Chapter 13
Happy Anniversary
Cecily
We went to New York.
After I received Tom’s texts with my hands stuffed into a display case full of sexy underwear, I still went with him to New York for our twentieth wedding anniversary.
When I got control of myself again, I bought whatever I was holding in Victoria’s Secret, went home, and finished packing. I packed Tom’s bag, too, because he’d texted me an hour later asking me if I could. I was fairly sure that text was a ploy, a tactic to make sure I hadn’t seen the others, that somehow his phone was lying to him and he hadn’t been discovered. Or maybe he was trying to push those texts into the background, hide them from view, which is why he sent a long, rambling one followed by several short ones. Perhaps he was hoping I thought it was some silly joke, something that would be revealed to me on our romantic weekend, and I was waiting for him to enlighten me. Have a ha-ha moment.
I’ve often wondered since then whether Tom thought I was stupid. I never would’ve believed that before, but after a lot of thought, it’s the only explanation I can come up with. That he must’ve assumed I wouldn’t know what the texts meant. That I was so in love with him I’d trust whatever lie he was preparing to spin. That because he’d behaved uncharacteristically—or so I thought, but what the fuck did I know?—he could convince me I was the one causing the problem by misinterpreting his obvious joke. That the problem wasn’t the fact that he’d let some other woman suck his dick, but with me.
Stupid, stupid. I felt so stupid. How could I have let this happen? How could I not know? I needed something, more information, better information, something to keep me occupied. So, before I did the packing, I checked his personal e-mail to see if I could find any further evidence, but there was nothing there. He’d texted me from his work phone—the only phone he had, that I knew of anyway—and he mostly used his work e-mail even for communicating with me. He was the president of the company, after all. He could do what he wanted, apparently. And I didn’t know how to log on to his work e-mail—password protected, he always told me, for security reasons.
Who could it be? Who, who? I sat down on the edge of our bed, surrounded by the clothes I was supposed to be packing, and thought and thought, cycling through the women we knew like a child reciting the alphabet. Allison from down the street? No. I’d actually seen him wrinkle his nose at her once when she wore an unflattering dress to a party. Bea from the office? He didn’t think she was very intelligent, and maybe that wasn’t insulation against her prettiness, but it felt like it was. Carol from the kids’ school? He might be interested in her, but I’d overheard her saying she found him annoying, and she hadn’t even blushed when she realized I heard her, just gave me a challenging look like she knew I agreed with her, deep down.
And so on. I never had any instinct. No name stood out as likely. It was all unbelievable.
I know some people in my situation would’ve felt as if they were to blame, that it was some kind of reflection on them, but I didn’t. I felt like an idiot for not knowing it was going on, but not that it was my fault. I was surprised, though. Not because of the act itself; I always knew cheating was a possibility. I’d had my own opportunities I’d turned away from, and so I knew, I knew, it was something that could happen to me.
No, it was the carelessness. Tom, who was always so, so meticulous, who never made mistakes, not ever, had made a major one. And because of this, I couldn’t help but feel like he wanted me to know. That he wanted me to find out but couldn’t find the words, couldn’t bring himself to make a decision, and so let a thoughtless moment do it for him. I’d always made it clear to Tom that if I found out something like that, it was the end. There’d be no forgiveness, no going back. If you want to end things irrevocably, I’d said more than once—in a mocking tone, in a joking way, the way couples do sometimes, but he knew I was serious—then cheat on me. Cheat on me and tell me. Now he had, and there I was in the place in which I always said I’d know exactly what to do. And you know what took me by surprise?
My lack of certainty.
“These are pretty,” Cassie had said, startling me.
She was holding the camisole and underwear I’d bought. She had a shy look on her face, as if she was thinking about the nice things she might wear for a man one day, someday soon.
“They are.” I rubbed my hands across the silky fabric, then swept everything on the bed into my suitcase without taking the time to fold anything.
“Mom!”
“What?”
“It’ll get all wrinkled like that.”
“Probably.”
“Are you okay?”
“Sure I am, honey.”
I tugged on one of her braids, holding myself in check. I felt the first prick of hate for Tom, then, for making me lie to our daughter.
“I hope you have a stupendous time,” she said.
“Word of the day? I like it.”
Cassie smiled and gave me a quick hug, then darted out of the room, embarrassed.
I sat back on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall until Tom came home.
Before our date, I told Teo I needed to go home and change, but I also wanted time to do something I haven’t been doing enough of in the last couple months—visit the Rings.
We’ve spent a lot of time together in the last year, our two broken families blending into something resembling one. Being together was simple because there didn’t need to be any explanation. If someone cried, they were comforted. If someone needed to be distracted, there were enough petty squabbles and video games and chores to accomplish the task. If Josh didn’t feel like cooking or facing the freezer full of prepared guilt dinners the neighbors left, he knew they could always find a meal with us and vice versa. There were others who joined us, other families we knew from before who were also affected, but we were the core. For months and months and months.
Something shifted a while ago, slowly at first, then more rapidly. There were fewer dinners, fewer game nights or spontaneous drop-bys. Maybe it was a sign of healing, an inevitable change that meant things were improving. I’m not sure what started it, though things felt noticeably different during our last two evenings together, with Franny there. But that wasn’t Franny’s fault; it was us, our chemistry that wasn’t working as well when we didn’t need it so much. But when I saw their names hanging on the wall this afternoon, I realized I hadn’t seen them in weeks.
They live a few blocks from us, their brick colonial built on a similar plan to ours, so there’s always this moment of disorientation when I enter it. The colors are slightly off, the furniture not quite where I would’ve put it. But I don’t end up inside the house today. Instead, as I park my car, I see Franny leaving the house, one of the girls’ hands firmly in each of hers, like they belong there.
I reach for my seat belt to unclip it, but something stops me. Maybe it’s the normalness of it all, but why should that bother me? Where else should Franny be right now? This is her family, and a woman should be with her family in times like these. Maybe it’s as simple as the fact that, on some level, I blame her for being here instead of her mother, and thinking this makes me ashamed. It’s not Franny’s fault her mother’s gone, and, if anything, Franny’s loss is greater than mine. I lost a friend—she lost a parent. A future.
So I don’t get out of the car. Instead, I watch as the girls climb into the back seat of the minivan. Franny checks the girls’ seat belts, doing all the things a mother should. Doing all the things their mother should be doing.
When it hurts too much to watch anymore, I drive away.
Teo takes me to The Angry Crab on North Lincoln, a deliciously messy eating experience I’ve always loved. I don’t tell him it was one of the places Tom and I went with the kids. As the familiar bouquet of steamed shellfish and garlic fills my senses, I push those thoughts down, the memories that feel fresher than they have in a while, and decide to order something different from what I’d usually have, hoping the unfamiliar will make this evening less weird.
If this is a date, and I suppose it can’t be anything other than that, it’s the first I’ve been on in more than twenty years. Tom and I met in college, and I’m not sure we ever had a real first date. Does inviting me to his dorm room to watch a movie count? The last time I felt this awkward was a few months before that, when my roommate set me up with her boyfriend’s roommate and we all went for beers at a pub. I’d been worried that night, too, about what I should wear, and how my body fit into my clothes, and whether I’d be able to keep up my end of the conversation. Only this was Teo. He’d already seen me at my worst. Shaken, terrified, covered in dust and God knows what else.
We find a table and each order Dungeness crab in “grumpy” garlic butter sauce, making sure to pile up on napkins. It’s a BYOB restaurant, and Teo had the foresight to bring a six-pack of a great IPA I haven’t tasted before.
“I’m glad I didn’t get too dressed up,” I say as we dig into our bags of crab. A trail of spicy steam rises from the food and tickles my nose. The acoustics are terrible, so I have to lean toward Teo to catch much of what he says.
“I should’ve brought you somewhere nicer.”
“What? No. I love this place.”
He grabs a cracker from the table. “Tell the truth now, or I’ll use this on you.”
“You going to keep that for our next interview?”
“Now there’s a thought. You are a tough nut to . . . crack. Ugh, that’s terrible.”
“It is.”
He opens up the body of his crab and takes a pull from his beer. He’s dressed in a slightly nicer version of his usual uniform—the blue-gray shirt is a button-down, and the jeans have a darker wash to them. The forest-green sweater he’s wearing over his shirt complements the rest of it, which I almost tell him, then don’t, because I have no idea how to do this, be casual with a man. Flirt with him.
“But seriously,” Teo says. “Is this place okay? We can go somewhere else next time, if you want.”
“Next time, huh?”
“I think you made me blush.”
“I do love this place; I don’t need anything fancier. And as to whether there’ll be a ‘next time,’ why don’t we see how this evening goes and then decide?”
“That sounds like a good plan.”
“I am curious, though.” I bite into my own crab claw and nearly moan in pleasure. It’s been too long since I ate something this good, despite the best intentions of my neighbors. “What makes you think I like fancy restaurants?”
“Didn’t you used to run a fancy restaurant?”
“I did.”
I look down at the label on my beer. Brewed right here in Chicago, it says.
“Sorry. It was in your background info . . . I guess it’s weird that I know all these things about you without even having to ask.”
“No, it’s fine. The restaurant’s not a secret.” I look up and smile. “I managed Knife & Fork for fifteen years, and I loved every minute of it.”
“I ate there a couple times.”
“You did?”
“Yup. Great food.”
“Funny to think of us being there at the same time and not even knowing it.”
“Life’s often like that. It’s closed now, isn’t it? What happened?”
“We were shaky after the last recession and never quite recovered. The owners were getting close to retirement and had the opportunity to sell for a lot of money. For the location. The buyers didn’t want the restaurant. There’s some Italian franchise there now.”
“You didn’t want to stay on?”
“No. I . . . We’d actually tried to buy it ourselves, but it didn’t work out.”
We’d scraped together everything we had to put up the earnest money. And then I’d stupidly assumed that fifteen years of loyalty would win me the space, the chance to make it my own. I’d gotten way ahead of myself, commissioning architectural plans that cost the earth and signing a contract with an up-and-coming chef. When the owners “went another way,” I was left holding the bag. Jobless, in debt, heartbroken.
I sincerely hope this information isn’t in his file, or anyone else’s, either.
“That must’ve been tough,” Teo says.
“It was. But life moves on.”
“When did all this happen?”
“A few years ago. I was sad for a while, but I’m over it.”
Tom had never gotten over it. Not the betrayal by the Urbans, who we’d always thought of as family. Not the bad judgment he thought I’d shown in putting all that money down before things were a certainty, even though we’d decided to do it together. When I’d run into Seth Urban a couple weeks before Tom died and made the mistake of telling Tom about it, he flew into a rage, just as angry, angrier even, as he’d been when it had all fallen apart.
“I like that about you,” Teo says.
“What’s that?”
“Your forgiving nature.”
“Does it say that in your background info? Because that would be wrong.”
“You sure? I’m usually a good judge of character.”
I stuff some seafood in my mouth, then chase it down with beer. “So what do you think of Franny, then? You keep asking me about her, but you never say what you think.”
“I think she’s interesting.”
“She talks about you a lot. I think she might have a crush.”
“Oh?”
“‘When I was speaking with Teo the other day,’ or ‘Teo was asking me in our last interview.’ Things like that. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, I hate when I do that.”
“What?”
“Rat other people out. Not that she’s said anything, I wouldn’t betray a confidence, but . . . God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”
“You don’t have to.”
“No, I do. I just . . . When I’ve figured something out about someone, I usually end up telling other people. It’s this weird form of showing off. I hate it. But I can’t seem to stop myself from doing it.”
“I think you’re making a bigger deal of it than it is.”
“If you say so.”
I watch him for a moment across the table. He’s a careful eater, even with this messy food. Sometimes Tom would eat so quickly, his face would get covered with sauce like when the kids were little. But I should stop this, comparing these two. They have nothing in common but me, and maybe not even that.
“I am curious, though,” I say. “What do you think of Franny?”
He winks at me. “I guess you’ll have to watch the film to find out.”
“Well, that’s completely unfair.”
“It is rather, isn’t it?”
“So forget Franny, then; what’s your story?”
“My story?”
“Yeah, the story of Teo Jackson. Illegitimate love child of Michael?”
He nearly spits out his beer. “What? The singer?”
“Sure.”
“Um, no.”
“Not a fan?”
“Elvis Costello’s more my style.”
“I never got him. But I do love his wife’s stuff. Diana Krall.”
Teo thinks about it for a moment. “The jazz singer?”
“Yep, she’s great. My friend Kaitlyn met her once.”
“When?”
“She used to go to Vancouver a lot for business. Anyway, she was in some store, not Target but something like it, and there was Diana Krall with her twins at the cash register. And Kaitlyn was this huge fan. She’s the one who introduced me to her music.”
“What did she do?”
“Stood there like an idiot until Diana came up and asked her if there was something wrong. She actually thought Kaitlyn was having a stroke or something because she was standing there with her mouth hanging open and she couldn’t talk. I guess she’s not used to having people react to her that way.”
“That’s refreshing.”
“Right? Kaitlyn said she was super nice and normal. They talked for a bit in the store and then Kaitlyn embarrassed herself by asking Diana Krall to go for coffee and . . .”
Teo has an odd look on his face.
“Have I been speaking very fast?” I ask.
“Kind of.”
“I do that sometimes, get kind of manic in my speech. But I’m not actually manic—I just sound that way occasionally.”
“When you’re upset?”
“I guess that’s why. I miss Kaitlyn.” I push my plastic bag of food away.
“Tell me about her,” Teo says.
“Just for us, right?”
“I’m not taking notes here.”
“She’s . . . Oh, I don’t know. I could tell you all these things about her, what she looks like, or how she throws her head back when she laughs, or her weakness for cheese Pringles, or a million things, but that wouldn’t explain her. You wouldn’t know her. She’s someone who got a famous person to talk to her because she was in awe.”
“She sounds great.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
“What?”
“That you still haven’t told me anything about you. I’ve got your number, buddy.”
“I guess there’ll have to be a next time, then. If you want to learn more about me.”
I don’t say anything, just finish my beer and wait for him to finish his. There’s a line of people waiting for tables like there often is, so we don’t linger. We clean ourselves up as best we can with wet wipes and get ready to go. I know from experience that my hands will still smell like seafood in the morning, no matter how thoroughly I wash them.
Teo helps me with my coat, and I catch a look from a couple in line. They’re watching us. I hear one of them say distinctly, “It’s her.”
I duck my head. “Can we get out of here?”
“You bet,” Teo says, taking me by the elbow and pulling me through the line and out into the frosty night. We stop half a block away on North Lincoln. The traffic’s light, the sky a cloudy black. I can feel the cool breeze coming off the lake and taste a tang of it in the air.
“Sorry about that,” Teo says.
“For what?”
“Those people in the restaurant. That’s my fault. Because of the picture.”
“You didn’t know it would be like that. Everywhere.”
“But I kind of did. You know that feeling you get when you’re doing something and it’s turning out great . . . I had it that entire day. I’d taken these amazing shots of the building before, and during, and when I saw you standing there, I could see right away what an incredible photograph it would be. And I stopped and I took it. I took it, and I sold it, and even though you agreed, I stole something from you. So I’m sorry. I’ve been wanting to say that for a while.”
I reach a cold hand up and stroke his soft beard. “I forgive you.”
He looks pleased. “You do?”
“You said I was a forgiving person. Maybe you were right. Maybe I am.”
“See, I told you I was a good judge of character.”
And maybe he is, but his timing and mine, it’s always been skewed. Because he leans down to kiss me, and as his lips meet mine, I hear the click of a mechanical shutter.
I’ve been caught on film.
Again.