Inside my chest, a sharp pain snaked underneath my breast, and if there was a physical pain associated with heartbreak, this was it.
I paused beside Jacob, who was hunched over a worksheet full of equations, his pencil tip scratching along the page. Kissing him on the top of the head, I ignored his groan of protest. “I’m going to bed.”
“Aight.” He flipped over the pencil and erased something.
I climbed the stairs slowly and trudged down the hall, past Jacob’s room, and entered our bedroom. It was dark and quiet, the red digits of the clock glowing beside Mike’s side of the bed, the dark-blue comforter neatly stretched over the large king, three rows of pillows in neat order.
I was not a pillow woman. In fact, I hated the tassels and rough surface of the gold embroidered design. Every single time I made the bed, I grew annoyed at the extra, unnecessary action of lining up each row of pillows, just because Mike liked the look, liked the order, liked the preciseness of a well-put-together room. If I left him, I’d switch to feather pillows, big giant fluffy ones that I would leave in disarray, my sheets in a tangled knot, half the blanket hanging on the floor.
I laughed, and it was a sad sound, drenched in self-pity because while I wanted to be a woman like Taylor Fortwood, this was proof positive that I wouldn’t. This was proof that, in my most rebellious and inspirational fantasies . . . messy bedding was the end result. And not from hot sex, but just from a general laziness to conform to my husband’s exacting standards.
I took two of Mike’s sleeping pills and crawled under the blanket and curled into a tight ball on my side of the bed.
The problem was, while I could daydream about undignified bedding and a life of reckless disregard, I couldn’t leave Mike. The idea of divorcing, with Jacob in his junior year, with almost two decades together . . . What did my life look like without Mike? Who was I without him? My identity was rooted in being a wife, a mother, in having his support, his feedback. When I’d tossed out the idea to Sam last summer, I hadn’t actually meant it. It had been a throwaway statement that I would never have acted on.
Let’s just take a breath, Lillian. A deep, deep breath. My lungs obeyed and my body relaxed as the pills did their thing, and within minutes, I was blissfully dead to it all.
CHAPTER 10
LILLIAN
I woke up with dried drool on my cheek and a kink in my neck. Carefully rolling onto my back, I gauged the light in the room. It had to be midmorning. Nine, maybe even ten. Mike’s side of the bed was unmade, and I wondered what time he had come home. Working late.
My phone was on the floor, and in last night’s distraction, I’d forgotten to plug it in. I scraped my fingers along the thick rug until I reached it.
My battery was at 4 percent, and I had a missed text from Jacob at 11:22 last night, wanting to know where we kept double-A batteries. Nothing to give me any indication of what time my husband had returned home. I plugged it in.
Turning on the shower, I stepped inside and stood under the spray, which was lukewarm and growing hotter. I put my hand against the white subway tiles, remembering the first week in this house, how Mike had put his hand over mine, his chin against the back of my neck, his slick body against mine, the water muting the sounds of my moans as we had christened the space.
Maybe that was the issue. Our passion was gone, and all the friendship and respect in the world couldn’t make up for that loss. When he looked at me, there was no heat. When we kissed, no life. When we did make love, it was short and rudimentary, a trade-off of orgasms before bed.
A year ago, I’d given myself a makeover with hair extensions, tighter clothes, and higher heels. I wore low-cut tops and makeup and went to bed in skimpy silk shorts and almost-sheer tank tops. I put in an embarrassing amount of effort, hoping it would restart Mike’s interest.
It didn’t. I gave it exactly thirty days, then removed my extensions and returned to my flats and makeup-free look. Through it all, Mike had remained a cruise ship, set on autopilot. Plowing forward, undeterred by weather or circumstance.
I turned my face into the water and held my breath as it beat on my cheeks, lips, and forehead. Lifting my chin, I gulped in a fresh breath, then went back in.
The book said that I should record any evidence and continue to gather more, building an unquestionable case before I confronted my spouse. Accusing them too early, it said, would cause them to cover their tracks and ruin any chance to uncover more of the truth.
I didn’t want more of the truth. If anything, I wanted less of it. The idea of waiting and trying to catch Mike in lies sounded agonizing, and I was not a woman built of patience.
I had to confront him. Otherwise, I’d go mad.
CHAPTER 11
LILLIAN
Mike worked at a financial firm in Pasadena, in a low four-story building surrounded by palm trees. I parked in the visitors’ lot shortly before noon and stared across a grass median at his silver Volvo, which was parked in the Employee of the Month spot.
I didn’t know he had been named Employee of the Month. The last time that had happened, we’d gone to dinner at one of those hibachi places and celebrated. Jacob had produced a rare laugh when the chef flipped a shrimp into his mouth. Mike did three sake bombs and got drunk, and held my hand when I drove home. It was a sales-based award, one that came with a hefty bonus. We’d used the prior one to pay off his car. What had he used this one for? Was it what had funded the expensive steak dinner? The hotels where he had conducted his trysts? Was he buying her flowers? Gifts?
I turned the air higher and forced myself to stop thinking. I picked up my phone and sent a text to Mike.
We need to talk.
It was a little dramatic, but the situation warranted it. I waited, my attention stuck on the screen. He responded quickly.
Why?
Annoyance swelled, and I could already sense how this would unpack. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought this to his work, but I was here and the text was sent, and I couldn’t put it back in the box now.
He sent another question mark, so I typed back before I lost my nerve and drove away.
You know why. Come outside. I’m parked in the guest lot.
Not my most mature and finest moment, and I’d lost the element of surprise, but I was also hoping he would just confess and save me the trouble of a shaky and unresearched accusation.
My cell phone rang.
I sent his call to voice mail, then—in a bold and uncharacteristic move—turned off my phone and set it in the cup holder. If he wanted to talk, he could come outside. Screw any meetings. Screw any calls. I was his wife, dammit. Oh God. The tears were already building, leaking out the edges of my eyes.
I stared at the building. Come on, Mike. This was me, hanging from a ledge, asking him to grab my hand and pull our marriage to safety.
He could come down three flights of stairs and out to my car, or he could stay inside.
I gripped the steering wheel tightly.
Come on, Mike. Save us.
CHAPTER 12
LILLIAN
It took five excruciating minutes. Minutes in which I flip-flopped between an emotional outburst of tears and a sharp fury that dictated I follow my mother’s lead and cut off his balls while he slept.
I wanted him. I needed him. I didn’t know how to exist, how to function, without him. How could he break up our family?