Something clicks. I feel physically sick. “Is that why you went tostay with your parents? You were scared I’d hurt you?” His face crumples and I know it’s true. My already waning confidence dies and guilt grows on its corpse. “Oh god, James. Oh god, I’m so sorry.”
“No, I fucked up by not coming to you. I meant what I said in my vows; I want it to be us against the world. You’re my best friend, my chosen family. I should never have gone to someone else without speaking to you first.”
I think of our vows, our shotgun wedding. It was wonderful, mad, and probably too soon. I thought it was romantic that James didn’t want to wait, liked that it gave me less chance to chicken out and a reason not to worry about inviting people I knew. But I’m sure James is learning what it means to marry in haste and repent at leisure.
“I get why you didn’t come to me. I know what I sound like in those letters. I know I…I know I’m not normal.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true. Would you have been so afraid of me if I was?”
He gestures for me to sit down, and I do. We both take a moment to stare at the bedroom wall. I’m not entirely sure how to navigate things in the new shape of us, and I don’t think James knows how to, either. He married the easy, charming Cool Girl, and now he has…this.
“So,” I say, first to speak again, “the blackmail. You went to confide in Will about what you read and he decided to extort you?”
“Yeah. I mean, the letters sounded like maybe…I worried—we worried…But I wasn’t sure. I know you. I know the woman I married. But Will…He said he’d go to the police, tell them everything he knew about you, see if they could find out what you did, if you were a…I was shocked, and confused, and, yes, a little scared…but I couldn’t let that happen. Nat, I love you to your bones; I wasn’t going to let them put you away.” He rests a hand on my thigh again and gently squeezes.
“But you know that could still happen, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“George. I say it in the letter. If I’m reported, I could go to prison. I attacked him—it’s actual bodily harm at the very least….”
James simply shakes his head. “Will won’t talk, and we say nothing more to him. That’s what the money was for.” He reaches for my hand again. “I should have just come to you and talked this out. If I had, we wouldn’t be in this mess. We’re meant to be better than this. We talk to each other, don’t we?”
I pause, thinking of our repeated pact to not bring up the past. “We do.”
“Please, Nat. Do you think you could find a way to forgive me?”
It would be hard to dig my heels in, punish him, when I’ve been hiding a secret of this magnitude. When I’m still hiding secrets. It’s my messy past that’s gotten us into this messy present, and as much as I wish James had kept a cool head and hadn’t gone behind my back…God, I wish he hadn’t gone behind my back.
It feels stupid to brush it under the carpet, and “stupid” is not something I usually allow into my life, but I simply give a weary nod and say, “Okay.”
“Okay?” he confirms, pitiful hope singing out in his voice.
“Okay.” I nod again.
He takes me in his arms and squeezes me close. For a moment, my face is buried in his neck. His aquatic and citrusy cologne brushes against my nose, that smell of home coming back to me again. He gives me a gentle kiss, salt seeping into it from tear-streaked lips.
“And what about me?” I ask. “After what you’ve read, after what I’ve told you…Can you still trust me?”
He takes a beat. “I trust you.”
And in that moment, I’m reminded of how good an actor myhusband is—whether it’s pretending to be less posh than he is; or to hate his privilege more than he does; or to enjoy Audre Lorde as much as I do. Because not everyone will have caught the minuscule shift in his register, but I know that when James says he trusts me, at least part of it is a lie.
And as I detect a curl of that anger, that white-hot rage still lurking beneath my broad relief, I can’t be sure that I trust myself, either.
15
Now
Dimple
“It’s been a while since I last saw you.”
I’m sitting in my new therapist’s office. It’s a little more distracting than the corporate simplicity of Dr. Foster’s was. The walls here are peach, the carpet green. The furniture is largely old mahogany with gold details. It’s a strange room: certainly not modern, but not old-fashioned in a way that adheres to any archaic rules; not trendy or cool, but very intentional and cohesive in its decor choices, which seem to gel in a discordant way. I sometimes wonder if this is part of the psychiatric evaluation—when you finally call out the madness of Dimple’s room, you’ve passed therapy, free to go.
That’s what she prefers I call her, by the way: Dimple. Just her first name. I suppose it’s meant to foster a kind of familiarity. Almost like a friend. But she’s not. Dr. Foster, on the other hand, felt familiar. I’d been seeing her for so long before her retirement that she’d almost felt like family. Dimple, her replacement, I’ve seen only thrice. All the same, I do feel bad for how long we’ve gone without a session.
