The Two Lila Bennetts

by Fenton, Liz

  It’s true that I most likely gave up on our marriage well before Sam and I connected in my office that night. Or why else had I let him kiss me? If there hadn’t been a crack in the foundation of my marriage to Ethan, would Sam have been able to find an opening to slip into? As I sit here in the dark, swigging a fifty-dollar bottle of wine, sunk so deep into the cushions of a couch I never really liked, I can no longer hide from the facts: the walls of my marriage have fallen down, and I simply watched it happen.

  Ethan loves this couch. I don’t. But we were new, in that phase where something as innocuous as a sofa doesn’t matter—before you’re giving each other hard looks over inconsequential purchases the other made, simply because you weren’t consulted. Back then, I had been thinking something more like white chenille. Something stark yet comfortable. He shook his head hard as I slid my hand along the soft fabric, envisioning the crisp and simple life we’d have with that couch. Especially since it most likely wasn’t going to involve kids, so we didn’t have to worry about them staining the fabric. Although when I said that to Ethan, he raised his eyebrow as if we hadn’t yet decided, as if to say, You never know. And because you never do know anything with absolute certainty, I didn’t fight that hard for it.

  “No way on white!” Ethan said loudly, but there was laughter behind his words.

  “Come on,” I said, walking over and leaning my hips into his. “Think of all the things we could do on it,” I whispered into his ear, biting it slightly.

  He pulled me in tightly, and I could feel his arousal. “Stop playing dirty to get what you want,” he whispered back before pushing me away from him slightly so he could see my face.

  “What?” I asked, feigning innocence. “I’m building a case for this glorious white seven-foot chenille couch!”

  “You know exactly what you’re doing,” he said playfully and walked toward a caramel leather couch, the cushions rounded and puffy. “What about this one?” He set his hand on it. “Think of the naps we could take on this!”

  “So now we’re napping on the couch? What are we, fifty?” I teased, and an older couple looked over at us and smiled. At the time, I assumed they found us charming. Now, as I ponder the memory, I think they may have thought us naive, assuming our playfulness would get us through the tough times—the real shit. Ethan’s skyrocketing success and then the ensuing anxiety and depression as the pressure to replicate it tore him down. I was unable to help him feel better, which in turn made me feel like a failure, then angry, then eventually indifferent. Why didn’t the drive up the coast to the restaurant where we’d first said “I love you” help snap him out of his funk? Why hadn’t showing him our wedding album reminded him that he could feel happy? Why wouldn’t he attend the doctor’s appointments I made for him, so he could get diagnosed and get help? His depression won time and time again. I was powerless, which was the very worst feeling for me, someone who had always been in control. Eventually I turned away from him. But had I tried hard enough?

  “I’ve always wanted one like this,” Ethan continued. “I want to be comfortable.”

  I should have seen the red flags that day. Because a couch can say a lot about you. I wanted something that looked smart and beautiful, that you had to be careful of, something that you couldn’t be lazy and sit on forever. Ethan wanted a sofa he could sink into for hours, maybe days. Something boring, but sturdy and reliable.

  In the end, I let Ethan choose our couch. And not because he insisted, but because I knew it would make him happy. Back then I thought that was enough—giving him a win once in a while. I naively thought that was how to make a marriage work. But I understand now I didn’t know anything at all.

  I pull myself out of the deep cushions when the doorbell rings and feel my way through the dark to the door. I’m not ready to turn on the lights yet. To see that Ethan is really gone.

  I peek through the peephole, and my pulse slows down when I see Chase holding two bags. After Ethan stormed out, I broke down and asked Chase to come stay with me tonight. I hated to be weak, but my head was still spinning from my attack twenty-fours ago. I didn’t think I could stand to be alone in the house. But it meant I had to tell him why I was alone in the first place.

  Carrie texted me seconds after Ethan had driven away, asking if I was doing okay and if I was still up for lunch tomorrow. I let out a sigh. It was almost as if she sensed I needed her. The only problem? I couldn’t tell her. She would insist on understanding why Ethan left. And I’d have to lie—again. So I texted back and said I was doing great and sent the smiley face emoji wearing sunglasses to reiterate the point. She confirmed for lunch, and I reluctantly agreed, deciding that I would keep the conversation to her pregnancy and her hot trainer at Blast Zone. Before we inevitably ended up talking about me.

  I open the door, and Chase holds up the two brown paper bags. “I drove all the way to La Cienega in traffic to get you the black cod from Nobu,” he says dramatically. “And full disclosure—I got us extra rice. And not the shitty brown kind. We’re doing white tonight. Carbs always make you feel better.”

  I smile wanly and take one of the bags out of his hand. “You are my hero, you know that?” I say, hugging him with my free arm. “Thank you,” I whisper and feel a tear fall from my cheek to his shoulder, his kindness breaking my earlier resolve.

  “You won’t be thanking me when that white rice bloats you,” he says, stepping into the dark foyer. “Jesus, Lila, can we turn on a light? I get that you are going through something, but you were attacked only one day ago, and I think sitting by yourself in a pitch-black house is not the best option.”

  I laugh weakly and flip on the lights, squinting as my eyes adjust. “Come on,” I say, leading Chase to the kitchen.

  “Hey, before I forget, Detective Sully called back. Said he has some information for you.”

  “Great,” I say, my earlier voice mails to him feeling like another life ago. “I’ll call him in the morning.” I begin to grab two plates, but Chase stops me, instead holding out the take-out carton and a pair of chopsticks, which he rips from their paper casing.

  “We’re not stopping until we are a full-on cliché, girl! And I’ve got four pints of Talenti caramel cookie crunch gelato to prove it.”

  “Fantastic,” I say quietly and walk back out to the couch, embarrassed to see Chase eye the half-drunk bottle of wine with no glass in sight.

  “I see you started the clichés without me.”

  “Let me get some glasses,” I say.

  “No, I’ll grab a beer—if you have one?”

  I nod. “In the fridge.”

  “You can continue on drinking from the bottle like a savage,” he says over his shoulder as he walks to the refrigerator.

  We settle in cross-legged on the couch and eat in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Chase asks, “So you want to talk about it? Your text was vague.”

  My text SOS begged him to come over and said that it was important, but that was it. Texting the actual words Ethan has left me would make them real.

  “Ethan knows about Sam,” I say, and Chase sets down his chopsticks, his eyes growing wide. I take a deep breath before I say my next words. “He left.”

  “Holy shitballs,” he says and laughs. “Sorry,” he adds quickly, his hand flying over his mouth.

  “No, it’s okay. I need some levity. I need you. Because right now I can’t shake the feeling that life as I know it might be over,” I confess, saying out loud the words that have been echoing in my mind for the last two hours. Since Ethan left me. Since I fell to the floor in a pool of tears, staring at evidence of me betraying my husband. I fill Chase in on what happened and hand him the blue envelope. “He gave me this on his way out the door.”

  Chase pulls the pictures out and taps his finger on one. “The parking garage?”

  I nod. “Ironically, right before I broke up with Sam.”

  “Who would do this?” Chase asks.

  “I have no idea. Maybe Ethan suspected a
nd had me followed.” I tell him about how Ethan told me his next novel is about a cheating wife.

  “That can’t be a coincidence.” Chase frowns, then takes a swig of his Heineken.

  “I don’t know. He showed no malice toward me when he told me about his book idea. And he’s a guy who wears his emotions on his sleeve. I can’t believe he’d be capable of pretending everything was okay.”

  “I think you’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment. Because Lila the attorney would never believe that those two things aren’t connected,” he said, then gasped.

  “What?” I ask, sitting up.

  “The attack. Do you think . . .”

  “No,” I say firmly, the bump on my head throbbing as I say it.

  “Lila . . .”

  “No. Ethan would never,” I say, my voice rising slightly.

  “Even if he knew?” Chase points at the photos.

  My mind flashes back to the attack, the fear I’d felt as a hard knot in my chest. “Even if he knew,” I confirm. But a part of me weighs it for another moment, remembering the look on my husband’s face when he told me I had one chance to tell him the truth.

  Chase cocks his head. “You know better than anyone that love, loss, and betrayal can make people do the very worst things. Things no one believes they’re capable of doing.”

  I glance at the image of Sam kissing me in the garage. Chase is right. Maybe Ethan and I don’t know each other at all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  WEDNESDAY

  CAPTURED

  Q and his fucking iPad are back.

  As he enters the room, he saunters, bringing a smugness with him that I am certain of, even though I can’t see his face. It’s the way he moves his body, the slicing of his arms through the air, how he holds the tablet as if it’s the most important thing in the world. The force of his legs charging forward. His shoulder blades pulled down his back. I’ve taught myself to read his body language and to study his only two exposed parts—his eyes and mouth. His lips are a pale pink that, when parted, reveal a row of white teeth—bright like fresh-fallen snow. I’d bet anything he gets them whitened—Crest White Strips at the very least. His smile is mostly straight, but today I’ve noticed something new about his mouth. As he taunts me with the iPad, waving it in front of my face, I spy an errant tooth. I’m not sure how I haven’t seen it before, but there it is, sitting a little too far to the left, angled slightly away from the others. He catches me seeing it and breaks into a large grin. As if he’s proud of it, believing that it gives him character. If the mask were off, I have no doubt he’d smile more freely—not the least bit self-conscious. But possibly one thing he hasn’t considered is that it’s also an identifying factor—one I file away. One that if I get out of here, if somehow I manage to escape, could be a way for the police to track him down.

  If he’s in the system. If snaggleteeth aren’t common. If, if, if.

  Q also brought a chair with him today. He pulls it over, the legs making a sharp sound against the floor. He balances the tablet carefully on the seat.

  “What are we watching this time?” I ask, feeling a mixture of fear and curiosity. Knowing whatever he’s about to show me will be bad. But still, I have to know. I can’t not know at this point. Because every little thing, no matter how terrible, is a clue. A hint at the reason for all of this. I adjust my body and smell myself—the musty odor of sweat floating up toward my nostrils when I move my arms. The result of not showering for days, but also from my fear, my blouse soaked, then dried, then soaked through again. My bandage from the cut he gave me is dirty and needs to be changed.

  “Well, this one’s a real tearjerker—and I’m not talking about the latest Oscar-nominated movie. This is a true story.” He squats down. “You see, there’s this woman. She basically does anything she wants. Takes anything she wants. Doesn’t care who she hurts. Sound like anyone you might know?”

  I stare at him but say nothing.

  “So, anyway, one day someone decides they’ve had it with this woman who takes, takes, takes. I mean, you can only push a person so far, you know?” He leans in so close that I can see the gum he’s chewing rapidly. “And so that individual, who the selfish person had wildly underestimated, takes her down, one brick at a time, until there is nothing left.”

  A bead of sweat forms above my lip, and I begin to tremble. “So how does it end?” I ask.

  “Don’t be so impatient, Lila! You’ll have to wait and see what happens. I wouldn’t want to ruin it for you.” He smiles widely, and the snaggletooth appears, mocking me. “You’re going to need these.” He hands me a wad of tissues.

  He rises up and walks over to his backpack and pulls out a six-pack of beer, popping off the top of the can expertly and taking a long swig. I nod up at the camera. “Your boss lets you drink on the job?”

  “I do what I want,” he says. “Nobody owns me.” He shakes his head, but I don’t miss his quick glance back up at the red blinking light.

  I give him a long look.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Lila Bennett,” he says. “You don’t know shit. That’s how you ended up here in the first place.”

  I stare at the Budweiser can as Q brings it to his lips once more. I haven’t drunk Budweiser since it was all I could afford in college, but right now I want to taste it more than anything in the world. I’ve barely had what would amount to an eight-ounce glass of water today, and the slivers of baguette he’s been feeding me are barely sustaining me. “I know that I’d love one of those beers,” I say somewhat pathetically, my mouth watering at the prospect of feeling the cold liquid slide down my dry throat. The way it would begin to loosen my limbs and my mind. I’m no longer as interested in staying sharp, each and every hour feeling bleaker, my future fading away like a summer sunset. This seems to be the plan—to break my spirit. To make me crave my own demise. I’m not there quite yet—right now the one thing I am craving is the aluminum can full of alcohol in Q’s beefy hands.

  To my surprise, he seems to consider my request, glancing from my crumpled form to his can, then to the remaining five beers, and then back to me. “Why not.” He shrugs, grabbing one, opening it, and setting it on the floor next to me. “You’re going to need a drink after I show you this,” he adds, pointing at the iPad.

  “Thank you.” I pick up the can awkwardly and lift it to my chapped lips, some of it spilling down my neck as I take my first gulp.

  “Slow down there, slugger,” Q says. “You need to make it last.”

  But I can’t. I continue to chug it, channeling my former beer-bong-drinking self from undergrad. I feel it traveling from my throat to my chest to my abdomen and then settling, making my body warm for the first time since Q climbed into my back seat and upheaved everything I’ve ever known. “One more?” I give him my best pouty face, the one I have been known to use when I want Ethan to rub my feet or Chase to go back to Starbucks a second time.

  Q glares at me, but then his body visibly softens, and I can detect amusement in his eyes. “I told you to make the one last.” He adjusts the mask.

  “I bet it’s hot under that thing.” I say the words I’ve been too scared to utter. But the glorious buzz from the beer begins to tingle inside my body, the lack of food and water no doubt intensifying it, my mind spinning just enough to give me the courage. I want to know who he is—whether I live or die, I need to see his face.

  “Doesn’t matter how it feels,” he says, tugging at it again. “I have to wear it.”

  “Do you?” I ask, my neck and shoulders relaxing, my tongue loosening. “Because if you’re going to kill me, then who cares if I can identify you?”

  “That’s not your concern,” he snaps.

  “Fine, I was trying to help.”

  “Help me?” He laughs. “You’ve never helped anyone but yourself in your life.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Trust me, I know.”

  “Well, you should ask yourself if the person
you’ve been told I am is the person you’ve met in this room. I’ve made mistakes, sure, but those errors in judgment don’t have to define me. I’m somebody’s daughter, wife . . .”

  “That’s enough small talk,” Q says, putting up his hand. “I don’t need anyone to tell me. I know exactly who you are.” He balls his other one into a fist.

  “Okay,” I say softly and try to stay perfectly still until he calms down. We sit in silence for a moment. He takes another drink of his beer, and I scrape up the courage to speak once more. “So, Q. I’m probably going to die here anyway. Either from you . . .” I pause, looking up at the camera, deciding whomever put it there wanted me to have a reminder that he or she was there. “Or your boss . . .” I let the word sit in the air between us. Does he like being someone’s bitch? He doesn’t strike me as the type. He balls his hand into another fist, and I decide I’ve found my crack in the foundation. The place I’ll slip in and do what I do best. Manipulate. “Or from starvation. Can I at least have one more beer before I do? Consider it a last act of mercy.” I smile at him, longing suddenly for a toothbrush, wondering if I’ll ever participate in the mundane act of brushing my teeth again.

  Q finishes off his own beer and grabs another, eyeing me carefully, then glancing up at the camera. “How did you ever convince anyone to marry you, anyway? You’re a pain in the ass.”

  I shrug. “Maybe I am,” I concur, thinking about Ethan. The way he must have felt when he opened those pictures of me and Sam. Doing a double take. Scrutinizing them. Trying to make them not be of me. But then the reality would have set in. He’d sink to the couch and study them. Would he cry or punch something? Or neither? It would depend a lot on his state of mind. If it was a good day or bad one. If he’d taken his medication. If he’d been productive when he’d sat in front of the computer. But there’s also the chance that Q didn’t send them. That it was an empty threat, the possible exposure to him and whomever he was working with not worth the risk of humiliating me or whatever he was trying to do. But if Q went through with it, had them delivered to our doorstep—it makes my insides burn. I hate that I might never get the chance to explain to the man I married why I strayed. To at least tell him I’m sorry.