“Of course, I know that! You’re the most laid-back creature I’ve ever known and I don’t deserve you,” I say, pillowing my face into his shoulder. “It was a dick move on my part and I promise not to act like a teenager again and make you worry like that.”
He laces his fingers through mine and leads me to the bedroom. Jack’s snores purr down the hall and we close the door to our room, sinking into bed together.
I’m exhausted, so I’m relieved when Graham doesn’t undress. He just pulls me into him on top of the fluffy down comforter, and my head rests on his chest as his fingers hunt around for the remote.
“Last week’sDownton Abbeysince we never got to watch it?” he asks.
“Sounds perfect,” I say and snuggle into him even tighter.
I WAKE TOthe sound of something rapping at the window. It’s afternoon; Graham snores beside me whileDownton Abbeystill plays quietly on the TV—the servants are in a tizzy about something, all lace collars and black uniforms and cockney accents—and I grab the remote and squeeze the off button. I likethis show but Grahamlovesit, and after last night, I’m not in the mood for their grating, whining voices.
The soft thudding at the window continues. It’s probably the thin branches of the pecan tree being whipped by the wind, but an unsettled feeling crawls over my skin, so I climb out of bed, creep toward the window.
I tug the cord to the blinds and peer out. A squirrel shimmies down the arm of a pecan branch, knocking a few pecans loose, but other than that, the backyard is empty. I exhale, and when the breath leaves my body, my lungs burn from the secondhand smoke I inhaled at the club last night.
My head is still clasped by a wrenching headache, so I head to the kitchen to get more water, and drain the tumbler in three greedy gulps. As I walk back down the hall, I pass by the picture window in the living room and see a figure moving down the street.
I scramble over to the front door and creak it open, poke my head out, and see the back of a man in a black trench coasting up the hill, away from our house.
I can tell it’s Harold, the man from the trail, by the bulk of his body and the way he shuffles up the street. I shudder and close the door. Surely, he wasn’t just in our backyard at the window. Surely, my mind is just cartwheeling, playing tricks on me from my delirious debauchery last night.
I click the door shut and lock it. Wrapping my arms around my chest in a hug, I head back tobed.
26
Wednesday, April 4, 2018
I’VE BEEN GOODall week. I’ve written two zingy blog posts—one about the perils and joys of homemade yogurt, the other about DIY Easter crafts. I’ve cooked a bubbly veggie lasagna with fresh herbs plucked from the garden and even marched a square of it up to Mrs. Murphy’s. Yesterday morning, the seeds arrived from the catalog and I’ve already planted them all.
The garden is well looked after, weeded and maintained. And this morning, I’m chopping up a row of tomatillos, locally grown, to blend up into a salsa for a tray of chicken enchiladas for dinner. I toss the juicy green bits into the blender, cover it with homemade chicken broth and diced cilantro, pinch a hearty dash of cumin on top, and blend. Pouring the salsa over the rolled enchiladas, which glisten like cannoli, I tuck the tray into the oven.
It’s a beautiful spring day and I’ve thrown the kitchen window open. Birdsong splashes through the room, and a breeze hits my face, lifting my hair in refreshing bursts. I untie my splattered apron, drop it in the washer, and cross the kitchen to make another latte.
As the espresso machine whines and gurgles, I lean against the counter. Even though my kitchen is practically humming with delight, I think of the boring, lonely day ahead of me—a day with no social contact until I collect Jack from preschool—and the same unsettled restlessness skulks over me, making my skin crawl, making me feel like I can’t breathe.
—
WHAT’S WRONG WITHme? Why can’t I be content with normal, quiet, lovely things? I mean, Iamhappy; there’s part of me thatisfulfilled by all of this, but obviously, there’s another part that is decidedly not. I feel terrible even having these feelings; Graham is golden. Maybe everyone secretly feels this way about their lives?
People who’ve never been abandoned don’t know what a hole it leaves. When my dad left us, it made Nikki rootless, unable to stay in one place for very long. And it made me clingy, first to Nikki—which she couldn’t really handle—and then with the bad boys I chased.
So even though I longed for this, longed for someone stable like Graham, stability feels foreign to me, and I have to fight my impulse to fidget at every turn.
I sometimes catch myself staring at Graham, at his open happiness and fulfillment with family life, and find myself envious of how uncomplicated, how simple his needs seem to be.
I’m tired of being the complicated one.
—
WHEN THE MACHINEgives its final belch, I pour the ink-black espresso into the bottom of my white mug, top it with steamed milk, and sip. My thoughts slide back to Margot. Not that they’re ever far from her, but at least these past few days, as I’ve thrown myself into domesticity, I’ve managed to have whole moments where she becomes more like background noise, ever present but a bit more muted than usual.
But as I stand in the kitchen just now, taking a break and drinking my latte, here she is again, front and center, spotlit in the forefront of my mind.
Margot in the nightclub with her slender hand pressed to my knee, the heat on my leg. Margot whispering in Andre’s ear. The two of them leading me up the stairs. Margot’s hands on my hips on the dance floor. Her eyes on mine as Andre fucked her.
A shiver runs over me. My mouth goes dry thinking about her and what might’ve happened if I hadn’t been so wasted. How far would I have let things go?
I try and push the thoughts aside but I can’t. Warmth is spreading through my chest, and before I know it, I’m walking down the hall to change clothes.
