Until that moment, our relationship was purely platonic. We were merely friends.
But as Connor held me there in the kitchen with everyone else safely outside beneath a set of string lights, he nearly kissed me. Not quite but almost. His eyes drifted closed, his inhibitions lowered by the excessive alcohol consumption, leaning into me, though I pressed a gentle hand against his chest and whispered, “Connor, please, don’t.” His only reply was to clutch me by the waistline and pull me closer, to attempt to draw his lips to mine. Connor was the kind of man who was used to getting what he wanted. Women didn’t tell him no. He was drunk, I reasoned at the time, and come morning, he wouldn’t remember. But I would.
I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to do this, he breathed deliriously that night as if he didn’t hear my rejection at all, as if he couldn’t feel the palm of my hand against his chest. His eyes stayed closed until a noise jolted them open again, Sarah, the owner of the home, stepping in through the sliding glass door with an armful of wobbly plates balanced on her inner arms, threatening to fall. There was a tower of them, eight plates or more, stacked precariously on top of each other. Connor stepped away from me, moving quickly to Sarah’s side to rescue the plates, though she was so blitzed she didn’t even notice, just as she didn’t notice the near-kiss.
We never spoke of it. It never happened again.
I didn’t think twice about brushing it under the rug. We all do stupid things when we’ve had too much to drink, don’t we? In time, I forgot it happened. I never told Nick, and Connor became like a brother to me, the brother I never had.
“You shouldn’t say that,” I tell him now, slipping my hand from his, though he steps forward as I slowly retreat. “He was your best friend,” I condemn, and though Nick has hurt me, a thousand times over he has hurt me, there isn’t a thing for Nick I wouldn’t still do. I avert my eyes from his, looking anywhere so I don’t see the way he stares at me, making me feel uncomfortable. I want to ask him to leave. I stare out the window, at the clock, at Connor’s abandoned gloves. I stare at Harriet sound asleep.
“Nick was many things,” he says. “But he wasn’t my friend,” and at this I turn to ice, wondering just what exactly Connor means by this. Of course he was Nick’s friend.
“Of course he was,” I say, but Connor responds with, “I thought he was, too. Turns out we were both wrong,” and before I can press him on this, before I can demand to know just what he means by these words, his hands fall to my hips, and he pulls me into him with so much impetus I gasp, his lips moving toward mine. The yeasty smell of alcohol on his breath is nauseating; he’s had far too much to drink. His lips press me in a way that is sloppy and shapeless, his lips wet with beer. I push him away, and as I do he breathes into my ear, “I’ve envied Nick many things, but most of all was you,” and it’s then that I know why Connor was standing at my window the other night, watching as I argued on the phone with the life insurance man. Watching as I called Kat. Watching as I comforted Maisie in the heat of the storm.
It’s because of me.
Connor is in love with me.
And at once I feel many things, from guilt to sadness to despair. Have I done something to deserve this? Have I led Connor on in some way? Is this my fault? I see the pleading in his eyes, the unspoken words.Let me be your Nick, he silently begs.
And then suddenly the words are spoken, as Connor says to me, a forced whisper so that I feel the breath of his words against my skin, “Let me take care of you, Clara. You and the kids. I’ll take such good care of you,” and I know he would. That’s the hardest part. I know that in the wake of Nick’s transgressions that Connor would take the very best care of the children and me, but I can’t bear to imagine myself in another man’s arms, in another man’s bed.
There’s so much hope in his eyes, hope and desperation, a toxic combination, it seems—so much to gain, so much to lose.
And I know that when I deny him, I’ll lose Connor, too. My words get lost in my throat. I can’t speak because when I do, I’ll break both of our hearts.
After tonight, Connor and I can no longer be friends.
And then I hear a noise. My saving grace.
It’s a meager noise like the scritch-scratch of a house mouse trying to worm its way into a bag of birdseed. Connor hears it, too, a noise that makes his hands suddenly stop their digressions so that he can pause to hear. His ears perk up; he listens, and it comes again, the scraping sound of paws on the hardwood floors. Harriet, I think, but no, Harriet is here, on the kitchen floor fast asleep. Not paws, then, but feet. Human feet. Tiny human feet, and then a voice, a quiet, unobtrusive voice as if not wanting to interrupt, not wanting be a bother. “Mommy,” says the voice, and I realize then, as I stand there in the kitchen, holding my breath, that it is Maisie. Maisie is here.
She appears in the doorway, hair in shambles, clutching her derelict bear, and says to me, “Mommy, I can’t sleep.” She catches sight of Connor and grins, and though I want to run to her, to gather her in my arms, to thank her for her timing, for saving me from this awkward fate, my voice remains staid.
“Did you try?” I ask, and Maisie nods her head, saying that she did. She tried. I run my hand the length of her hair, staring at her gratefully as her eyes become hopeful and she begs of me, “Mommy, you go to sleep, too?”
I nod my head. There is nothing in the world I would rather do.
With shaking hands I turn to Connor, and I tell him how I really must go, how Maisie needs me, thankful he doesn’t object, though his face falls flat and there’s a great letdown at this. Connor doesn’t want me to leave, to attend to Maisie. He wants me to stay. I appease him by saying, “I’ll call you tomorrow,” knowing I won’t call.
“Of course,” he says, nodding his head and drawing away, and I grip Maisie by the hand—wanting to tuck myself between my children and slip into oblivion, a restless sleep no doubt, if sleep even comes—as we watch him slide his feet back into the muddy work boots and leave the same way out in which he came.
I close the blinds so that no one will watch as we sleep.
NICK
BEFORE
It all goes wrong at the same time.
An official medical malpractice complaint from Melinda Grey arrives, delivered to me by a man who presses it into my hand and tells me I’ve been served. There’s no one around when he does it, and yet I imagine that everyone can see. I imagine that everyone knows, but in truth, only I know. My hands sweat, and my mouth turns to cotton as I take the complaint in my hands and, for whatever reason, thank the man for bringing it to me.
I squirrel myself away on a laptop in my office and get busy on the internet, researching the effects a malpractice suit has on doctors and dentists—financial and otherwise. They’re debilitating, though they don’t surprise me in the least bit because I’m already feeling every one of them. Practitioners who have been sued for malpractice have higher rates of suicide, as in my mind I think of ways to end my life. Dentists already have one of the highest rates of suicide of any profession, thanks to the self-sacrifice required and the extremely competitive nature of the job. I know; I’ve lived it firsthand. The easy access to drugs is also an advantage; sitting behind a locked storage cabinet in my office are all sorts of pharmaceuticals that could end my life if I so chose.
But a malpractice suit makes it even worse. Dental professionals lose happiness in a career they once loved, and depression ensues. Many leave the profession. For the rest, a rift forms between doctors and their patients, a wall of distrust. And then there is the financial impact, the loss of a reputation.
Soon, I think, this will be me. Depressed and suicidal, having lost enjoyment in a career I once loved.
