “I said from the beginning this couldn’t go anywhere, and you agreed. You said you were just fine with this being casual.”

  He grins. “But you don’t want me to go. Not really. Admit it.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I want. You know the position I’m in. Carrying on like this much longer is dangerous.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Dangerous? That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think? So what if people find out? I think it would actually be a relief to stop treating this like it’s this filthy secret.”

  “But it is a filthy secret! My god, you’re just a kid, Jake.”

  He winces, and his face reddens. She’s never said such a thing to him before, never wanted to condescend to him in such a way, because it would only make her feel like a hypocrite. “I’m not a kid. I’m eighteen. And I wasn’t too young for you a half hour ago,” he points out, correctly of course.

  She feels like she’s going to be sick. “You’re right. I’m sorry. But your mother and I are friends, Jake. That puts us in a very tenuous situation, wouldn’t you agree?”

  He gives a grudging shrug, which is not the acknowledgment she’s looking for.

  “And you know the situation with my father. If this got out with all the other things people are saying about him, that his daughter is a . . . a pervert . . .”

  He sighs. “Phoebe, I think you’re blowing that whole thing out of proportion.”

  Her mouth falls open. For a moment, she thinks she’s been hallucinating Jake’s face over Wyatt’s, because the two of them sound identical. “How can you be so dismissive all of a sudden?”

  “I’m not! I’m just saying the bad press will blow over eventually. You’re not your father.”

  “You don’t know my father, Jake, and you really don’t know me all that well, either.”

  He stares at her with hurt confusion. “Maybe you’re right, but I know you’re being selfish, and you can’t even see it because you’ve shut yourself away from the world and you can only see things your way.”

  She stands up like the covers have suddenly started burning her skin. Her robe is draped over a nearby chair and she grabs it to cover herself. “Don’t you dare try to analyze me. I’m already married to a goddamn shrink.”

  He gets out of bed too but doesn’t seem the least bit concerned with covering up. Why would he be? He’s arguing from the position that he has nothing to hide. “Listen, I’m not saying it will be easy, especially at first. Yes, my parents will be mad. Yes, it’s even possible a gossip reporter will have something to say about the daughter of Daniel Noble in some blog post or tweet no one will even see. But you have to admit you’re happy when we’re together. Why don’t you want more of that? Why are you so afraid of whatever this is?”

  She feels like she did when Wyatt brought out his adorable adoption pamphlets, and yet again, she’s wielding the needle to burst someone’s bubble. But she hates this even more, because they were never supposed to fight. This wasn’t that kind of arrangement. “Happiness is bullshit. It’s only meant to define small moments, not a whole life. Nothing we’ve done means shit outside this room, where you actually have to live.”

  “You really think you can make me believe that? This is more than just sex.”

  “Do you think you’re the first person I ever fucked for amusement?”

  His face darkens. “Don’t. You’re just trying to hurt me now.” There it is, the nerve she was searching for.

  “I know what happens when people get stuck on happy, okay? They think, hey, sex is fun, and we like some of the same things. That must mean we’re happy! Let’s stay together forever and we’ll be happy forever! But it’s a lie, and I’m done telling it to myself. If you’re smart, you’ll listen to me and stop buying into the bullshit too. And you’ll stop believing that a few doses of happiness are worth ruining people’s lives over. That’s what my father spent his entire life doing, and I can’t do that. I’ve clearly already done enough damage.”

  “You don’t mean this. You don’t mean any of it.”

  “If you tell me one more time what you think I believe, I’ll end this whole thing now, for good.”

  He’s pacing now, holding a bullish posture startlingly similar to his father’s the first day Phoebe saw him. She wonders how deep his resemblance to Ron really goes. Will he leave bruises too? She almost wants to test him just to see, to give him one more nudge. But he turns away and quickly dresses himself. The knot in Phoebe’s gut releases itself, but only a little. Behind it is a fresh nausea as the fun little distraction she’s built for herself goes up in flames. When he’s done, he goes to the bedroom door and looks back, waiting to see if she’ll change her mind. Part of her, and not a small one, wants to do just that, to return to the soft sheets and warm silence and beg him to forget everything she just said, but she maintains her stone face. If she doesn’t stick to her convictions now, she’ll lose what little self-respect she has left.

  She goes out to the landing as he stomps down the stairs. He places his hand on the doorknob, and she cries out, “No, don’t go that way!” The car was out there when last she checked, and it’s too early for it to be gone. And what if Vicki is on the porch having her midmorning cigarette? If she saw her son storm out of Phoebe’s front door like a jaded lover, she would certainly have questions.

  Jake turns to her, his jaw jutting with defiance, eyes blazing. Oh how she hates that furious gaze on her. “You’ve had your way on everything so far. Now it’s my turn.”

  She rushes down the stairs and blocks the door. “Don’t be stupid! People will see you!”

  “After all this, do you really think I care?” He pushes her aside and opens the door. Time slows to a crawl as Phoebe’s eyes land on the blue car parked in its usual spot. The absence of Vicki on the Napier porch is a tiny mercy as the hot summer air hits her exposed skin. In the midst of their argument, she didn’t tie the robe, and she’s naked underneath. She quickly slams the door shut, but it’s too late.

  Gripped by panic and rage, she wants to scream. She wants to break things. Instead, she takes a deep breath and goes to the kitchen in search of her trusty cabernet. But then she has another thought, and veers instead for the liquor cabinet, where she finds Wyatt’s bourbon. It isn’t her favorite, but she needs something that’ll make the walls of this house and the voices in her head stop mocking her. Once she’s settled on the couch, she takes three deep swigs straight from the bottle and then flips on the TV. It doesn’t take long before she finds a game show with a live audience, and she turns it up loud. If she tries really hard, and keeps sipping from the bottle, she’ll eventually feel they’re in the room with her.

  CHAPTER 8

  SHE SNAPS AWAKE to the sound of the phone ringing, the sun glaring
in her eyes. Jake. Please let it be him. All she can think of is how yesterday was a mistake, and she needs to fix this.

  But it isn’t him. It’s Vicki, and her mouth goes dry. What if she saw him running out the front door yesterday, and in his upset state he told her everything?

  “Then she wouldn’t be calling,” Phoebe says to the empty bedroom. Either Vicki or Ron would be over here beating down Phoebe’s door. She answers.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning, sunshine. Or afternoon, technically. You stood me up. I’ve been calling all morning.”

  Phoebe glances at the clock. It’s just a few minutes past twelve, about two hours beyond their typical brunching time. A quick glance at the phone shows a series of missed calls from Vicki’s number. This just happened to be the one that caught her on the edge of consciousness. Luckily, Vicki doesn’t sound grumpy about it. “Shit. Sorry. I never even heard the doorbell ring. Was so out of it.”

  “I understand. Rough night?”

  In the fog of her hangover, she recalls a brief discussion with Wyatt.

  “I can give you the number of someone you can talk to, Phoebe,” he began.

  “Talk to about what?”

  His eyes fell onto the mostly empty bourbon bottle in her lap. “Do I really need to say it?”

  “Yes. For once, just tell me exactly what you’re thinking instead of being so goddamn mealy-mouthed. I’ve always hated that about you. So did my father.”

  His face darkened like a thunderhead, and she braced herself for the lightning. But it never came. Instead, he strode off, though she isn’t sure if he left the house or hunkered down in his jazz cave, because she lost consciousness soon after. At some point, she managed to drag herself upstairs, though she doesn’t remember that, either.