She watched as he ungracefully spooned neon eggs into his mouth, oblivious to her discomfort. He was so hungry; why was he so hungry? The ketchup, she noted, made their anniversary dinner look like a crime scene. Picking up her glass of water, she drank deeply, trying to open her ever-constricting throat. The kitchen was cold. Winnie wanted to get up and close the door, but she was too tired. Nigel’s voice was a dull drum, and she listened to the beat rather than the words. She wondered if she should give him the present she’d bought him; it would make him feel bad, but she’d been so excited about it. In the end, she said nothing, pushing her fake eggs around her plate until eventually she dumped it all down the disposal. She didn’t want to upset Nigel; she needed him in the mood.
Winnie wanted one last shot at getting pregnant again before her ovaries went into retirement. Her friends thought she was crazy—she had a perfectly healthy thirteen-year-old son, why in the world would she want to start all over? As she stacked the plates into the dishwasher, she tried to list the reasons: because she hadn’t gotten to enjoy it the first time, because she felt like she owed Samuel a connection in life other than her and Nigel, and because she wanted someone to love her unconditionally.
But by the time Winnie’s dainty blue dinner plates were tucked into the dishwasher, her attitude was limp and her tear ducts were straining. Nigel was still sitting at the table, scrolling through his phone with glassy eyes. She didn’t like the way he was sitting, with one ankle balanced on a knee so casually. Winnie stood in front of the fridge to hide the tears now rolling down her cheeks.
One, four, eight and fifteen: those had been the hardest years of their marriage. Sometimes it had been her who’d caused the trouble and sometimes it had been Nigel. A lot could happen in fifteen years. But no matter how Nigel messed up, no matter what trouble he brought into their marriage, it would never be as bad as what Winnie had done. She knew that and he knew that.
The very thing that kept them together was also the thing that kept them apart.
3
WINNIE
Her first date with Nigel had been a setup by Winnie’s cousin Amber, who “knew a guy.”
The guy she knew was Nigel Angus Crouch, and if Winnie had heard his full name before she agreed to the date, she would have said “Hard no.” Fortunately, her cousin kept his full name to herself during the matchmaking. Amber had just moved to Washington from New York the year before. She already knew more people than Winnie, who’d grown up there.
“What guy? How do you know him?”
“Kevin knows him. He’s starting over.”
“Starting over? What does that mean?” Winnie hadn’t exactly trusted Amber’s taste in men; her last boyfriend had kept pet snakes. She shuddered, remembering the time he’d made Winnie wear one. A scaly scarf wrapped around her neck with a lethal heaviness. Amber’s answer came three seconds late because she was taking a drag of her cigarette.
“He was engaged. I think it was a bad breakup.” Her lips formed a cartoonish “O” as she blew the smoke out. Winnie waved it away. “His fiancée didn’t want kids. Look, he’s nice...maybe a little weird...good-looking, the way you like ’em.”
Whatever that meant. Winnie had agreed in the moment because she hadn’t had a date in six months and was starting to feel dried out. Amber set up the date via text while sitting sideways on a lawn chair, blowing smoke away from Winnie this time. The guy had agreed right away; Winnie guessed he felt dried up, too. Dinner would be at a restaurant downtown, Winnie was to meet him there, and if things went well, they could grab a drink at Von’s after. But when the day rolled around, she hadn’t wanted to go. Her friends were going to Marymoore Park for a concert and someone had backed out, leaving a spare ticket. She was about to text her date and cancel, but he texted her first.
I’ve stalked you on social media and still can’t decide if a distressed leather jacket or a suit jacket would impress you more.
Winnie, who had been lying on her back in bed, sat up suddenly, having a strong opinion on the matter. Winnie was very protective of animals; she had a theory that one day they’d get angry enough to take the world back from people. The ones who would be spared were definitely the vegetarians, more props to the vegans. She did not eat, wear, or put animals in cages for this reason.
Faux leather or real? She’d texted back. She’d been wearing a Nirvana hoodie with a yellow smiling face and she wound the string around her finger as she waited for his answer.
I’m about as faux as they get, he replied. She’d liked his dry humor and she liked that he’d admitted to looking at her social media; she’d tried to do the same but his was set to private and the only photo visible was of a group of five men. Winnie had no idea which one he was.
She texted her friends to let them know she wouldn’t be coming, after all, and got ready for dinner instead.
Nigel, as it turned out, was the opposite of what Winnie pictured. He was small, though well put together—symmetrical, like a gymnast, with thick black hair swept stylishly away from his face. When he greeted Winnie in the lobby of the restaurant, wearing dark denim and a white T-shirt, she’d immediately felt disappointed. She imagined he’d be more dapper, but there he was—his face unremarkable, his eyes the most boring brown. Winnie was in the process of fixing him—adding a beard, dressing him in colors more suited to his skin tone—when she lost track of her thoughts. Nigel was smiling. The transformation was so stunning that she’d suddenly felt shy. And he wasn’t wearing just any jeans, she saw now, they were designer. She reached up to secure her hair at the nape of her neck and then ran her hand down the length of it until it sprang free of her fist. Nigel’s eyes watched all of this like someone observing a dancing poodle, good-natured amusement on his face.
“Faux nervousness or real?” His sensual mouth curved around the question, pulling into a lazy smile.
Winnie had butterflies. She wasn’t even embarrassed that he’d picked up on it; it made him seem older, sexy.
“Ask me again after we’ve had a drink,” she’d said decidedly.
By the time dinner came, Winnie was on her third cocktail and she was more focused on Nigel’s hand slowly climbing up her knee than she was on his boring face. She didn’t think he was boring anymore. In fact, she’d never felt more electric. They had sexual chemistry, but it wasn’t just that. Where Nigel seemed subpar in the looks department, until he smiled, he was extraordinary in every other department. He never moved his eyes from her face, not the entire night; not even when their server in her slinky dress tried to make eye contact with him. They would often drift down to her lips while she was talking, which made Winnie squirm in her seat. And he asked her intelligent questions; questions that were so intense Winnie felt both sad and relieved to be talking about it at the same time: “How did your father’s death affect the way you viewed your mother?”