I stand statue-still, listening to the rhythmic pounding of blood in my ears and the voices, his and hers, murmurs drenched in bliss and beatitude. I think back to Valentine’s Day and the Yellow Door. The woman Dad was with had daybreak hair, peachy blond, a lot like Natalie’s.
Comprehension hits me like a football to the face—she’s not at her desk because she’s with him, behind the closed door of his office.
Dad vowed to work things out with Meredith. He promised Ally would grow up in a house with two parents. Hesworethe affair was over.
What a liar.
I fight my immediate impulse to shove the office door open, only because the thought of what I might interrupt disgusts me. I will be a grown-up about this—somebody has to. But as I step forward, raising my hand to knock on the tall oak door, my phone comes alive with a text, the silly, very loud banjo riff Max programmed as a joke.
The giggling in Dad’s office screeches to a halt. In fact, the entire building has gone eerily quiet. They’ve heard my phone. They’re onto me, just as I’m onto them.
My voice shatters the quiet. “Dad? I need to speak with you.”
After a moment of shuffling and frantic utterances, the door swings open. Bile ascends my throat as my already-queasy stomach makes the leap to full-fledged nausea because…
It’s not Natalie who stands beside my father—it’s Mrs. Tate. Her strawberry-blond hair’s tousled and her lipstick’s smudged—smudged across my father’s mouth. God. I can hardly look at him. His hair appears windblown, his tie’s been removed, his shirt collar unbuttoned, and his expression is a landscape of dread.
Robin Tate: hospice nurse, police officer’s wife…mistress.
She comes to our house to drink coffee and gossip. She plays Bunco in our basement. After Ally was born, she helped Marcy tie those damn balloons to our shrubs. She and herhusbandbrought a freaking casserole.
She’s Meredith’s friend.
The first thing out of Dad’s mouth is the last thing I want to hear. “Jillian, this isn’t what it looks like.”
“Don’t lie to me.” My voice is steady, restrained, my anger barely eclipsed by grief. “It’sexactlywhat it looks like.”
Mrs. Tate’s eyes are puddles. She looks at my dad like she’s a helpless little girl instead of a middle-aged,marriedwoman. Like it’s his job to bail her out. How dare she turn to him for reassurance? I’m the one who needs reassuring. I’m the only person in this room who has a right to ask Jake Eldridge for anything.
My hurt spills out in a frustrated cry. “Howcouldyou?”
“It just happened!” Mrs. Tate says, and I’m struck momentarily speechless by how readily she’s confessed to shattering a family.
“It just happened?” I repeat. “You admit it? You two-faced home wrecker.”
My dad steps forward. “Jillian—”
“Don’t! You don’t get to parent me. You said it was over. Yousworeit was over!”
His posture sags, and he presses his lips together. The simple show of weakness sickens me. “How?” I ask. “When?Why?”
“I don’t think you want the details,” Mrs. Tate says. My dad reaches out to give her arm a warning touch, but jerks his hand back when he remembers himself—when he remembersme.
“I guess I already know the whens,” I say. “Valentine’s Day. Ally’s birthday. Every late night, every lengthy Saturday. How long have you been lying to everyone?”
They glance guiltily at each other.
“Since just before Christmas,” Dad says. He lets his confession fester for a moment before adding, “Life is short, Jillian. I don’t expect you to understand my choices.”
I snort. “Good, because I don’t. Choosing to cheat with the neighbor—your wife’s friend—will never, ever make sense to me.”
Mrs. Tate says, “We care about each other.”
It’s infuriating, the pointed manner in which she speaks, the way she emphasizes her syllables like she’s teaching me a lesson. It pisses me off, and I’m in her face before I process the movement. “You’re a bitch!”
Panic flashes in her eyes, but she’s not without a retort. “And you’re a child.”
Dad shoves an arm between us. “Jillian, stop it. Robin, for God’s sake. Shut up!”
