You’re exhausting is what he meant. And she’d never believed they hadn’t slept together anyway.
* * *
Adam and Caitriona had dated in the nineties and that was what made Minnie the most jealous. Caitriona had known him then, when Minnie hadn’t. There was a picture of them Minnie had pinned to the walls of her brain, couldn’t untack it even when she tried. Adam, with a red-plaid flannel tied around his waist, his black-framed glasses not unlike the pair he wore now. Caitriona, next to him in her flowered Doc Martens and ripped jeans. They were at a Pearl Jam concert and Adam was smoking because he smoked back then. Caitriona was wide-mouthed, surely laughing at something Adam had said. Adam was funny in the nineties and Adam was still funny now. But now Adam was forty-five, not twenty-five. Now, Adam was a father and an AP History teacher. He and Minnie had a twelve-year-old daughter, a thirteen-year-old marriage, a thirty-year mortgage. He and Minnie had met right as the nineties were dipping out and Y2K fears were slipping in and every time she thought about that picture, she felt like she’d missed out on something in his life before her. Caitriona had known Adam when he was a smoker, when he had beery breath, when he tied flannel shirts around his waist and listened to music, not just NPR. Caitriona had known Adam when they were both learning the lyrics to RENT, when Adam had played Roger in the local production. Caitriona had played Mimi. While Adam was living his superstar-laidback-local-theatre life, Minnie had been in school, getting her music degree with a cello emphasis.
Cat. Minnie hated when Adam called Caitriona Cat.
Minnie was cultured too. One of her cello teachers had called her a rare talent once and Minnie had almost wanted to get it printed on a sticker and slap it across her orange hard case.
* * *
Minnie felt mousey in the passenger seat. She glanced at Adam. He looked tired. They’d go home, pay the babysitter. Adam would have a small glass of whiskey and ice before taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes, falling asleep on the couch watching one of the West Coast baseball games while Minnie played her cello downstairs. She was angry with him and knew how ridiculous that was. She still wanted to have sex with him. Minnie’s stomach growled again.
“So, you’re on hunger strike because I get paid to kiss Cat every night? You think I don’t ever get jealous of you and Connor going all over the countryside together, playing at these romantic events like some kind of…sexual troubadours?” Adam asked, pushed his glasses up.
“Sexual troubadours? Really? Wow,” Minnie managed to say before laughing loudly.
“Absolutely, sexual troubadours. You and Connor drinking wine and rambling through the forest!”
Adam stopped at a red light and looked at her.
“Rambling through the forest? With a cello? Adam, for the love, give it a rest. Oh and don’t forget there are two other women with us…it’s a quartet!”
“More like a duet,” he said.
“Really? You think we, what, use a time machine and go back to the High Middle Ages every weekend?”
“Caitriona and I have been working together for years. You know her. I barely know anything about Connor.”
“You know plenty about him!”
“I know the guy plays the viola, that’s all.”
“He’s been to our house, you’ve met his wife.”
“I don’t taste Cat’s mouth when I kiss her,” he said as the light turned green.
“You’re exhausting,” Minnie said to him, before he could say it to her.
* * *
Adam paid the babysitter and did everything Minnie knew he would do. She went upstairs, changed into her pajamas, came down and sat on the other side of the couch, put her arm around Ivy who was nursing a small mug of chamomile like an old woman. Adam had the ballgame turned down low and sipped at his whiskey. Minnie had reheated last night’s ziti and cheese and finished it, standing in the kitchen. Adam had made himself a roast beef and cheddar cheese sandwich, the crusts bordering the small plate he’d balanced on the arm of the couch. Minnie looked at her phone, saw a text from Connor. A question about the new music. She put it down without responding.
“Daddy, who are you for?” Ivy asked. Her voice was sleepy. She sat on Minnie, snuggled up to her even tighter. They’d been attachment parents, Minnie slinging Ivy wherever they would go when she was a baby, breastfeeding her until she was two years old. Ivy had slept on Minnie exclusively until she was five months old. Because of that, Ivy tended to sit on Minnie or Adam, like she was hatching them. Minnie felt a bit guilty being overstimulated by it and made sure she set aside some time at night to let Ivy sit on her, knowing it wasn’t Ivy’s fault they’d raised her that way. Ivy especially loved perching on Minnie when she was sleepy.
“Tonight? Let’s go with the Rangers,” Adam said. He was a Cubs fan but they weren’t playing.
“I’m for the Angels,” Ivy said.
“Me too,” Minnie tacked on.
Adam looked at them, drank his whiskey.
“You should never root against angels, Daddy,” Ivy warned.
“Of course not,” Adam said, giving up too easily.
“Ivy, scoot off to bed. I have to practice downstairs,” Minnie said.
“But I want Daddy to tell me about the play.”
Ivy got up and plopped into Adam’s lap. It was his turn to be hatched.
“Ten minutes,” Minnie said to both of them before getting up and going downstairs.
* * *
Minnie closed the basement door, got out her cello. She ran through the pieces they always played at the weddings, the pieces she could play in her sleep, to warm up her fingers. Tchaikovsky, Bach. In between, she heard Adam’s deep voice murmuring upstairs, followed by Ivy’s giggles and conversation. Minnie pulled out the new sheet music, stared at it until her eyes went out of focus, until the black notes slipped down the white page and blurred away. Ivy tapped gently on the basement door and Minnie told her to come down.
“Night, Mommy,” Ivy said, hugging her neck.
“Goodnight, pigeon.” Minnie put her arms around her daughter, kissed the top of her head.
Ivy went up, closed the door again.
Minnie had taken her phone downstairs in the pocket of her pajama pants. She pulled it out and texted Connor.
Wanna FaceTime this new piece?
She imagined Connor in bed already, his wife sleeping next to him. Minnie pictured his face, lit up with the phone light, reading her text. She rosined her bow, tuned. Waited for Connor to text her. If Adam had ever come right out and asked Minnie if she had a crush on Connor, Minnie would have told Adam yes. But Adam hadn’t asked. Adam wasn’t even particularly jealous. Everything he did was a reaction to Minnie, her jealousy. And Minnie liked to lean into the lion’s mouth of her jealousy, let it snap shut.
She was in the lion’s mouth when she got a response from Connor.
Fuck yeah!
She smiled, looking at his fuck yeah. Exclamation point. She thought of his mouth shaping the words and her thighs warmed. She considered Adam dozing off on the couch upstairs, his glasses on the small table next to him. She could hear the low mutter of the TV, the baseball commentary, the rhythmic clapping. Something important must’ve been happening. Minnie pulled her hair up, a sloppy bun at the crown, smoothed the strays behind her ears. She was wearing an old T-shirt she’d gotten on their honeymoon, now ratty and worn, with a big faded pineapple on the front of it. It was her favorite, the softest. She answered when she saw her phone screen light up.