Sybil hadn’t heardfrom Zeke in three days. She’d thought of reaching out every night during the long stretch of hours between midnight and sunrise, but in the end she stopped herself each time. She was done making accommodations for other people. Still, she hadn’t wanted to rebuild the evidence wall at home alone, in her suburban kitchen, so held out the smallest shred of hope that he would change his mind, call, apologize. He hadn’t.
She hauled the Bankers Box of papers out of the car in her garage and fished out all the postcards. She snipped off one-inch pieces of Scotch tape, formed little sticky circles and pasted the postcards up on the wall by her pantry exactly in the order she had at Zeke’s. She stepped back, hands on her hips, waiting for illumination, for clarity, but any flash of brilliance was interrupted by her doorbell. For a second, she thought maybe it was fate: Zeke was indeed here to make amends. Then she held out hope that it could be Betty, though it had been five weeks since she’d evaporated, and that was an even wilderfantasy. When she unlocked the door she found Mark, a disappointment amid a sea of disappointments.
“Word of warning, his stomach is upset,” Mark said, unclipping Pluto’s leash.
Sybil had forgotten that they were doing a canine custody exchange tonight. Mark stood on the precipice and waited for her to invite him in.
“I come in peace,” he said finally, and she sighed and stepped to the side.
Mark found an old beer in the fridge, then loitered in the kitchen, glancing around like he’d never seen the place before.
“What can I help you with, Mark?”
“It feels different in here.”
“Must be the lack of the stench of betrayal.”
He raised both hands like he was being robbed, the beer still clutched in one. “Come on, Sybil.”
“Come on, what?”
He sighed. “I ended things with her.”
“Mazel tov,” Sybil said.
“I hate living in the pied-à-terre,” he said. “I want to come home.”
Sybil didn’t mean to laugh, but she couldn’t stop herself.
“You don’t hate me,” he said. “I know that you can’t hate me.”
“You don’t have any idea how I feel about you.” Pluto sat at her feet, like maybe he was choosing a side.
“I am well aware of how you feel about me.” Mark nursed the beer, then seemed to think otherwise and set it to the side. Sybil hoped he didn’t think they were about to delve into a deep conversation for which he needed to be totally sober. The Bankers Box was sitting in the middle of the kitchen island, and she had plans to rebuild the rest of the evidence wall tonight, Zeke be damned.
“If you are well aware of how I feel about you, then you wouldn’t show up whining about how much you hate the pied-à-terre and casually informing me that you graciously ended your affair.”
“Sybil, you never cared about the affair, let’s be honest.” He met her eyes. She hadn’t taken a long look at him in years. He was still attractive in the annoying way that some men grow into in their middle age. He’d grown out his hair so it curled around his ears, and he had about a two-day stubble, which shaved off about half a decade. She remembered why, in medical school, she used to want to peel his clothes off in the break room.
“That’s not true,” she said. “I cared about the affair.” She didn’t. But she had to at least put up a front.
He half grinned, then let it fall. “You think I’m not aware that if you hadn’t gotten pregnant, you would have left me? You think I’m notwhollyaware that if you’d finished your residency, you would have been a far superior doctor than I am?”
“I would have—”
“Yes, you’re right, you would have been. You’re better at most things than I am,” he said.
Sybil opened her mouth to speak but decided she didn’t want to interrupt him while she was on a winning streak.
“What’s in the box?” He nudged his chin toward the island.
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“Is this about the baseball player?” He stepped toward the island, but she got there first, her fingers curling around each cutout handle on the sides.
“No,” she said firmly. She could say that without a doubt now. She placed the box by her feet. Her territory. This was not about Zeke at all.
“A new project?” He tried again. A project? What sort of project had Sybil ever embarked on outside of whatever thekids’ school needed, whatever their sports needed, whatever this house needed? She didn’t have the kids or school or sports or a renovation, so she had no idea what Mark thought she could do to keep herself busy anymore.
