“Graham.”
“Yeah?”
“If there’s laundry in the washing machine, will you put it in the dryer?”
He rolled his eyes like it was the most gargantuan task in the world. “Yeah. Okay.”
She ended the call without another word, his face freezing on the screen, then disappearing into nothing.
Selena returned to her seat, sitting heavily, and Martha handed her back her little bottle. She took another big swig.
“Sounds like you have a nice family,” said Martha. She lifted a palm. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
“I’m very lucky,” said Selena.
Because that’s what you were supposed to say, right? We’re so blessed. I’m filled with gratitude.
It was true; she did think that most days. Until she moved the nanny cam.
Her mother had warned Selena—carefully, gently, as was her way—after the Vegas incident: He’ll do it again, honey. Cheaters keep cheating.
But Selena hadn’t listened. Graham was nothing like her father, she reasoned, who’d had affair after affair. Her mother, Cora, had stayed in the marriage, enduring, she said, for the sake of Selena and her sister, Marisol.
But that was her parents. Selena’s situation with Graham was different; the first incident wasn’t an affair—exactly. They’d had therapy. It was just—not the same. That’s what she’d told herself then, anyway.
“So, what are you going to do?” asked Selena, eager for the distraction from her own life. “About your boss.”
Martha shrugged, shifted back so that they could see each other better, weren’t just sitting side by side staring at the back of the seat in front of them. Her eyes—heavily lashed, lightly shadowed, almost almond-shaped—were searing, hypnotic.
“Don’t you ever just wish your problems would take care of themselves?” Martha said with a sigh.
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” asked Selena. She glanced at her bottle to find that it was almost empty. That had gone down fast. She felt looser, her shoulders less tense.
“Like maybe he’d just lose interest in me, you know?” she said. “Meet someone else.”
Something about the words hit Selena the wrong way, and she felt all the sadness she’d tamped down rise up. When the tears came, she couldn’t stop them. The nanny, of all people! What a cliché!
“Oh, no,” said Martha, looking stricken. “What did I say?”
“I’m sorry,” Selena managed, fishing tissues out of her bag and wiping at her eyes.
“Tell me,” said Martha. “Since we’re playing true confessions.”
And, without thinking it through, she did. She told this stranger on the train how she suspected that her husband was sleeping with the nanny, while she was working late to support their family. She omitted how she’d watched the video—TMI. Because wasn’t that too weird, that she’d watched? Twice. And still hadn’t done anything about it.
“I’m sorry,” Selena said again when she was done. “Why did I just tell you that?”
“Obviously,” said Martha with the same kind smile Selena had tried to offer her earlier, “you needed to tell someone.”
Martha produced another little bottle of Grey Goose. Her manicure, bloodred, was perfect—her fingers slender and white, no rings. As Selena cracked the bottle open and took a sip, she noticed the other woman staring at her diamond engagement ring. (Women often did. It was huge.) It felt good to let it all out. She’d put the weight of it down for a while.
“But you don’t know for sure?” asked Martha.
Selena shook her head.
“Do you have reason to doubt him?” she asked.
“No,” said Selena. “It’s just a feeling.”
“Well,” Martha lifted her little bottle and they clinked again. “I hope you’re wrong. And if you’re not, I hope he gets what he deserves.”
She offered the final sentence with a devilish smile, but something inside Selena went a little cold. What did he deserve? What did anyone deserve?
“Men,” said Martha when Selena stayed silent. “They’re so flawed, so broken, aren’t they? They’ve screwed up the whole world.”
The other woman’s tone had gone dark, her eyes a bit distant. “All they do is create damage.”
Selena felt the bizarre impulse to defend all men, even Graham. After all, she had two boys of her own. But it died in her throat. It was true, wasn’t it? In some sense—war, climate change, genocide, cults, pedophilia, rape, murder, most crime in general—men were responsible for a good portion of the world’s ills. They’d been running amok for millennia.
“Don’t you ever just wish your problems would take care of themselves?” Martha asked again. “No effort on your part?”
But problems didn’t solve themselves. And suddenly it occurred to Selena that Martha was the other woman, sleeping with someone’s husband. A woman who owned the company where Martha worked, who was probably as trusting of her husband and her employee as Selena had been. Earning a living, supporting her family, while her husband fucked the first pretty girl to come along.
“How would your problem be solved?” asked Selena, dabbing at her eyes.
“Today I was thinking it would be great if he just—died,” she said with a wicked smile. “Car accident, heart attack, random street crime. Then I could just keep my job, no one the wiser.”
Martha laughed a little, a sweet, girlish sound, then took another delicate sip from her little bottle. She was just kidding, of course. Wasn’t she? Selena shifted away slightly, clutching her bag to her middle.
“And I’d never be so stupid again,” Martha went on. “I wouldn’t be so afraid for my job that I’d submit to some predator’s advances.”
Was that how Geneva felt? Selena wondered. Had Graham come on to her, and she’d submitted because she was afraid to lose her job? It definitely didn’t seem that way. But there were always layers, weren’t there? Graham was in a power position. Selena knew that Geneva did struggle to make ends meet, couldn’t afford not to work, even for a short time.
The lights flickered and the train jerked forward. Selena felt a surge of hope. But then nothing.
“There was a blockage on the track,” came the conductor’s voice, carrying over the speaker system. The man beside them jerked awake and looked around, confused, sat up and checked his phone. “It’s been cleared, and we should be on our way shortly. We apologize for the inconvenience.”