Текст книги "Covet"

Автор книги: Tracey Garvis-Graves

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

31

daniel

I watch Claire pull away from the side of the road. I’m glad she called, because I really didn’t think I’d ever hear from her again. I understand why she shot me down when I called her: She’s got a husband, a family. It’s probably not a bad idea that she set some parameters, asked me my intentions. Now we both know what to expect.

Maybe I should have my head examined for even thinking I can spend time with her platonically, but it’s not as if I’m some hormonal sixteen-year-old who can’t think with his brain. I’m thirty-seven, and staying in control is seldom a problem. Then again, I don’t know that I’ve ever been friends with a woman without wanting her, at least a little bit.

I tell myself that a friendship with Claire is the next best thing, and I tell myself that it’s enough.

32

claire

In the days that follow, Daniel sends me a text to make sure I swapped out the spare tire for a new one. I respond and let him know that I did. He follows up with a voice mail a day later, letting me know that there’s a big accident on the parkway and cautioning me to take a different route so I don’t get stuck in the gridlock in case I’m headed that way. The e-mail he sends a few days after that, with the funny video that’s gone viral, brings a smile to my face.

His last text, which came in at midnight when I was already in bed, says, I pulled over a guy who wasn’t wearing pants tonight. He told me he knew he’d forgotten something, but couldn’t figure out what it was. But no worries because he had underwear on. Women’s underwear, but still.

I laugh and type out a response while I’m drinking my coffee. You are a lucky, lucky man.

The guilt I once felt about Daniel has been slowly replaced with anticipation: When will he call next? When I check my phone will there be a text from him? It’s subtle yet omnipresent, weaving its way through the minutiae of my ordinary life. Lifting it up. Making it more exciting. The rationalizing has already started: I’m not doing anything wrong. I speak to clients on the phone all the time, and I’ve become very friendly with many of them over the years. It’s no big deal.

Daniel texts me a week later. I’m off tomorrow. Do you want to go for a ride? There won’t be very many nice days left.

It’s early October and the weather isn’t going to hold out much longer. Soon I’ll be bundling the kids into warmer coats and buying their new winter boots.

Sure. What time?

Noon?

Okay. See you then.

 • • •

The sound of thunder wakes me the next morning and when I go downstairs to start the coffee, I open the blinds and watch the raindrops hit the window. I feel a wave of disappointment, but when I check my phone there’s a text from Daniel and it says, Come anyway.I text him back and say O kay.

After I get the kids off to school I shower and then stand in the middle of my closet, trying to decide what to wear. We’re not going for a motorcycle ride, that much is clear, but I don’t know what Daniel has planned for an alternative. I choose my favorite pair of jeans and a simple, white T-shirt, worn untucked to hide my pump, which is clipped to my belt. I put on my favorite burnt-orange cardigan, that one that I dig out every fall, and pull on my well-worn brown leather boots. Silver hoop earrings and my wedding ring are my only jewelry. I spritz on perfume and apply mascara and blush. The humidity wreaks havoc with my hair, so I let it air-dry and leave it alone, not daring to even finger-comb the waves in order to avoid the frizz.

When I pull into Daniel’s driveway I park and grab my umbrella, then walk quickly toward the front door. It opens and Daniel stands in the doorway, waiting. I’m about to cross the threshold when a loud clap of thunder startles me and I jump. We both laugh and he pulls me inside, shutting the door behind me.

“I guess we’re not going for that ride,” I say.

“Not today,” Daniel says. “We’ll have to take my car instead.”

“Where are we going?” I ask.

He grabs his car keys off the coffee table and smiles. “I thought we could go to lunch. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” I say. “Why not?”

Once we’re in the car Daniel backs out of the garage, turns on the windshield wipers, and presses buttons on the radio. “What kind of music do you like?”

“I usually just listen to whatever the kids want. I know the words to every Disney soundtrack.”

Daniel laughs. “Impressive.” He chooses a station. “Is this okay?”

I hear the opening verse of “Mr. Jones” by Counting Crows. “I love that song. It reminds me of my senior year of high school.”

“I like it, too,” he says. “Someone was always blasting it in my frat house.”

It seems odd, driving somewhere together. I can’t help but feel that there’s something covert about it, and I worry that someone will see us, which is ridiculous because we aren’t doing anything wrong. And it’s not as if I don’t have male friends. I do. I just haven’t seen most of them since college. Aware that I’m fidgeting, I try to relax, lacing my fingers together and resting my hands on my lap. He didn’t ask for my input on lunch, so I’m curious about where we’re going. “Do you have a destination in mind?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “Have you ever been to Bella Cucina?”

I shake my head. “No. I’ve heard it’s good, though.”

“It’s a little out of the way, but I think it’s worth the trip.”

The gray sky batters the car with a relentless deluge. It’s the kind of weather most people would not venture out in, but Daniel seems undeterred, his hands resting easily on the wheel. When he pulls into the restaurant parking lot twenty minutes later, he tells me he’ll drop me off at the door.

“I admire your chivalry, but I’m not that delicate.”

“Humor me,” he says, smiling and stopping in front of the restaurant entrance.

“I bet you help little old ladies across the street, don’t you?”

He laughs. “Only when I’m not getting the kitty cats out of the trees.”

Smiling at him, I say, “That’s the fire department.”

“Actually, it’s animal control.”

I grin, step out of the car, and open my umbrella, which isn’t really necessary since I have to take only ten steps before reaching the striped awning over the front door. Daniel parks the car and joins me.

The smell hits me when we walk in: sizzling pancetta, yeasty focaccia bread, garlic, and tomatoes. My stomach rumbles.

“I hope you like Italian,” Daniel says, shaking the raindrops from his umbrella and holding out his hand for mine. “Or this was a really bad move on my part.”

I hand him my umbrella and say, “I love Italian.”

There are very few patrons, and Daniel requests a small table in the corner, tucked away on the other side of the bar. Once we’re seated, our knees almost touching underneath the table, the waitress takes our drink order—iced tea for both of us—and we peruse our menus. “What’s good here?” I ask.

“Everything. The marinara especially. It’s got a bit of a kick, though.”

Daniel orders pasta and I choose the chicken parmesan with a side of steamed broccoli. We help ourselves to the bread basket and I select a sourdough roll while Daniel goes for the focaccia. We dip the bread in olive oil that has been sprinkled with freshly ground black pepper. It’s delicious. When our entrees come I take a bite of my chicken. It’s smothered in the marinara and Daniel’s right: It does have a bit of a kick.

It occurs to me suddenly that I haven’t been out with my own husband in a very long time, but this is the second meal I’ve shared with Daniel.

“Are you working on any new projects?” he asks.

“I have a few new clients. I take yoga classes almost every morning and I’ve been hired to design some brochures and promotional materials for the studio. I’m looking forward to digging into that project.”

“I hope I’m not keeping you from getting your work done.”

“I worked for a few hours this morning. I’ll work some more after the kids are in bed. I’m kind of a night owl.”

“Me, too,” he says. “That’s why I’m glad I switched from the morning to the afternoon shift. I don’t have to be there as early now.”

When we’re done eating the waitress clears our plates and asks if we want dessert. “Claire?” Daniel says.

“No thank you.”

Daniel shakes his head. She leaves the check and I reach for my wallet, but Daniel says, “I’ve got it.” He puts his credit card on the table and the waitress takes it away.

“Thank you,” I say. “The next one’s on me.”

Daniel smiles and says, “Okay.” He leans back in his seat and studies me. I meet his gaze, wishing I had a clue about the thoughts running through his head. Maybe he isn’t thinking about anything at all. The moment ends when the waitress returns. Daniel looks down to sign the check and then we get up and head toward the door. The rain has ended and the sky lightens as we drive home. The rumble of thunder in the distance grows softer and he turns off the windshield wipers. The sun tries valiantly to break through the clouds.

He pulls into his garage and kills the engine. I’m surprised to find that it’s almost three. “Thank you for lunch,” I say. “I better get going.”

“You’re welcome.”

I grip the door handle and open it. He walks me to my car and waits until I’m seated. “Enjoy the rest of your day off,” I say.

“Thanks. I will.” He closes the door and I head for home.

33

claire

I’m not sure how it starts, but by some unspoken agreement Daniel and I begin spending at least one day a week together. Because he works a rotating schedule the chances are good that the two days a week he has off will fall between Monday and Friday, when the rest of the world is at work. My schedule is flexible enough that I can spend my daytime hours any way I want, and I don’t mind working at night after the kids go to bed, because it gives me something to do.

Sometimes we meet for lunch and sometimes we run errands together. I helped him pick out new carpeting for his living room, weighing in with an opinion on my favorites, and he picked me up from the car dealership when I took my vehicle in for an oil change. We often end up at his house afterward, depending on how much time I have before I need to be home to meet the school bus. I’ve gradually become comfortable at Daniel’s; he goes about his business, and I make myself right at home. I think nothing of poking my head into his refrigerator or changing the channel on the TV if he’s not watching it. Daniel runs five miles most mornings and one day when I showed up earlier than usual he answered the door with wet hair, wearing only a pair of jeans. It took some effort to drag my eyes away from his bare chest.

I try my best not to dwell on how comfortable we’ve become with each other, and how quickly it happened, pushing away the thought that maybe it’s not okay. That under the guise of friendship we’re starting to walk down a road I said I wouldn’t travel with him.

Daniel discovered that I like to go to movies and I detected a hint of pity in his expression when I told him that I often went alone. “It doesn’t bother me,” I said. “I’m used to it.”

“Call me next time. I’ll go with you.”

“Okay,” I said. And I did. We had a great time, sharing popcorn in the mostly deserted theater. I don’t think Eat Pray Lovewould have been Daniel’s first choice, but he didn’t complain once. “You can choose the next movie,” I promised when it was over. “Something with a car chase or an explosion.”

“Deal,” he said.

 • • •

“How can you even sit like that?” he asked one day.

I was sitting cross-legged on his couch with a throw blanket around my shoulders while I thumbed through a magazine. “What? It’s comfortable. I twist myself into much more difficult poses in my yoga class.” I continued to meet Elisa for yoga almost every morning, but so far I hadn’t said anything about spending time with Daniel.

“I can’t even get into that position anymore,” he said, setting down a bottle of diet peach Snapple on the side table next to me.

“That’s my favorite drink,” I said.

“I know that, Claire,” he said, looking at me as if I was a bit slow. “That’s why I bought some at the store the other day.”

The doorbell rings one cloudy afternoon while I’m there. Daniel ran out to grab us some lunch, and I’m not sure what to do. I walk over to the door, but there’s no peephole. The doorbell rings again. Hoping it’s just a delivery, I open the door and find myself at a complete loss for words because there’s a woman standing there. Her surprised look and her scowl tell me that she wasn’t expecting me to be here and isn’t very happy about it.

She’s wearing a business suit and looks a few years younger than me. Her brown hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail and she’s wearing an awful lot of makeup for noon on a Tuesday. She’s striking, with cheekbones that could cut glass. “Where’s Daniel?” she asks.

I’m about to tell her that he stepped out for a minute, but the crunch of tires on gravel as he pulls into the driveway saves me from having to say anything. Her head whips around when she hears the car. Daniel parks and walks toward us, paper bag in one hand, cardboard drink carrier in the other. When he reaches the front door I take the bag from him.

“Hi,” he says, greeting the brunette. “Claire, this is Melissa.”

She says hello to me and her tone is lukewarm at best.

I hold out my hand and she gives it a brief shake. “Nice to meet you,” I say.

The whole exchange is a giant ball of awkward.

Strangely, Daniel doesn’t seem flustered at all. I turn to him and quietly say, “I can go.”

He grabs my wrist and says, “No.”

The three of us go into the house. I put the bag on the counter in the kitchen and Daniel leans over and says, “Why don’t you wait in my room.”

I walk down the hallway. I know which door is his because I often pass it on my way to the bathroom. After entering the bedroom I shut the door behind me.

It’s such a private space for me to be occupying, although being inside this room with Daniel would be even more intimate. His king-size bed is unmade and from the looks of it he’s a restless sleeper. The sheets are twisted and the comforter is halfway off the bed. He’s not much for decorating either, and the walls are bare except for a large TV mounted directly across from the bed. On the dresser there are two bottles of cologne, a pile of change, and an iPod dock. I uncap one of the bottles and inhale. I’ve smelled this cologne on him before. There’s also a flashlight and a police radio plugged into chargers, but no gun. I’m sure Daniel keeps that someplace safe. A picture frame lying flat catches my eye. It contains a small photo of a baby boy, which seems so out of place among the other items. I pick it up and peer at the image closely, then set it back down, wondering who it is.

At a loss for what to do with myself, I make the bed, complete with hospital corners and fluffed pillows. The murmur of voices reaches me, hers louder than his, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. I sit cross-legged in the center of the bed, but I’m uncomfortable, so I scoot up toward the headboard and lean back against it, one of Daniel’s pillows wedged behind my lower back. It feels weird to be using his bed in any fashion, but there’s nowhere else to sit. The minutes crawl by but finally the door opens. Daniel pauses, a ghost of a smile on his face, looking at me in a way that makes me wonder what he thinks about seeing me stretched out on his bed like I belong here. He eases himself down beside me, close enough that our shoulders are almost touching, and leans back against the headboard. “Sorry about that,” he says.

“It’s okay,” I say. “Was that your girlfriend?” I never asked if he was seeing someone, and I feel foolish for assuming he wasn’t. And it’s not as if I’m in a position to care if he is.

He looks contemplative but then says, “No. I don’t have a girlfriend.” He blows out a breath, as if the whole situation has exhausted him. “She’s someone I used to see. I haven’t called her in a while.”

“I’m guessing she isn’t too happy about that.”

He shrugs. “It was just a casual thing.”

“It doesn’t always feel casual to women, especially if you were sleeping together.” I regret the words the minute they come out of my mouth. We never talk about this kind of thing. Never. And initiating a conversation about Daniel’s sex life when we’re sharing his bed—no matter how platonically—may not have been my best move. Now the air feels charged, as if the dynamic in the room has abruptly changed. All my fault.

“I’m not sleeping with her,” he says. “Well, not anymore.”

“Why? Are you sleeping with somebody else instead?”

Shut up, Claire.

Daniel shakes his head. “No.”

“Then why not her?” I have no idea why I’m still talking, still asking him these things. I’m even more alarmed by the fact that suddenly all I can think about is sex and how long it’s been since Chris and I made love.

“I don’t know. I’m just not really feeling it.”

“Do you date much?” I’ve never given much thought to how he spends his evenings and weekends.

“Not really.”

So maybe Daniel is lonely, too.

“How long have you been divorced?”

“A little over a year. My wife kept the house and I moved here.”

There’s more to the story, of this I’m certain, but I don’t push.

Daniel runs his hands along the comforter. “You made my bed.”

“I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

“Thanks,” he says, smiling. “Come on. Let’s go see how cold our lunch is.”

34

claire

In late October, Chris’s boss informs him that he’ll be on the road for the next two weeks, with no time to fly home on the weekend. “I’m sorry,” he says when he calls me from his hotel room to break the news.

“It’s okay,” I say. It’s not like it matters if I’m okay with it or not. It’s going to happen anyway.

I should be upset, and I do feel horrible for the kids, but the more Chris travels, the more I adapt to our current household situation. When he comes home he disrupts the routine I’ve so carefully put in place to give the kids a sense of normalcy, and I’m the one who deals with the fallout when he leaves again. It takes at least a day for everyone to adjust. Josh gets moody and won’t listen, and Jordan develops an unnatural attachment to her stuffed animals, especially the ones Chris has bought her since he’s been out on the road. He’s gone so often that now it feels odd sharing a bed with him on the weekends. Before he lost his job, we used to go upstairs at the same time every night, to make love, to watch TV, to talk. Sometimes all three. Now he stays up late working and when he finally slips between the sheets it wakes me up and I toss and turn for hours, trying to get back to sleep.

It’s not that I’m happy about him being gone—far from it. It’s just that Chris being gone is now what I’m used to.

 • • •

The brilliant sunshine and the soaring temperatures of a brief, last burst of Indian summer at the end of the month offer a temporary respite from the approaching chill of fall. The kids are ecstatic and on our way to the bus stop Jordan asks if we can go to the swimming pool after school. “How about the park?” I say as we walk to the bus stop. “The pools are all closed until next summer.” She sighs and reluctantly agrees that the park will have to do.

My phone rings as I’m walking back into the house. I answer it and say, “Hey.”

“Let’s go for a ride,” Daniel says. “It might be the last one for a while.”

I’m just as eager to enjoy the last few warm days of the season so I say, “Sure. That sounds fun.”

“You’re not too busy today?”

“I have a few things I’m working on, but I can pick them back up tonight when the kids go to bed.”

“Great. Noon?”

“Sure. See you then.”

When I arrive at Daniel’s he’s standing in the doorway. He watches me walk toward him and my breath catches a little when he smiles. I remember when Chris’s face used to brighten like that whenever I walked into the room. How the smile reached all the way to the corners of his eyes.

“Hi,” he says. “How are you?”

“I’m great,” I say. “It’s beautiful out. Jordan wanted to know if we could go swimming when she got home from school.”

Daniel laughs. “It’s certainly warm enough.” He appraises me quickly from head to toe, to make sure I’m dressed properly; I know better than to show up in short sleeves, no matter how high the temperature is, so I’m wearing a long-sleeved cotton T-shirt, a light jacket, jeans, and tennis shoes. No flip-flops on the motorcycle.

In the garage, I pull the helmets off the shelf while Daniel pushes the bike out onto the driveway and shuts the door. He grabs the end of my helmet strap and buckles it for me, giving it a gentle tug to make sure it’s tight enough. I’m perfectly capable of doing this myself, but I don’t say anything. After he puts his own helmet on he swings a leg over and I do the same, adjusting my position on the seat and settling in behind him.

The hum of the engine fills my ears and then Daniel puts the bike in gear. When we reach the highway and he opens up the throttle he doesn’t have to tell me to put my head down. I’ve been waiting for this, for him to go faster, so I could have a legitimate excuse to curve my body around his. Something tells me he’s been waiting for it, too. That maybe the main reason for asking me to go on a ride had nothing to do with the beautiful weather and everything to do with us being able to touch each other, to feel.

I hook my thumbs in his belt loops. The warmth of the sun beats down on me and I turn my head sideways and rest it on Daniel’s back. It isn’t ideal, because of the bulky helmet, but I feel boneless, liquid, pliant, as if I’ve taken on the shape of Daniel. Aching for physical contact, I want someone to hold me and I wish I was in front and Daniel was in back, but I’ll take what I can get. Unable to resist, I inch forward a little more, tightening my hold on him and gripping him with my thighs. He notices, I know he does, because he turns his head back toward me for a second.

We ride for a long time and then Daniel pulls over at a gas station to refuel. I uncoil myself from him and get off the bike. We both take off our helmets. “How’s your butt?” he asks.

He watches as I place the helmet on the ground, stretch my arms over my head, and arch my back, working out the kinks. “Not too bad. How about you?”

“I’m fine. I’m used to it.”

I hold his helmet while he pumps the gas and when he’s done we walk inside.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asks.

“Sure.” We walk to the cooler. My hands are full with both helmets so Daniel grabs a regular Coke and scans the shelves for my drink. “No Snapple,” he says.

“That’s okay. Diet Coke is fine.”

After he pays we walk outside and Daniel pushes the bike away from the pump, toward a grassy area with one lone tree. I put the helmets down beside it.

“Thanks,” I say when he hands me my drink.

Daniel opens his Coke, takes a big swallow, and runs his fingers through his hair. Shrugging out of my jacket, I sit cross-legged on the grass, in the shade of the tree, and redo my ponytail so that it’s high up on my head and the hair is off my neck. I instantly feel cooler. Daniel sits beside me, his legs stretched out in front of him.

“Are you hot?” he asks.

“Yes. Especially my neck. It’s all this hair.”

He takes another drink. “I like your hair.”

I pull my phone out of my pocket to make sure I haven’t missed any calls.

“Everything okay?” Daniel asks.

“Yep. Just checking.” I take another drink. “How long will it take us to get back?”

“About forty-five minutes.”

“We should probably head out soon.”

“Okay,” he says.

We finish our drinks and I tell him I need to use the restroom. On the way into the gas station I drop our empty cans in the recycle bin near the door. When I come back out, Daniel is standing beside the bike with his helmet on. I walk toward him, taking my hair out of its high ponytail and gathering it into a knot down low. Daniel holds my helmet in his hands, but instead of handing it over he puts it on me, tucking my hair into it and reaching under my chin to buckle the strap.

“I can do that myself, you know.”

“I know,” he says, and then he slides down my visor until it clicks into place. Once we’re on the bike I put my hands on his waist and he starts the engine. He turns around and even though his voice is a bit muffled, I can understand him when he says, “Hold on tight.”

When the ride is over Daniel pulls into the driveway and parks the bike next to the garage. I climb off and remove my helmet. “What time is it?” he asks, flipping up his visor so I can hear him.

“Time for me to get going. I have to meet the bus in less than an hour, and I have a couple of errands to run on the way home.” It’s convenient having a cut-off time. It takes the decision out of my hands. I have no choice but to go.

He puts down the kickstand, climbs off the bike, and unbuckles his helmet, setting it on the ground next to mine. There’s an expression on his face I’ve never seen before, and I swear his eyes look different, like the pupils are darker than usual.

Daniel follows me to my car. Pausing with my hand on the door, I turn to say good-bye, leaning up against the car, never completely sure what to say. And never sure about what he’s thinking. “Thanks for the ride,” I say, smiling at him. “It was a great way to spend the day.”

He’s not smiling. He’s staring at me and it looks as if he’s studying my mouth, but then he looks away for a moment. He turns back to me and says, “Come again tomorrow?”

I’ve already come once this week, but I meet his gaze and say, “Yes.”

 • • •

Elisa and I take the kids to the park after school. The temperature may be atypical, but the leaves are changing right on schedule and their red and yellow colors blaze like fiery sunsets as we make our way through the tree-lined streets, trailing slightly behind the kids. Once we arrive we settle ourselves at a picnic table and watch them scatter, eager to hit the monkey bars and play on the swings.

“This weather is absolutely gorgeous,” I exclaim. We’ve surely surpassed the forecasted high of eighty, and I turn my face to the sun, closing my eyes and letting the rays warm my skin. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Jordan rushes over and hands me her stuffed kitty. “Will you hold this for me, Mommy?”

I smile and cradle the kitty on my lap. “Of course.”

“How long can we stay at the park?” she asks. No matter how long we stay, Jordan always wants to stay longer. The park is her favorite place and she usually has to be coerced to leave. “We’ll stay until dinnertime, if you want.”

“And then we’ll go to McDonald’s?” she asks, smiling brightly as though this fantastic idea has just occurred to her even though it’s probably been percolating in the back of her mind since she got off the school bus.

“Sure,” I say. What the hell. It will make her and Josh’s day.

“Yay!” She scampers off, announcing the good news to her brother, joining him and Travis near the slide.

“You’re in a good mood,” Elisa says. She twists the cap off a bottle of water and takes a drink. “You’ve been smiling for the last half hour.”

I’m still feeling relaxed from the motorcycle ride with Daniel. “It’s been a good day,” I answer truthfully.

“It’s so great to see you like this,” Elisa continues. “I know it’s hard with Chris out of town all the time, but you seem so much happier. I knew things would get better.” She smiles brightly, satisfied that everything has worked out okay. Elisa’s eternal optimism is one of the things I love about her the most, but she’s way off in her assessment.

I take a deep breath and say, “I spent the day with Daniel Rush.”

Her forehead creases as she mentally filters through the names in her head and her eyes widen. “The ridiculously good-looking cop?” she asks.

“Yes. It wasn’t the first time, either.”

“Oh, Claire. Are you serious?” She looks so disappointed in me.

“It’s not what you think,” I say. “We’re just friends.”

Her relief upon hearing this clarification is evident in her expression. I can almost see the tension drain out of her when she realizes I’m not having an affair with Daniel. “Okay,” she says, nodding as if she’s analyzing the information. “How did this happen?”

I tell her about finishing the logo project and how Daniel kept in touch. I tell her about the flat tire and the phone calls and texts. “Didn’t Travis tell you he stopped by when the boys had their lemonade stand?”

“He just said he got stickers and tattoos when he was at your house. I assumed you gave them to him.”

“No, Daniel did.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Not long. Since mid-August.”

She’s silent, and I mistake it for disapproval. “I would never cheat on Chris,” I say, clutching Jordan’s kitty tighter and examining it so I have something to do with my hands and don’t have to look at her. “I still love him. I just don’t feel very connected to him right now.”

“I’ve known you for five years, Claire.” She turns to me and I finally meet her gaze. Her expression is a mixture of caring and understanding. “I know you know right from wrong. I also know that the last year has been hard on you and Chris. But he loves you, too. I truly believe that.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” I say. “I was thinking about it the other day, and worrying that maybe Chris and I got married too young, before we really knew each other well enough. This is the first real test of our marriage and we’re failing. What if our current problems have nothing to do with him being out of work? And now being gone all the time? Maybe he’s not in love with me anymore.” I rest my head in my hands, massaging my temples. If this is true, I’m not sure that there’s anything I can do to fix it. “But you and Skip got married young, younger than us even. And look at you. You’re so happy.”

Elisa snorts. “Let me tell you a story about me and Skip. Because things weren’t always so great between us.”

This admission surprises me, because I’ve never seen two people who are more in love. I forget sometimes that I didn’t know Elisa and Bridget and Julia until we became neighbors. We’re friends—genuine friends—but that’s due more to our physical location, our proximity to each other, than anything else. I know about their present, but I wasn’t there for their pasts. I turn toward Elisa, eager to hear what she has to say.