by Fenton, Liz
“That’s nice to hear,” I say evenly, watching a couple outside sharing a plate of pasta. Are they married to each other? Or are they like Sam and me—faking it in public, pretending to be something we’re not, all while our real spouses are waiting for us at home? I finish my beer, hear myself ordering another. So much for controlling my wits.
“So, what doesn’t feel good about the win?” Sam is careful not to ask me whether I’m questioning Jeremiah’s innocence. He knows better.
I wave my hand. “Nothing. The victim’s sister was really upset after the verdict. It got to me. That’s all.”
Sam slides his hand under the table to rub my knee, moving his way upward. “It’s really sexy how much you still care.”
The comment stings, and I move my leg away. “And what, you don’t?” I snap as the server delivers the pâté and mussels, pretending she didn’t hear my comment. “Whether Jeremiah is guilty or innocent, she still lost her sister.” I stick my fork into the bowl and stab a meaty mussel, chewing slowly as I watch Sam swirl the liquid left in his drink, considering his answer.
“You have to be like a surgeon—keep your professional distance from these cases. Otherwise you’ll begin to second-guess everything.”
“Like I’m doing right now.” Like I want you to let me do. Just once, can we break through that barrier? Be, dare I say, vulnerable?
“Exactly.” He sets down his glass and locks eyes with me. “I can’t afford to care that much, and if you want to get where I think you want to go in your career, you can’t either, or you won’t survive. I thought you knew that.”
“I thought I did,” I say quietly.
Sam continues as if he didn’t hear me. “Carrie woke up in the worst mood this morning—freaking out that I have to travel to New York next week. Told me I was a selfish bastard and then ignored me the rest of the morning. And then was so pissed she had to bring me a file. Like her Blast Zone class is more important than my appeal?” He shakes his head. “She has no clue the pressure we’re under. She thinks it’s a bad day when they run out of organic red kale at the farmers market.”
“That’s not fair. Maybe she wants more time with you,” I suggest, thinking the outburst sounds out of character for Carrie. Probably pregnancy hormones taking over.
“No, thanks. Now I can’t wait to go to New York.” He leans in. “I feel like you could use a change of scenery. Why don’t you come? I can probably say I need more help and get you added as second chair on this case. We could make a long weekend out of it. I feel like I haven’t seen you much since the Taylor trial started.”
“I’ve been swamped,” I say, then stare at my napkin because I don’t want him to see the truth in my eyes. That I’ve been trying to pull away from him recently, avoiding him in the office when I can, taking a different route to the conference room so as to not cross paths.
“I know. I miss you. Is that so bad?” He rubs my leg under the table again.
I’m surprised to hear him articulate that he’s missing me. We typically hold sentiments like that close to the vest. We don’t fantasize about what it would be like to leave our spouses and run off together and get a shitty condo in Venice just as long as we are together. The most romantic thing we’ve ever done is drink a bottle of Dom in bed at a conference in DC. And we never, ever utter the L word. But of course we care about each other. I wouldn’t have taken on so much risk for meaningless sex. I revere Sam in a way that I never have with Ethan. Sometimes I lie awake at night and try to put my finger on why. With Sam I’m a savior, slaying dragons and saving the innocent. With Ethan I often feel like a failure, unable to drag him out of the slump he’s slid into.
So, yes. There are feelings. But Sam and I have convinced ourselves that we’re above talking about them. That that somehow makes us less culpable.
But Carrie’s confession has broken me open, shaken me in the most unexpected way. It reminds me that Sam belongs to someone else. That there are consequences, even if we don’t care to acknowledge them. Stephanie prophesied earlier that karma was coming for me. Is this my penance? To watch Sam start a family with my best friend?
“Sam—” I break eye contact and glance at the entrance of the restaurant to regain my composure. A tall woman in a black jacket catches my eye. Dark hair. Shoulders hunched so slightly you almost don’t notice. Piercing forest-green eyes that are staring at me, unflinching.
I draw in a sharp breath.
“What?” Sam asks, following my stare.
I point. “Stephanie! She’s here. She must have followed me!”
Sam squints at me. “Who is Stephanie? And why is she stalking you?” Then he sits up. “Is she hot? Because I have a fantasy about this exact scenario.”
I swat at him quickly and look back to the front.
The woman begins to walk toward the large glass doors leading into the restaurant. My stomach slides into my feet. What will she say to me? Will she make another scene? Slap me? Or worse?
But when she walks inside, shrugs her black leather jacket off, and saunters confidently over to the bar, where she hugs a stout man in an expensive gray suit, I realize it’s not her. I hold my hand to my chest and feel my heartbeat downshift.
I turn back to Sam, who is looking at me curiously. “What was that all about?”
“Nothing. I thought I saw someone I knew.” I watch as the woman orders her drink and leans toward her companion. “I was wrong.”
“You didn’t seem too excited to see her, whoever she was.”
“It was an old client,” I lie, not wanting to appear weak. Not wanting Sam to know I thought it was the sister of the woman—Vivian—Jeremiah was accused of murdering. How that woman has worked her way inside my head. Not wanting him to see how badly my interaction with Carrie has rattled me.
I carefully spoon some pâté onto a piece of perfectly grilled bread but find that I’ve lost my appetite. Each glance at Sam reminds me of Carrie—and the baby. I know I have no right to be angry—this is what I signed up for, isn’t it? He belongs to someone else, as do I. The thing is, I’m not upset Carrie is pregnant. In this really weird way that I compartmentalize things, there has always been a part of me that has been happy for my friend, the same part that knows she’ll be a great mother. I think what has shaken me is what this pregnancy means for Sam and me.
“I can’t go to New York with you,” I blurt. The thought spills out before I can stop it, and that affirms every small doubt, every shard of guilt, every jab to my conscience I’ve tried so hard to ignore.
“Fine. There’s a conference in Chicago next month, then.”
I feel a lump form in my throat. “I won’t be going to that either.” My voice is shrill, and there’s an anger deep inside my belly that I haven’t been able to shake. And I know exactly why.
Carrie. The pregnancy.
Sam frowns. “Lila—”
“We’ve got to end this,” I say abruptly, and Sam nearly chokes on the brown liquid in his highball glass.
“Bennett,” he starts. “What the hell is going on with you today?”
“I mean it, Sam. I’m done,” I say and see a flicker of something in his eyes before he recovers. Surprise? Sadness? Anger? I understand—I also feel a mix of those emotions. I’ve always known we had an expiration date—that one of us would eventually stop this train before it derailed. Today is that day. And the person coming to her senses is me. Something about my uneasiness with the verdict and Ethan’s phone call and renewed enthusiasm, combined with Carrie’s pregnancy, has shocked me into facing the truth I’ve been hiding from myself all along: I’m gambling not only with my life but with the people I love most. And that has to stop. Now.
“Is this about the case? You’ve been acting weird since the verdict.”
“No,” I say. “This is about you and me, going nowhere. There’s no future for us.”
Sam runs his fingers through his thick hair. “I didn’t think that was what you wanted.”
“I d
on’t,” I say, although the truth is I don’t know what I want. Who I want. All I know is I’m done fucking my pregnant best friend’s husband. And ready to go back to mine. Everything else I can figure out later.
Sam searches my face. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“I am,” I say, nodding. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” he says under his breath.
I grab my purse off the seat. “I should go.” I glance at my watch. If I hurry I can still get home before Ethan falls asleep, before the Mongolian beef has gone cold, before Julianna Margulies beats the odds and wins another impossible case. I feel light as air as I begin to stand up. It is time to go.
“Wait.” Sam grabs my wrist. “Stay. Have one more drink. I don’t want to go home. Not yet.” His eyes meet mine, and I look away, not wanting to see his feelings for me reflected in them.
I pull my arm back, and his grasp slackens. “If I don’t go right now, I never will,” I say and stand up, hurrying around the tables, picking up my pace as I push through the door and down the stairs, away from Sam and the parts of our lives we’ve shared for the past six months, and onto the dark industrial street lined with warehouses.
Good job, says the little voice inside me. But I don’t feel resolved. I feel unsure as I walk briskly to my car.
I attempt to ignore the tingle at the back of my neck making me feel as if someone is following me. I swing my head up and swivel around, only to breathe easier when a couple heading toward the restaurant nod at me as they pass. Still a bit spooked, I pick up my pace to a light jog and glance back toward Bestia, toward Sam, who is most likely still at the table, sipping his second old-fashioned slowly. There’s a part of me that already misses him, but that voice inside me is correct. I made the right decision. The only decision.
I unlock the door and climb in quickly. I sit in silence staring at my dashboard, not bothering to turn on the engine. My phone buzzes. Sam? But no, it’s Ethan. And when I see his name on the screen, calm washes over me. I’m going home to the right man.
On my way, I type. Had a quick drink and need to stop for gas, I add, to buy myself a little more time to process what’s happened with Sam before I have to arrive home. This is a lie, of course, but it’s my last lie. It has to be. This thing with Sam is over, and I’m going to make my marriage work. The way I vowed to do when we held hands on the beach in Malibu six years ago.
A fluorescent streetlight above goes out, and darkness falls across the nose of the Range Rover. My heart starts to beat faster, and I peer into the rearview mirror and then the side mirrors. I turn and look over my shoulder. I let out the breath I was holding. Why am I so jumpy? There’s nobody there. Only a minivan and a Toyota Prius on either side of my parking space.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I’m sure I see a shadow pass by the back of my car. I reach over and double-check that my doors are locked, letting out a sigh of relief when I realize they are.
A large hand closes over my mouth from the back seat as I reach to start the ignition.
I try to scream, but the sound is trapped deep within me. I catch a glimpse of a ski mask in the rearview mirror and panic, shoving my elbow back fiercely, but the person quickly wraps his other arm around my neck, and I freeze with fear.
I feel a cloth over my mouth, and everything blurs. I fight to keep my eyes open, but I can’t. I’m being pulled away—it feels like it did when I had knee surgery years ago. When the anesthesiologist put the mask over my mouth and asked me to count.
And just like that: three, two, one, everything goes black.
I’m floating through a dark space. My mind and body disconnected. My limbs feel light. My head heavy. My eyes are sealed shut, and I try to force them open, but sleep is like a long arm, pulling me back. I want to succumb, but I know I can’t. I need to break free of this black hole. To fight hard against the exhaustion. I must wake up. I hear the raspy sound of my own breath. I feel the irregular rhythm of my heartbeat. Quick, slow. Quick, quick, slow. The blurry edges of fear are starting to crystalize—my memory returning.
And then there it is, like a sharp slap across the face. The sting of the recollection burning.
I was taken.
Finally, I make my eyes open. But everything is still so dark. My eyes are covered with something. I try to reach up to take it off, but my hands are bound by what feels like metal cuffs. And my ankles are also restrained by something that’s cutting into my skin. My feet are bare against a cold surface.
Panic zigzags through me.
A scream lunges from my mouth. I jerk my arms back and forth, trying to get out of the cuffs, the metal cutting into my wrists. I wince from the pain, but I keep trying.
Eventually I give up, because I’m stuck. I’m still screaming. My throat is burning, and after what feels like an eternity, I have to stop. I work hard for minutes to get to my feet. But as soon as I’m upright, I lose my balance and fall. I land on my side, my cheek hitting the floor. The pain that radiates through my jaw is excruciating, but I can’t do anything except feel it. I lie here realizing I’m trapped. I have no idea where I am. Or who has me. I’ve been taken from my car and brought to a second location. And I’ve handled enough murder trials to know what that means.
I’m going to die here.
CHAPTER FOUR
MONDAY
FREE
“What’s it going to take for me to convince you to go out with me?” Sam’s eyes dance, and he shoves his hands deep inside his pockets. When did he change out of his custom-tailored charcoal-gray suit and into dark jeans and a crisp white T-shirt—his signature after-work outfit? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear anything else after hours. “One little drink.” He pinches his pointer finger and thumb in the air. Before I can respond, he says, “I’ll tell you what, we can make it a shot.”
I smooth my wrinkled pencil skirt, noticing a small stain on my white button-down, and sigh. I feel rumpled and exhausted, not at all like going out. But it’s hard to resist him as I take in his dark mop of hair and study how his moss-green eyes light up against his olive skin, the way his five-o’clock shadow enhances the sharp lines of his jaw. I love his jawline. I’ve traced my finger around it more times than I can count, always trying to memorize the shape.
I start to walk toward him—thinking that yes, one quick drink is what I need—but then I picture Carrie again. The way she glowed from the inside out, as if her pregnancy were literally lighting her up. The twinkle that sparkled in her eye as she confided she was having a baby. And no one knows but me, her very bestest friend, as she likes to call me.
The same slutbag who’s been sleeping with her husband.
Sam doesn’t know yet—he hasn’t yet been changed by the news, by the choices he’ll have to make. But I know. I get that this growing life inside her changes everything. It’s already been six months. We’re in so deep now, it’s almost impossible to think anything can pull us out of this rabbit hole. But this baby, this tiny seed, will. I can feel it. And surprisingly—or maybe not surprisingly—I also feel relief. To finally be done. To stop betraying my best friend. My husband. Whatever the reason I became entangled in this, whether it was boredom or selfishness or maybe even true love, I haven’t been able to find the strength to end it on my own.
Ethan texts again. I had a great writing day! And I found The Good Wife on Hulu. Up for a binge session?
Ethan sounded happy on the phone earlier. I know happy is a broad word. What does it mean, anyway, to be happy? Prior to his call, he has been in a good place for a while. And when I say a while, I mean one week. A record for him. If his willingness to watch The Good Wife doesn’t prove it, I don’t know what does.
I look up at Sam, who rolls his eyes.
“That him again?”
“He has a name.”
“That E-than again?” He drags out the two syllables as if my husband is the one who has done something wrong. As if it’s Ethan who’s been having an affair
for over 180 days.
I think of the tiny notebook in my purse and pull my bag a little closer to my body. In the pale-blue spiral pad I’ve kept a log of my betrayal. It started the first night Sam and I kissed. We were working late and discussing his current case: the owner of a billion-dollar private equity firm who was being accused of embezzling his clients’ money. One minute Sam was showing me a portion of the transcript of his client’s deposition, and the next he was pressing his mouth to mine.
I still play back that moment sometimes, the way I tilted my head back as I giggled, how he gently grabbed my neck and pushed away a strand of my hair that had circled my face. He held me there for one beat as if to say, Last chance to exit what’s about to happen, Bennett.
But I didn’t stop him. Instead I took his chin in my hand and pulled him closer until our lips met again. We stayed like that for a long time. Me leaning over his desk, the edge spiking me in the stomach, his breath hot as his mouth found so many parts of me, our hearts racing the way they do when it’s new. But when I got home and washed my face, looking over at Ethan’s sink, his toothbrush resting next to it, I felt it. The guilt. And I told myself I couldn’t let it happen again.
But then it did, the very next night. And so I started keeping the tally marks. Because I would stop after a week. Which became three. Which turned into six months. And here we are. Me, tired of telling myself you can do bad things but still be a good person. The tallies a reminder of what I’ve done, what I’m doing. Somehow giving me the illusion I’m in control.
I often ask myself why I let him kiss me that first night. Why I let it become a regular thing. That evening in Sam’s office when we went from being coworkers to something more, Ethan’s mood had been at an all-time low for as long as I could remember. I remember feeling as if we were lost in the middle of a desert, with no escape for miles. He hadn’t written a word in months. He could barely get out of bed. He’d lost sight of one of the things I’d been most attracted to—his ambition. Before he became the best-selling author who sat on Oprah’s couch and discussed his novel as I cried with pride in the green room, I’d already been drawn to his intense drive. When he stopped caring enough to try to write, to even get out of bed long enough to say goodbye to me in the morning, to look up from the TV when I got home at night, it felt like a betrayal. A rejection. Was that fair of me to feel that way? I don’t know. And Sam, who pulsated with ambition and looked at me as if I were the only one in the room, had been like a magnet, pulling me toward him and away from my husband. Am I choosing an easy scapegoat—my husband’s depression—to justify my affair? Maybe. But at the time it felt like an antidote to what had ailed me.