“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s okay,” she told me as she fisted the hospital blanket, eventually knotting it around her fingers until her knuckles turned white. “It’s good to get your back up against the wall from time to time.”
I didn’t know the full extent of what that meant back then, which was probably for the best. Time has its own way of breaking us in.
Chapter Seven
Liam Martin comes back the next day and the next day and the next. We don’t get much work done. Not at first. For the most part, he sits on the couch and stares at his phone while I sit at my desk, pretending to type something worth reading. What I’m actually doing is expanding upon my knowledge, continuing to learn everything I can about the man sitting across from me. He dresses funny, that much I can see. In his custom tweed suits and shiny shoes, his nice hair and stoic demeanor, he has the air of old money.
With the power of Google, I quickly become a keyboard warrior, moving onto other things that aren’t as obvious. So far, I’ve learned about the other novels he’s worked on, and the other authors he’s worked with. Even if he only offered up a minimal contribution, he’s good. No one is denying that.
Once I’ve ingested the easy stuff, I move on. Currently, I’m learning about his education, the awards he won in junior high, his stint on the debate team, as well as his starting position on the rugby team. An all-American, upper middle-class childhood by all accounts. Classic and rather boring, sadly.
This routine, my endless searches, and his endless phone scrolling, it goes on for the better part of our first week together. A writer must obsess over all manner of things. Eventually though, he grows impatient. I’m impressed, I’ll admit. I don’t think I’d have been so cordial or as quiet given the same set of circumstances. But then, he’s too young to know. Life goes by stunningly quick.
One day as I’m scanning through the last novel he ghost wrote, he clears his throat. “At what point can I expect that you’ll show me what you’re working on?”
“I have yet to decide.”
“I see.” He makes a clucking sound with his tongue. “In that case, can I at least trouble you for a bit of advice?”
“I can assure you, I’m the least qualified person to be handing out advice.”
“Yeah, well—I’m desperate enough that that’s okay.”
“So you haven’t heard…”
His brow furrows. “What?”
“The cheapest commodity on earth is advice.”
“Please.”
Suddenly, his manners make him look as desperate as he says he is. I scoot away from my desk and fold my arms, crossing them over my chest. “All right then, shoot.”
He places his phone beside him and rearranges himself on the sofa, as though contemplating what it is he wants to say. “You’re married, right?”
“Yes.”
“I need you to help me understand women.”
A belly laugh escapes. This is the most humorous and ignorant thing I’ve heard in a long time—and believe me, I’ve heard some things. “Women cannot be understood.”
Placing his elbows on his knees, he leans forward and rests his face in his hands. “If that’s true, I’m fucked.”
“Aren’t we all?”
After digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, he eventually glances up at me. “She got engaged,” he says. “To someone else.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much.”
His brow raises. This isn’t what he expected me to say. “And why is that?”
“Half of all marriages fail.”
The next day I’m late getting back from my afternoon walk. After closing the gate behind me, I stop to snap a rose from the adjacent bush, a little gift for Eve. I’m headed toward the back door when something shiny in the bay window catches my eye. When I take a closer look, I’m surprised to see Eve seated at the kitchen table, her head thrown back in laughter, the familiar curve of her neck expanding out forever. She looks different, happy even. Like I’ve traveled back in time. At first, I think my eyes must be deceiving me. Eve hasn’t left her bedroom in seven weeks. Cupping my hands against the glass, I peer in. Across from her is Liam. He’s speaking animatedly, gesturing wildly with his hands. Whatever he is saying, Eve is held rapt by it.
Joni is at the sink pretending to scrub the tea kettle. I knock on the window and wave, but she’s the only one who takes notice. The two of us exchange a glance.
Later, over dinner, Eve asks me to explain everything. It’s a good sign. She wants the gaps in her memory filled in.
I simplify the situation, we discuss the book, the new deadline, and finally, the man who was sent to see that it happens. “So, he’s like a book doctor, then,” she says with a grin, and I can’t recall the last time I’ve seen her so alive, so girlish. This comes with it, her illness, the intense highs and the very low lows. As she sticks a fork full of pasta in her mouth, I try to gauge where we are on the spectrum. You never know. One minute she might be cleaning all of the baseboards in the house with a cotton swab, and the next unable to get out of bed to brush her teeth.
She can go weeks without even looking at me.
“He’s here to help me finish the book, yes,” I tell her gently. It’s important to tread carefully, not to cast anything her way that could be misconstrued. Nothing that could lead to feelings of guilt.
But Eve is smart. “It’s been bad, I know.” She slurps a wayward piece of spaghetti. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I say, but it’s one of those small lies in a marriage, the kind you’re not sure why you bother keeping up with.
“I like him,” she confesses. I knew that, of course. But it doesn’t make it any less surprising to hear. Eve is not easily won over. Not even on an upswing. “He’s interesting. He’s been a lot of places. He’s seen a lot.”
“Has he?”
She laughs and then leans forward, placing her hand on my thigh. It’s more habit than anything, but it stirs something in me. It has been awhile. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
She peers at me through narrowed eyes, her expression equally serious and playful. She looks at me knowingly. It scares me sometimes how much you can understand the person you’re sharing a life with and also not. “You haven’t even bothered to get to know him.”
This is truly an Eve thing to say. As though all of our problems could be solved, if only I could play nice and make friends. Lifting my whiskey, I take a swig. “He’s here for work. I’m afraid we haven’t had a lot of time for chit-chat.”
“George,” she says, a hint of warning in her voice. “Please.”
“What?” I place the glass on the table and then hold my hands up, palms facing her.
“Please don’t let your pride fuck this up.”
The following afternoon, once again, I find Eve at the kitchen table, Liam sitting across from her. He hasn’t mentioned yesterday’s conversation, nor did I ask. Stretching on my tiptoes, I crane my neck, straining to hear what they are laughing about. I must lean the wrong way too quickly because the movement causes me to pull something in my neck. I curse myself for installing double-paned windows, for aging, for allowing him here in the first place. He says something to Eve and she smiles. I can see it in her eyes. She is smitten.