by Britney King
Suddenly, I was suffocating under the weight of his words. He was serious, I could see. Not only that—he’d just put a deadline on our relationship—on how I should behave, how I should think, on who I should be. The walls were closing in, and I’d just learned that the one good thing I had wanted to go away, too. Just like my career. Just like my father. Like my mother. Like everything.
He wanted to fix me. I wanted time.
I was naïve. I didn’t have an exit strategy.
Clearly, he did.
My husband is a lot of things, but he is not a person who makes empty threats. When I told him I couldn’t give him an answer on the spot, he tried to play his game and gifted me twenty-four hours.
All I could think in that moment was that I needed a drink or a hit of cocaine— something, anything—to take the edge off.
I had the feeling I’d landed myself in one of those choose-your-own-adventure books, the kind I adored as a kid. I always read both endings, even after I’d made my choice. In real life, that wasn’t an option. You can’t have it both ways. In real life, neither adventure seemed all that enticing.
I knew there wasn’t any alcohol in the house, save for champagne, and that’s not exactly the drink of choice when one is at the end of their marriage and their rope. So I grabbed my keys and stormed out. He thought I couldn’t leave the house. Well, I’d show him.
To be clear, I’m not a drinker. It just sounded like something that might help in the moment.
It’s not that I was oblivious to the fact that I should be able to give my husband what he wants. I practiced that form of magic my whole life. I can fake it, but eventually, even that gets old.
This was supposed to be easier. I love Ethan. I think he loves me. But when it isn’t easy, it’s hard. So I pretended everything was fine, when it so clearly wasn’t. Just give them what they want. Men are very simple. Food, sex, and enough compliments to continuously stroke their ego. It’s that easy. My mother used to say that. Housekeeping is a tough business, she told me. Her work, she believed, was keeping families together. You had to be careful about it. You never want to make another woman feel inadequate, Sadie. Women are far smarter than we’re given credit for. Walk the tightrope, she used to say. Wave your white flag, if you have to. But keep your mouth shut and don’t overstep your bounds.
I figured that’s all I had to do when it came to marriage, too. Although, by the time I needed that kind of advice, my mother was long gone, and I was no longer sure I had it in me to be so compliant.
I worried that Ethan was right. That I’d lost my edge. In the old days, back in college, we used alcohol to solve fights. It was how we started them too. Good ol’ Stoli.
I realized it probably wasn’t the way to fix things anymore, not now that we were grown adults with real problems, the kind of problems the kids we were back then couldn’t even fathom.
I wish my mother had warned me that love isn’t enough. I wish she’d explained more in words than with her life that someday I, too, might want more and yet not even be able to put my finger on what that thing is.
I wish I had known that my husband would only desire me when I was thin(ish), when I was climbing the corporate ladder, when I was like him. I wish I had known that the reasons he fell in love with me would be the very things he’d set out to extinguish.
But I hadn’t known, and liquor seemed like the next best thing to dealing with the truth. It was suddenly blatantly clear. Unless I did something bold. Unless I made a drastic course correction, it was over.
Where are you going, Ethan had texted me. He’d accused me of acting irrationally. He worried I’d do something stupid, something irreversible. He forgot one thing.
I’m not him.
I didn’t respond. Not even when he called. I wanted to make him pay. I wanted him to understand what a bad decision he was making. I wanted him to see how out of control I could be. And if I couldn’t succeed at any of that, at the very least, I wanted to fix it like we used to.
The pathetic part: I didn’t even know where the closest liquor store was; I had to search on my phone.
Unfortunately, luck wasn’t on my side when it came to being a good wife or fixing it when I was a bad one. In Texas, liquor stores close at 9:00 p.m. I made it to the register at 8:58.
Only it turned out the woman in front of me was paying for her hooch in nickels and dimes, shaming the rest of us for our purchases by mere chance.
By the time the clerk had finished counting, and I made it to the front of the line, it was 9:03. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t sell you this.”
I had my ID ready, just in case, and I presented it.
“No,” she informed me. “If the register reads past nine p.m., I can’t make the sale.”
A man behind me groaned. He set his six-pack in the middle of the floor and walked out.
I thanked the woman before returning the bottle to the shelf. I picked up the man’s beer and handed it to the cashier. “There’s a bar down the street,” she offered with a smile.
And that’s where I ended up.
Two vodka cherry sours is all it took.
Flashing lights behind me. I hadn’t swerved. I hadn’t sped. I hadn’t even felt drunk.
It was the taillight I had been after Ethan to fix.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SADIE
The way Ann watches me come up the lane makes me feel uneasy. The Ativan I popped helps to take the edge off, but it doesn’t make the anxiety go away altogether. Does she know where I’ve been? Does she know about my misdeeds? Does she know what I’m keeping from her? Ann has a way of looking straight through you, and even I know that’s easier to do at a distance. She asked me to come down for coffee. And, because there’s something she wants to show me.
“Do you think it’s too much?” she asks when I reach the porch.
I have no idea what she’s talking about. I don’t want to seem stupid which forces me to wait for her to explain. Finally, she motions toward the yard.
In the daylight, and in wondering if she thinks I am capable of prison time, if I am good enough to have coffee with, worthy of being her friend, of keeping a small animal alive, I hadn’t noticed the Christmas decorations.
I realize I shouldn’t care so much about what anyone else thinks. But I do. I really, really do. My plan can’t work if I don’t.
Idle hands. Ethan never should have suggested I leave my job. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have had time to read so many internet articles or watch 24/7 newsfeeds about the destruction of everything we know, our planet included. How can you escape from that? Because if America goes the way of China and implements an official social credit score—I don’t want to be screwed.
Trust me. You can’t. Destruction is inevitable. You hear about addictions all the time. I thought addictions were about things that made you feel good. Or at the very least, made you feel nothing at all. No one warns you that you can become addicted to knowing about terrible things. But you can. Knowledge is power.
“We always did it up big in our old neighborhood,” Ann says bringing me back to the present moment. She’s very good at that. “But here, well, here… I noticed things are a bit more subdued.”
“Subdued?” Clearly, she hasn’t seen some of the women on our street with a few too many cocktails in them. Her last party hadn’t really been that kind. Just wait. There is still time.
“Oh, you know…” she laments. But I’m not sure I do. “Quieter.”
“You mean boring?”
Her eyes light up. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
“It looks fine,” I assure her. “Subtle.”
“Subtle.” The word rests on her lips and she smiles. “That’s a nice way to put it.”
“So—coffee or tea…or gin?” she asks as she turns and opens the door. She holds it open for me.
“Coffee,” I say thinking she is joking about the gin. It is hardly two in the afternoon. But when she fills her tumbler, I ca
n see she isn’t.
“How do you take it?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your coffee.”
“Oh.” I twist the wedding ring I can’t force myself to take off. Around and around it goes. She notices. “Black is fine.”
“It’s not just any coffee,” she informs me. “It’s from Jamaica.” This is the part where she’s going to tell me about her last trip there. I’ve heard the story secondhand. She surprises me instead. “And worth every penny it costs to import. I think you’ll like it.”
I’m sure, I tell her, and then I take account of all the other imported things I’m surrounded by. Her house looks different without everyone in it. She appears more relaxed, dressed in a sweater and jeans, same as me. Only hers are tailored and fit well, and of course, are at least a dozen sizes smaller.
“Crap,” she says abruptly. She’s leaning over a pan of Danishes she’s just pulled from the oven. She fans them with her hand. “The butter I need for the glaze is in the garage.” Ann looks up at me. “God—I miss my old house. Even the refrigerator was bigger.”
“I can grab it,” I offer, standing.
“Would you mind?”
“Not at all.”
THE GARAGE IS where the good stuff is, and by that I’m not just referring to the butter. Thinking of my predicament with the taillight on the way here, reminded me. If Ann hit that woman with her car, and I’m nearly certain she did, there will be evidence of it. Just in case this should all go south, I’ll need proof. After all, a picture is worth a thousand words.
This, and I have to know.
Ann’s car hasn’t moved in days. It dawns on me that I’ve only seen her drive Paul’s SUV, which she likes to do when he’s away.
My pulse quickens as I retrieve my phone from my pocket. I use the flashlight to check Ann’s front end for damage. There are minor scratches and a small dent, but as best I can see, no blood. No obvious bicycle paint. No broken headlights. I press the camera function to snap a photo, for later, in case I’m missing something. For now, I don’t see anything that can’t be explained away.
“Sadie?”
I jump. The sound of my pulse floods my ears. The hairs on the back of my neck make their presence known. All of my senses heighten.
It’s Ann’s voice, and she’s close behind. I can’t see her but I can smell her perfume. “I’m really sorry,” she says. My chest tightens. “I sent you on a pointless mission. I found the butter inside.”
“Oh.”
Her hand comes to rest on my shoulder. “Is everything okay?”
“I dropped my wedding ring,” I sigh.
“Your wedding ring?”
“I flung it off when I opened the refrigerator. I’ve been searching with the flashlight on my phone, and I still can’t find it.”
“Hmmm,” she murmurs. “Why don’t you just turn on the light?”
I shake my head as though the thought has just occurred to me.
She walks over to the wall, flips a switch, and suddenly a bright overhead light illuminates the space.
“There it is!” I exclaim, bending at the knee to retrieve it. “The cold makes it loose.”
She steadies her gaze on mine. “Maybe you’re losing weight.”
“Fingers crossed,” I laugh. It comes out disappointingly fake.
Ann offers a tight smile. “If they were crossed you wouldn’t be in this predicament.” She pivots fully in my direction. “Say, can I get a look at the photos you took the other night? I’ve been meaning to upload some to the neighborhood app.”
She’s referring to the photos from the dinner party. I’d only taken two. I wasn’t aware she knew.
I hold my breath and hand her my phone. “Sure.”
Ann smiles favorably as she takes the phone, and favor is exactly what I need right now. But I’m not thinking of that. I’m not thinking about how to explain this away or what I might say. I’m cataloging all of the weapons in this garage. I’m thinking of how I might defend myself.
“Got it,” she says. “And…whoops. It looks like you snapped an extra one of my garage floor.”
“Must have been while I was looking for my ring…”
She nods, and I do that thing every liar does where they offer more detail than the situation calls for. “I can’t seem to manage even the simple things. I’m terrible at photography. I’m sure someone else took better photos.”
“Maybe” she shrugs. “But I got what I needed—so you get the benefit of the doubt.”
I manage a tight smile.
“Oh, and Sadie,” Ann says. “There’s something I’ve been thinking about…”
“Yeah?”
“There are cameras everywhere. We’re never not being watched.”
My breath catches in my throat. “Right.”
“Which has me wondering…what kind of person do you think would be stupid enough to use their own car for a hit and run?”
“I wasn’t aware they were planned,” I answer brazenly, because sometimes Ann requires this.
She smiles. “You’d be surprised.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SADIE
Ann had to step out to take a call. Meanwhile, I’ve been pacing the kitchen, hoping my impetuousness hasn’t ruined everything. “Sit,” she demands when she returns. She places a cup of coffee in front of me. “I hope it’s not gotten too cold. You’ll let me know?”
I cup my hands around the mug, warming them. The coffee is perfect. Smells that way. Tastes that way. Not that I’d expected any less. I make sure to tell her as much. My nervousness makes me chatty, and I ask if everything went okay with the call.
She shrugs “You can never really be sure.” She seems distracted.
“It must be difficult.”
“Not really.” I watch as she crosses the kitchen. She’s very attractive when she’s focused. Actually, she’s always attractive. Just more so then. “Well—not in the way that most people think.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know…” she stalls, and it’s clear she’s choosing her words carefully. “Sometimes my voice is the last they’ll ever hear.”
“That’s sad,” I say, sipping my coffee.
“Is it?”
“Well—”
“I was sorry to hear about what happened with your husband.”
The abrupt manner in which she cuts straight to the bone causes me to choke on her perfect coffee. In her perfect home.
Black liquid spews across her white marble countertop. Maybe it’s nerves on account of what just happened in the garage. Maybe it’s something else entirely, but a lump has formed in my throat, making it impossible to swallow. I place the cup on the bar and make a start for the paper towel holder across the counter.
Ann waves me off. “Let me.”
I settle in my seat as she cleans up after me. It makes me think of my mother.
“I can’t imagine what it must be like.”
“That’s a good thing,” I say, speaking around the lump, the way you learn to do with enough practice.
“But I can try.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“I’ve lost things, too, you know. Not my husband. But things that were very important.”
I nod, not only because I am uncomfortable. I hadn’t expected her to be so blunt. No one else is. Not even in DUI class. At the same time, it bothers me. Ann speaks of Ethan as though he is dead. She makes it sound like he is never coming back. This reminds me. “The girl from yesterday…” I say. “Did she go through with it?”
Ann shakes her head. “Not yet. Probably tomorrow.” I want to ask how she knows this. I want to ask a million questions, but before I get the chance, she goes on. “But that’s not why I invited you over,” she assures me. “I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry about your husband.”
“Thank you.” My gaze stays firmly fixed on the countertop. “These are nice,” I say, tracing the granite, doing my best to
change the subject.
“I want you to know that I’m here if you need to talk.”
“I know,” I tell her glancing up. “We are talking.”
“Right.” She looks away. She checks her phone. “I’ve been thinking about something a lot…” Her eyes meet mine and I’m terrified she’s going to bring up the thing I know. The thing I am not ready for her to know. The thing that will ruin everything between us. “You need work, right?”
“Yes. Well, I mean…I’ve been subbing. But—”
“As I’m sure you’re aware—not that I like to talk about it much, I find work terribly boring conversation—but my book has really taken off.”
I lift the coffee cup and place it to my lips to keep me from saying something I’ll regret. This is the part where I have to pretend not to know even though I do. Everyone around here knows. It’s all anyone talks about. People trip over themselves just to be in her presence. She’s the closest thing to famous this town’s ever seen.
“I was thinking that maybe you’d want to help me in my business.” She leans back against the counter and sizes me up. “I mean… when the subbing is slow. I can be flexible.”
“What do you need?”
Her eyes narrow as though I’ve said the wrong thing. “So you know I’m a psychotherapist…but do you know what else I do?”
I know almost everything about you. “No.”
“I help people, Sadie. Not just through my writing, or the hotline…but other ways too. A lot in my old life—before we came here.”
While I consider what it is exactly that she’s trying to tell me, she continues. “Kind of like…”
“Like yesterday at the coffee shop?”
“Sort of.” Her eyes narrow. “I want to do more to give back—pro bono, of course.”
I smile at her heart of gold.
“But I could pay you. Double, maybe even triple what they’re paying you to sub.”
All of a sudden, I feel like she can sense my desperation. The room starts to spin. Her lips are moving, I can hear her speaking, but the words come out muffled, jumbled and mixed together. I blink rapidly. I can feel myself doing it. Sometimes the anti-anxiety meds have this effect. Or maybe it’s the anxiety. Either way, it causes time to slow. That—or she’s put something in my coffee.