Slip of the Tongue (8 page)

“I’m sorry about the Pinterest joke. I’m not even really sure what that website is . . .”

“Not that,” I say. “I’m not that sensitive. I meant the guilt thing, when you asked how much time I had. What do you feel guilty about?”

He clears his throat. “Oh. You mean . . . right now?”

“In general. What are you holding on to?”

He blows out a sigh that ends in a laugh. “That’s a tough question. If you want to see an American panic, ask them what they did wrong today. Sometimes I’m surprised we aren’t all curled into balls by breakfast time.”

“Interesting. You make it sound like an epidemic.”

“It kind of is, but I’m guilty of it too.” We both laugh. “Guilty of feeling guilt.”

“I don’t feel guilt,” I declare as if I’m on trial. As if I’m trying to convince him. “I don’t have regrets.”

“About anything?” he asks, surprised.

“Pretty much. Most things, I can’t control. And those I can, I always try to make good decisions with the information I have. At least, decisions that work best for me.”

“And your husband.”

I stop rinsing out a bowl. “Well, yes. I mean, what’s best for me is almost always best for Nathan.”

“And if it isn’t?”

I dry the dish and place it on the shelf with the others. Once, a long time ago, I made a decision for Nathan. It hadn’t been easy. Many people would even say it was bad. Wrong. But my life with Nathan is better for it, so how can I feel guilty about that?

I try to think of a choice I’ve made that wasn’t best for Nathan, but I did it anyway. Nathan is the most important thing in my life. Do I know, though, without a shadow of a doubt, that I can and will put him before myself? In an ideal world, the answer is yes. And most of the time I do.

But then, I think about our trouble getting pregnant. Nathan may have been okay with me going back on birth control for now, but that won’t last. He’s prepared to exhaust every option. I know better, though—some people don’t get everything they want. And there has to be a point, when the heartbreak becomes too much, where someone says—enough is enough. A hard decision to make, but one that’s in both our best interests.

“Compromise,” I say. It’s a canned answer, but the alternative is the truth, which is that I don’t know what I’d do if faced with a choice between what’s best for me and what’s best for Nathan.

“Where is he?” Finn asks after a moment.

“Who?” I pick up a heavy serving dish, blow on it, and designate a musty corner cupboard with extra space to be the party platter home.

“Your husband.” He clears his throat. “Where is he?”

“Oh.” With some effort, I slide the large plate into its spot, close the cabinet, and take a breath. “I don’t know. We have a very relaxed—”

“So you’ve said,” he says. “You don’t care where he is?”

I look down at my hands. Finn continues to press an issue I don’t want to think about. I came here to distract myself, not confront demons. I could try and guess where Nathan is, but the point isn’t that he’s not here. It’s why. What’s keeping him away lately? Another woman? Or, worse—me? Except for bowling nights, it takes a lot for him to miss dinner.

“Of course I care,” I say. “But I trust him.”

“I didn’t realize we were talking about trust.”

Neither did I.

“Something wrong?” Finn asks.

I keep my back to him. “No.” I take out another dish in a floral pattern. Where the hell did he get this—a flea market?
Men
.

Finn wipes his hands on a rag, takes the plate from me, and sets it aside. “I know we don’t know each other very well—”

“We don’t know each other at all.” I turn to face him. “We’re half a step up from strangers.”

He winces, almost imperceptibly. “Okay . . . well, then, think of me as a stranger. Sometimes it’s easier to confide in someone you don’t know.”

My chest is tight. Actually, Finn
doesn’t
feel like a stranger, but more like we’ve known each other a long time. Longer than Nathan and I, even, which makes no sense. Meeting Nathan felt fresh, like a beginning, as if he’d just been born and walked right into my life. Finn could be an old friend, though, a t-shirt I’ve worn a thousand times.

“I found something.” The words tumble out.

“What did you find?”

“It’s stupid. And cliché. It’s dumb to even mention it.” I roll my eyes and lean my back against the counter. “I found a lipstick stain.”

“When?” His expression closes. “Where?”

“Last night, on his tie.”

“Jesus, Sadie.” Finn runs both hands through his hair as if I’ve just told him something about his own spouse. He makes a face. “I’m sorry.”

“You are?” My heart skips. “Why? You think it means something?”

“Oh. I—” He scratches under his collar. “Probably not.”

“You’re lying.”

He exhales a nervous laugh. “I just—I mean, how would I know? I’ve never met the guy. But every time I see you, you’re alone.”

“I told you, last night he was bowling.”

He raises both palms. “I’m not saying anything. Are there women at the bowling alley?”

“I don’t know.” I haven’t been to a game. Maybe I should, though.

Finn reaches out and hesitantly rubs my bare shoulder. There’s a sheen of sweat at the base of his neck, and my scalp grows hot. I move my hair over one shoulder as he slides his hand a little higher and presses his thumb along my collarbone.

I part my lips, and when he does it again, I close my eyes. “That’s nice.”

He isn’t gentle. I can feel the strength of his hands as he massages my shoulder, then my neck.

“The thing is,” I say in the dark, “I haven’t always been the best wife, but he’s been a flawless husband. That’s why it doesn’t make sense.”

“Have you asked him about it?”

“No. It seems ridiculous to even bring it up. Anyone who knows us . . .” I pause, unable to think of how to explain it. “He wouldn’t.”

We stand quietly for a minute. Finn slips his fingers under the strap of my tank top. It slides down my shoulder. “Sorry,” he mutters.

I don’t fix it.

He continues to work the tension out of my neck. “When you say you haven’t been the best wife . . .”

“That’s not what I mean.” I shake my head. “I’ve never been unfaithful. It’s just, when one half of the relationship is perfect, the other half is bound to be a let down, any way you cut it. I don’t always say and do the right thing.”

“And he does?”

“Always,” I whisper. “Until these last two months.”

“What happened two months ago?”

I bite my bottom lip hard. It’s what I’ve been asking myself over and over. One day, he was himself. The next day . . . off. “He found out his father is dying.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He turned down a promotion at work so he could stay available for his dad. But a few months ago, I
took
a promotion, and now I’m making a tiny bit more money than him.”

“Would that upset him enough to ice you out?”

“I don’t think so. The difference is negligible, really.” The Nathan I know wouldn’t be so petty, but lately, I’ve been learning quite a bit about the man I married. “He seemed happy for me.”

“So, you think maybe . . .?”

“What?” I ask.

“I’m not stupid,” he says. “I’m not going to say it first.”

“That he met someone? No. I don’t think so. There must be another explanation.” I open my eyes, and Finn seems closer than he was a few seconds ago.

“Hi,” he says, “again.”

“Hi.” My voice is creaky. “What’s the diagnosis?”

He slides a finger up the back of my neck. Goose bumps light up my skin. “Some tightness, but relatively knot-free.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes, it is.” He inhales deeply and stares at me. “I have to tell you something.”

My hairline prickles. I can sense it’ll be heavy, and I’m not sure I want to hear it. I force a crooked smile that probably looks as awkward as I feel. “I smell like dog food?”

“I want to kiss you,” he says without missing a beat. “I won’t, but I just thought you should know.”

My stomach drops as if I’m in free fall. I bite my lip involuntarily, then release it, afraid it’ll look like an invitation. Can he really come out and say that? Without prompting, without wavering? You can want to kiss someone and not say it. Should I be angry he confessed that? I’m not. I’m curious. Stirred, even. Since we’re being honest, I ask what I want to ask. “Why?”

“Why do I want to kiss you? Or why did I tell you?”

My heart rate picks up. I lose my nerve. “The second one. That’s not the kind of thing you just come out and say to a stranger. A
married
stranger.”

“Because I like you.” He absentmindedly caresses the nape of my neck with his fingertip. “So I want to be honest.”

I put my hand over his wrist, and he stops. Now, and for the last hour, it’s as if we’re the only two people on the planet. The Bad Wife and the Stranger. If I let him kiss me, nobody would ever know.
He
doesn’t wear lipstick. Neither do I.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” he asks.

I nod. I don’t have to pull his hand away. He takes it back willingly.

“It’s probably best.” He hands me my sweater and the speaker. We forgot to turn the music on. “I can finish up here.”

Already, before I can get a word out, he’s walking me through the apartment.

I say the only thing left to say. “Goodnight.”

“See you around.” He pulls the door open, then shuts it again. He sighs. “Talk to him. If you want to know what’s wrong, just ask him.”

I pull my sweater around me, even though hair sticks to the back of my neck. My feet sweat in my boots. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” He lets me out.

I walk across the hall, unlock the door to my apartment, and find the lights on. I set my keys down as Ginger comes in, wagging her tail. “Nate?”

“In here,” he calls from the living room.

I remove my shoes and socks, put them on the rack in the entryway, and find him on the couch in his sweats. “Why didn’t you come get me?” I ask.

He pauses whatever sports channel he’s watching. “I didn’t know where you were.”

“I left you a note.”

“You did?” He hits play on the remote and returns his attention to the TV.

I go into the kitchen. The Post-It is still on the fridge, but it’s been moved a few inches to the left. He just lied to me. I pull it off and go back to the living room. “You didn’t see this?” I ask.

He shuts off the TV, stands, and stretches. He’s so tall, his fingertips graze the ceiling. “I figured you were out shopping or something.”

“You should’ve called me. What about dinner?”

“I made a grilled cheese.”

I don’t know what to say. If he’s home, I make him dinner. Period. I want to tell him that. To tell him I know he moved the Post-It. I’m fairly positive he did. Though, I could be mistaken. Do I really remember where I stuck it? I’d sound hysterical if I were wrong.

“Where were you tonight?” I ask.

“I went to see my dad.”

“Without me?” I ask. “I would’ve met you at the hospital.”

“I wasn’t planning to. I just decided to stop by on my way home from work.”

I crumple the Post-It in one hand. Nathan’s dad’s health has declined quickly since they discovered his lung cancer. When we found out he’d been sick a while, Nathan blamed himself for not making his stubborn dad see a doctor sooner.

“He’s better, by the way.” He sniffs. “Radiation just hit him a little harder than usual. They’re keeping him there.”

“Did you call your mom?”

“Yeah. She’s sending ‘healing energy from California.’” He tosses the remote on the couch. “I’m done with the TV if you want it.”

“Maybe we can watch something together?”

There are shows Nathan and I watch together, and there are ones we watch when we’re apart. I can’t stand medical primetime drama. He’ll leave the room if he sees Tim Gunn. But when we find a show we both love, we always watch it the same way—gasping simultaneously. Laughing at the same things, even those that aren’t meant to be funny. Yelling at idiot characters.

“I’m going to read,” he says. “I’m finally starting that Erik Larson book I ordered forever ago.”

Historical nonfiction. Not my thing. I know he’s been looking forward to it, though. “All right.”

He turns to walk away.

“I was at the neighbor’s,” I say. “That’s what the Post-It said. He asked me to help him unpack the kitchen.”

“That was nice of you,” he says. “Moving on your own is a bitch.”

“I think you’d like him.” I hesitate. Maybe if they knew each other, the temptation of Finn would disappear. The funny thing is, I think they’d get along. “You should go over and say hello sometime. I don’t think he has a lot of friends.”

Nathan turns his head halfway over his shoulder. “His heater still busted?”

“Yes.” I run my hand over the back of my clammy neck and remember Finn’s fingers there. “I’m sweating like a pig.”

Nathan takes a long look at me and opens his mouth like he’s going to speak. After a brief pause, he asks, “What’s his name?”

“Finn.” I wait. “He worked in banking or something.”

Nathan shifts on his feet, watching me. “I’ll try to get over there to take a look, but no promises.”

He goes into the bedroom. I make myself something to eat and watch TV, but I’m not paying attention. Nothing has really happened today, and yet, my mind is spinning—from Nathan’s lipstick stain and his dismissal just now. From Finn’s strong hands and his confession. What is a kiss, really? Two body parts touching, like one hand to another. The thought of Finn’s unsolicited, forbidden kiss shouldn’t stir something deep inside me.

I’m still sticky, so I leave the dishes for the morning and decide to take a shower. Nathan doesn’t look up from his book. I undress in the closet and slip on my robe. As I’m taking my birth control, I notice the dry cleaning bag has new things in it. I drop to my knees and rifle through until I find his tie. I pull it out quickly, straightening and smoothing it over the carpet. It’s crumpled, but clean. I sigh, a mix of relief and embarrassment, as I hunch over the bag. Then, I smell it. Cigarette smoke.

I set my jaw. Nathan quit years ago and hasn’t slipped up once. This isn’t his stink stuck to his suit. It’s someone else’s. Or it’s from a bar. Either way, it is
not
from a hospital. How desperate must he be to lie about seeing his sick father?