The first time a member of the marketing department had suggested she and Jack sit for a magazine interview about their partnership, she’d been flattered. No, she’d beendelighted. It was thrilling to proclaim their love for each other in the pages of a national publication, pose for photos perched on the fountain just outside NYB’s theater. The caption for the photo had read “partners on stage and off,” and a few weeks later, that was the truth: Mr. K cast Heather in her first featured role, partnered by Jack.
But the more she and Jack told the press-friendly version of their story, the less true it felt. Carly told her repeatedly she was selling herself short. But everyone else in her life—even her own mother—thought Jack was a catch, that his unexpected interest in Heather was a good thing. She was so lucky, her mom had told her the day after theTimesran a profile of them, that she’d found someone stable, someone who could take care of her. Heather knew that was true, but after a while she came to both crave and dread the interviews and the photo shoots. Now she almost never felt the sparkling golden charm Jack had shone so extravagantly on her at the beginning unless a reporter was in the room.
Heather looked out the open window, wondering if Carly was already on the subway back to the Chinatown apartment. Carly had held on to the lease after Heather moved in with Jack, and another corps member now lived in what had once been Heather’s room. Up on Seventy-Fourth Street, in walking distance from the theater, she felt so far from Carly and from that time in their lives. She loved Jack’s apartment—it was bright and airy; it had a dishwasher, the holy grail of New York City real estate—but sometimes she missed that cramped little place, with its leaky kitchen faucet and hissing radiator pipes.
Or maybe she just missed the person she’d been when she’d lived there.
Heather picked up her phone and dialed Jack’s number, pacing the living room as it rang. Three times. Four times. Finally, on the fifth ring, he picked up.
“Hey, babe,” he said breezily.
“Hi,” she said, hoping her voice sounded normal, despite her throat feeling tight with anxiety. “Did you have a good night?”
“Yeah.”
She stopped and waited, hoping for more, but Jack offered nothing else. He sounded like he had the phone pinned between his shoulder and his jaw, as if his hands were otherwise occupied, and Heather had a sudden, unwelcome vision of him standing at the end of an unmade bed, yanking his jeans up and zipping his fly as he answered the phone. She gave her head a little shake. There was an explanation, she told herself as she took a deep, steadying breath. There had to be, and she had to know what it was.
“Was it just you and the guys?”
“Yeah, of course,” he replied. Well, that was a lie.
“No one else from the company showed up?”
“No, babe, it was just a boys’ night.” Another lie. There was an edge in his voice now, the way there sometimes was when she challenged him. “It felt really good to blow off some steam.”
“I bet it did,” she replied, unable to keep a hint of sarcasm out of her voice. She could feel her fingertips starting to tingle with rage as she gripped the phone tighter. He was lying straight to her—well, not to her face, but he was lying to her so easily, so seamlessly. How long had he been doing that?
She willed herself to keep going, though a part of her wanted to nod and smile, hang up the phone and go on with her day—with her life—like she’d never seen the photo on Carly’s phone.I know you’re scared, Carly had said, and she’d been right. Heather had done so many things, forgiven and explained away so many things, out of fear of what would happen if she didn’t. But she couldn’t explain away that photo.
“I just saw a photo of you and Melissa at the restaurant last night,” she said, amazed by how calm she sounded even as her heart hammered against her ribs. “So it doesn’t seem like it was just a boys’ night.”
She heard it, the precise moment when he froze in the middle of whatever he’d been doing and slowly picked up the phone in his hand. When he spoke again, it was in a familiar honeyed tone, warm and inviting. The way he’d spoken to her at the start. She’d seen him turn it on for a reporter or a cocktail party full of donors, and now he was turning it on for her.
“Babe,” he said in a confident, confiding tone, “she showed up, and we hung out for a bit, and that was it.”
Oh, bullshit!a new voice roared in her head. This time, it was hot and indignant, and it sounded like Carly.
“How long?” Heather gritted out.
“I don’t know, an hour, maybe a little more,” he said smoothly, and she could picture his small, elegant shrug and the charming smirk curving his mouth.
“No, how long have you been sleeping with her?”
“Heather, come on, that’s crazy.” She could almost see his eye roll, the dismissive little shake of his head. His smile would bemore brittle now, but even his thinnest smile was dazzling and hard to resist.
It’s not crazy,that new voice said.You’re not crazy.Don’t let him do this.
“Just answer the question, Jack. Tell me how long you’ve been sleeping with our colleague while planning to marry me.” When was the last time she’d challenged him like this? Had it been years? She barely remembered. She stared at the throw pillow on the floor as she spoke, suddenly relieved she didn’t have to say this to his face, didn’t have to watch the frustration gathering in his eyes as he prepared to explain to her that this was how relationships worked: sometimes you screwed up, but you were always forgiven. Which somehow always meant him screwing up—hurting her, disappointing her—and her always forgiving him.
“I can’t believe you’re accusing me of cheating when you’re the one who hasn’t been giving this relationship your full attention,” he said, sounding wounded.
Heather felt a twinge of guilt and then pushed it away, willing herself not to apologize out of habit.
“You’ve been so busy since Mr. K promoted you,” he went on, “it’s like all you have time to think about now is you.” She could hear movement in the background, as if he were pacing around, working himself into a petulant rage.
But that isn’t true, she thought. She thought about Jack constantly. About whether they had enough of his favorite vodka in the freezer, or whether he’d think she was frivolous for buying flowers at the farmers market, or whether something she was about to say would set him off.
In her silence, he kept talking. “So I’m sorry if your feelings are hurt. I’m sorry if I haven’t been the perfect boyfriend or the perfect fiancé, but you’ve been so wrapped up inyourself,” he drawled derisively, all the honey and warmth gone from his voice, the self-pity, too.
