Tear You Apart (22 page)

Chapter Forty-One

I move Ross’s toothbrush to his own side of the sink. His beard hairs are scattered across my washcloth, which I left hanging in its neat and tidy place on the hook next to the hand towel, but which somehow has managed to “conveniently” fall into the puddle of soap leaking from the dispenser he keeps promising to fix.

The sinks drips.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

How many months since I first asked him to fix it? How many times have I suggested we simply fucking call a plumber?

“No,” Ross always says, affronted by the idea that somehow some other man could fix what he broke. “I’ll get to it.”

But he doesn’t get to it, ever. Instead there are business trips and golf games and baseball games on TV. There are excuses. Always excuses, when all I want is for the fucking sink to Stop. Fucking. Dripping.

I am not incompetent. I am not useless. How did I get to this point, where I need to wait for Ross to do something for me?

How hard can it be?

I go on Google. YouTube. There are dozens of instructional videos about how to fix a dripping faucet. I watch. When I can’t find the tools I need in the horror that is the toolshed, I go to the hardware store. And then, armed with a wrench, a pair of pliers, a new washer and rubber gasket, I fix the fuck out of that dripping faucet.

Washing my hands, I catch sight of my reflection. My hair has fallen over my eyes, clings to my cheek with sweat. It was both harder and easier to fix the sink than I expected, but infinitely more gratifying.

At least until I’m giving everything a final wipe down and putting away the tools and leftover supplies I used into the small canvas tool bag I also bought myself. That’s when Ross breezes into the bathroom and proceeds to unzip and pee without so much as a hello. He lets out a long, ripping fart that fills the bathroom with the heavy scent of shit.

If everyone treated their spouse or partner with the same respect they’d give a friend sharing a hotel room, a lot more marriages would be saved.

Then again, there are always people who would tell you how considerate they are. How generous. How they care more for others rather than themselves. They’re the worst ones.

Ross glances at me as he pushes past to the sink, where he washes his hands. Soap drips from the dispenser I haven’t yet fixed. Water splashes the freshly cleaned mirror when he shakes his hands, ignoring the hand towel. Then he uses my washcloth, the one I use on my
face,
to finish drying his hands. My gorge rises.
My face.

He tosses the washcloth onto the rumpled pile at the side of the sink. I snatch it up and throw it into the laundry basket.

He notices me looking. “What?”

“I fixed the faucet.”

I can see instantly that he doesn’t believe me. I’m waiting for the pat on the head. The patronizing smirk. Ross twists the water on, then off. No drip. His brows knit.

“I told you I’d take care of it.”

“But you didn’t,” I point out, reasonably enough, my voice a calm lake, unruffled by so much as a breeze.

“I told you I would,” Ross repeats, as if this will make a difference. As if by saying it again he can...what? I don’t even know.

I keep my focus on the tools I’m fitting into their slots, each into its place. “But you didn’t. And I did. What’s the big deal?”

He doesn’t answer. He turns the faucet again. On. Off. On. The water runs. He turns it off and I stare, triumphant when it doesn’t so much as sneak out a single drop of water.

“Make sure you put all my tools back where they belong,” Ross says.

I overlooked the splattered mirror, the disgusting use of my washcloth. But at this, my fingers twitch and clench. “They’re not your tools. They’re mine.”

“What do you mean, yours?” He moves as though to touch the tool bag, but I back up a step, holding it close. Protectively.

“I mean they’re mine. I went to the store and bought them.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I couldn’t find what I needed,” I explain, patient on the surface. Churning underneath.

“I have all of that stuff in the shed.”

“I looked in the shed. I couldn’t find anything I needed.” It’s my turn to repeat, though I know it won’t make a difference. Ross won’t hear me. “So I went out and bought them.”

He puts his hands on his hips, fingers touching his leather belt. I bought him that belt. That yellow polo shirt, the khaki pants. I bought him the shoes on his feet, the briefs I’m sure he’s wearing. All he ever had to do was reach into his closet and pull out the clothes I bought for him. Washed and dried and ironed and folded for him.

“That was a stupid waste of money,” Ross says flatly. “In case you didn’t notice, we have weddings to pay for. Two of them.”

Two weddings he’s done nothing to plan. That burden falls solely to me, like the years of science projects, dance rehearsals, dentist appointments and boyfriend drama. And I’m more than aware of the cost of things, since I’m the one who pays all the bills.

“I didn’t have what I needed.” I repeat the words slowly. Carefully. “So I went out and got it.”

My husband, the man to whom I have pledged my life, gives me a look so full of scorn it stings like a nettle caught in tender flesh. “It’s not like you’ll ever need them again, Beth. I mean, you are kind of useless when it comes to fixing things.”

If there’s ever been a moment in my life when I’ve come close to killing someone, this is it. Love, when it goes, can sometimes burn to ash.

And sometimes it can leave nothing.

Chapter Forty-Two

I’ve lived in this house for twenty-two years, and don’t think I’ve ever known the full length and width of the kitchen before. Not this way, as I pace and try to occupy myself with cleaning crumbs from toast I didn’t make and splashes of coffee I didn’t drink. I empty the fridge and freezer, scrub away spilled blobs of ice cream, and toss packages of brussels sprouts I have to admit I will never cook. I organize the condiments by the size of their bottles and think, stupidly,
There. Now he’ll never be able to find the ketchup.

Ross isn’t coming home tonight, or tomorrow, or the night after. He might be home sometime the day after that, if he comes to the house instead of going to the office from the airport, but I didn’t ask him his plans, because I don’t care. He could stay a month and I won’t miss him, and this, like the bag of brussels sprouts, is something I finally have to force myself to admit.

I stand in my kitchen and look at everything around me, and I wonder how in the hell I got to this place. What happened to me? To my life?

I turned around,
I think.
And there he was.

And nothing has been the same since, and it will never be the same. It doesn’t matter that I ended it in the backseat of his car with his fingers against my thigh and his tongue in my mouth. It doesn’t matter that I have a responsibility to my daughters, that they deserve a mother who can keep her shit together. It doesn’t matter that it’s over, because it happened, and I am forever changed.

The pain and weight in my chest aren’t new; I’ve felt this stab before. For a period of a few months several years ago, I was convinced I was having a heart attack. The good part was that it convinced me to stop smoking, to eat better, to start working out, so I wouldn’t be that woman people talk about in hushed tones, the one who keeled over in her thirties from an unexpected heart attack.

No, now I’ll be the woman they talk about behind their hands, the one who up and left her husband after twenty-two years.

The pain is from costochondritis, an inflammation of the cartilage connecting the ribs and sternum, and there’s no cure for it except rest and sometimes anti-inflammatories. It hurts more when I breathe and less when I stop, an irony I do not miss. I press my fingertips to the underside of my left breast, my eyes closed, and wish away the pain. The fact is, it feels as if someone’s taken a spear and stabbed it through my chest and out my back.

Through my heart.

And then I am folding like a house of cards, onto my knees on the hard kitchen floor, one hand still trying to make my heart stop hurting and the other pressed to my mouth to keep myself from sobbing out loud. There’s nobody to hear me but myself, but I don’t want a repeat of the day in the shower. I don’t want to lose myself that way again. Yet here I am, lost.

I am lost.

I am selfish. I am greedy. I’m incapable of being anything else, and I get myself off the floor. I get my phone. My spear-stabbed heart leaps when I see the tiny red “1” indicating a message, but I can’t make myself see who it’s from because it’s still Schrödinger’s cat. At this point, it’s both from Will and not, and I will never know until I check it.

In the bathroom, I set my phone on the counter and wash my face. I touch up my makeup, which is stupid because it’s six o’clock in the evening and I’m alone. I turn my face from side to side, studying features so familiar they’ve become alien, like saying a word over and over again until it no longer has meaning. I force myself to count to ten, then twenty, then again. To a hundred. To a hundred and fifty while I clean the toilet and shower and tub even though Maria does a fine job and they’re not dirty. I refold the towels. I organize my cosmetics drawer.

And finally, at last, when I can stand it no more, I check the message. It’s not from Will, it’s from Andrea, canceling our lunch date tomorrow, which is fine with me because that means I now have nothing on my Saturday schedule and can sleep in. I should fill the tub, read a book. Go to bed early. I should do the right thing.

Of course, I don’t.

One word, that’s all I type, but my fingers are so unsteady on the phone’s touchscreen that I have to type it three times before it stops autocorrecting.

Hi

I wait, breathless, to watch the tiny letter
D
for delivered become an
R
for read. I hold the phone in both hands, willing him to answer. Waiting, waiting, waiting. And then—

Hi

It should feel anticlimactic, after all that breath-holding, but I’m just so fucking relieved that he answered me I don’t care what he said.
How are you?

Fine. You?

We are strangers, circling and cautious, and I hate it but understand it, too. I’m the one who ruined this, and I’m the one who should leave it alone, but I can’t. I don’t want to.

Fine,
I type.
Just settling in with a book. What are you up to? Anything fun?

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. The minutes tick by, and even though I can see that he’s read the message, the bastard, he’s not replying. I can’t cry about it. All I can do is fume and wait. And just when I’ve given up and turned on the shower, intending to do what I know I should, shower and go to bed with a book, the small
ping
alerts me to his answer.

I’m at Trinity.

Blue lights, green lights, the steady thump of music. I remember Trinity. We went there dancing once. My throat closes, eyes burn. I’m just about to turn my phone off completely when another message comes through.

You can be here in two hours.

Chapter Forty-Three

In slow motion, I push through the crowd, ignoring men who leer and women who scan me up and down, checking out the competition. I’m not here for them. I squeeze past a gaggle of bachelorette party princesses and some guys in suits ogling them.

And there, finally, is Will.

He leans against the railing with a drink in one hand, his attention on the dark-haired girl in front of him. She’s young. She’s pretty. She wears her vintage style like armor. The victory rolls in her hair, the red lipstick and arched, plucked brows, the historical tattoos all up and down her bare arms and on her chest. She’s not unique or edgy, not really, and she knows it. I can see it in the way she shifts closer to him even when she looks away, as though she doesn’t care what he says. When I was young and uncertain of myself, I used to do the same thing.

He leans closer as I watch, to say something in her ear that makes her tip her head back in laughter. He lingers a little too long, his face hidden by hers. He touches her bare shoulder at the same time.

I hate him.

I want him.

He looks at me then, and I think he knew I was there all along. Will doesn’t smile or beckon me closer. He lets his fingertips graze the girl’s naked skin from the curve of her neck all the way down to her wrist, and his fingers brush over hers before he takes away his hand.

People come between us. I stand still. I’m not sure I can make my feet move toward him, but I can’t stay here, buffeted by the crowd, my feet trampled by drunk girls who can barely walk in stilettos when sober. The cold splash and tangy scent of beer on my hand from someone’s spilled cup is what pushes me forward, finally.

“Elisabeth!” As though he’s surprised to see me. It’s a game, and not for my benefit but hers. Will moves closer, to pull me into an unexpected embrace I allow because I can’t refuse it, even if I’m already on my way to being angry with him. “Chelsea, this is Elisabeth.”

Chelsea tilts her head to look at me, and her smile is wide and warm and inviting. She doesn’t shake my hand, but she does lean a little closer to me. “Hi!”

I look from her to Will and back again. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

Will’s arm slips around my waist, draws me close. Hip to hip. “What’re you drinking?”

I glance at the girl in front of us. She has a glass of something fruity. I look at him. “Dirty martini.”

He appears faintly surprised, then nods and leaves us. We look at each other the way women do when there’s a man between them, only I’m being careful not to be a bitch, and she seems more curious than anything.

“So...how long have you known Will?” She sips her drink. Her lipstick is perfect.

“A few months. You?”

“I just met him tonight,” Chelsea says. “A friend of mine hooked us up. He takes pictures, right?”

“Yes. He does.”

“He’s good,” she adds. “I mean, I saw his stuff. I’m looking for some work. I want to do pinup stuff, get into some fetish magazines. Stuff like that. Naveen says—”

“You know Naveen?”

Chelsea pauses, arched brows knitting. “Yeah, he was here a while ago. Do you?”

Before I can answer, Will’s back with my drink. He presses it into my hand, and the glass is cool and slick with condensation. The taste is sharp. Tart. I let it linger on my tongue, and watch him follow the motion of my throat when I swallow.

I finish the drink and set it on the railing. To Chelsea, and without looking at Will, I say, “I should let you two get back to talking about pictures.”

But when I turn to go, Chelsea stops me. “Don’t leave on my account. Hey, I love this song. You guys wanna dance?”

Suddenly, it’s all I want to do.

We find a place on the dance floor and move to the music. The drink went right to my head—not an excuse, just the truth. I’m buzzed. I let the music push and pull me, closing my eyes for a moment when the swirl of lights threatens to make everything spin. When I open them, Will’s behind me with his hands on my hips, but I saw how he looked at the girl in front of us.

I move and he moves, and he’s between us. We aren’t the only threesome on the dance floor, because the DJ’s playing that Britney Spears song “3” and all at once the entire room has tripled up. The whole crowd moves. Writhing, grinding, thrusting. Someone’s on my ass and I’m pressed to Will’s back as he dances with Chelsea. I can see her face over his shoulder. She’s smiling at him, and I’m the one who put her there. I told him to find someone else. I just didn’t want to be here when he did.

I shouldn’t have come.

“I’m leaving.” I have to shout for him to hear me, and he probably doesn’t catch anything but the mumble of my voice, but he can’t miss that I’m pulling away and pushing through the crowd. Or at least I would be, if the group in front of me didn’t have me gridlocked. I suffer the random grinding from a guy in a suit, his tie pulled loose, before I manage to step to the side and find a clear space.

A hand on my arm turns me, but it’s not Will. Chelsea frowns. “Hey, don’t go.”

“I really...I need to get out of here.” The room is too hot. The drink was too strong. Everything’s too bright and pulsing, and my heart’s beating too fast. The pain is back, but when I hold my breath I feel even worse.

“Me, too!” she cries. “C’mon, let’s go!”

Will comes with us, the three of us on the sidewalk outside in seconds, where the air is marginally cooler and I can breathe a little easier. He puts his arm around me, pulling me close to look at my face. He frowns.

“You okay? What’s the matter?”

I shake my head. What could I tell him? “Drank too fast.”

“I’ll call a cab,” Chelsea says, and I’m more impressed with her than I was at first because she hails us a ride without hesitating. When we all slide into the backseat, her knee presses mine on one side, Will’s on the other. To Will, she says, “What’s your address?”

By the time we get to his apartment, I’m no longer woozy from booze, and the pain in my chest has let up. But I’m not at ease. This is not what I wanted the night to be. But here I am, drinking a gin and tonic in Will’s kitchen while Chelsea and he talk about magazines I’ve never heard of, like
Stockings
and
Garterbelt
Monthly
and
Betty.

And then Chelsea’s stripping out of her vintage frock down to a very cute set of authentic vintage underclothes—bra and panties and garter belt with seamed stockings. Her lipstick is still perfect, but her eyeliner’s smudged. Her hair’s a little mussed. She strikes pose after pose and Will takes her picture while I watch.

All I do is watch.

Chelsea’s eyes go sleepy-lidded, sultry. She might’ve been a little uncertain in the club, but in front of the camera this girl is all self-esteem. She unhooks her bra, lets the straps fall forward with the material cupped to her ample breasts. Pouting mouth. Vintage poses get increasingly more explicit as Will murmurs encouragement and Chelsea complies. She doesn’t get entirely naked, which of course is sexier than if she stripped down all the way, but she does unhook the garters to slip out of her panties to stand in the belt and stockings. She’s trimmed but not shaved bare, and she kneels on the chair, legs spread to show a glimpse of her pussy, and looks over her shoulder with a cheeky grin—but not at the camera.

At me.

“Take Elisabeth’s picture,” she says in a low voice.

Will doesn’t stop snapping shots even when he answers. “Elisabeth doesn’t want her picture taken.”

“Why not?”

“She doesn’t like it,” he says, and I’m unaccountably irritated that he thinks he can answer for me.

Chelsea gets off the chair and pads toward me in her stocking feet, her near nudity as nothing to her, while it makes me blush. “Come take a picture with me. It’ll be hot.”

I shake my head. I shouldn’t be surprised when Chelsea kisses me, but of course I am. Her mouth parts mine. Her tongue is small and sweet, and flickers in and out so fast I don’t even get a taste of her, but I hear the flutter of birds’ wings. It surprises me more than the kiss, that sound. Her hands slide up to cup my breasts through the silky material of my dress, and all I can do is stand there, stunned.

She looks over her shoulder at Will. “Sure we can’t convince her?”

Will’s expression is impassive for a second before he smiles. Shrugs. He holds up the camera, not to his face, just showing it. Then he puts it carefully on a side table. “I don’t know. It’s up to her.”

Chelsea looks at me. We are so close I can see the beads of clear glue sticking her false lashes to her lids, and the rim of her contact lenses around her irises. Her breasts push against me, and I’m not sure where to look or touch, or if I want to shove her away or pull her closer.

Will is watching us when she kisses me again, this time longer. More searching. She presses her body to mine and I’m still not sure where to put my hands or if I want to stroke my tongue along hers. I’ve never kissed a woman before. I’ve never had one touch me like this, her small hands confident as they move over my body.

“No?” Chelsea says when she pulls away, and glances again at Will. Then at me. Her brows rise for a second as she looks considering. Then she tugs me by the wrist toward him until we stand face-to-face.

Chelsea puts one hand on the small of my back, her other on his. She pushes us together two stumbling steps. “Kiss her.”

He does. I have no trouble figuring out where to put my hands or how far to open my mouth for him—Will’s kiss is as familiar to me as anything I’ve ever done. His hand slips into the hair at the base of my skull and tips back my head when his mouth slides along my jaw to nuzzle my throat. The hand on the small of my back pushes me against him. His cock’s hard—his kiss is hard, too. He nips my throat. He pulls my hair. Something like a gasp eases from my parted lips.

Chelsea’s touch disappears for a moment, and in the next the bright lights Will had set up for the pictures go out, one by one. There’s light coming from the kitchen and from the streetlamps outside the windows, but we’ve fallen into shadow. Will groans against my skin.

I look at Chelsea. She’s sitting on the chair, watching us with bright eyes. Her legs are spread. I can see everything.

I won’t lie—there is something sexy about knowing she’s watching us. Something forbidden. I can still feel the soft press of her against me, the flicker of her tongue. I can hear the flutter of wings.

But I don’t want to do this with an audience. I might be a bit of a voyeur, but exhibitionism’s not my thing. And though I’m no longer worried that Chelsea has supplanted me, I don’t want her to be part of this.

Her fingers toy with her clit and dip inside her pussy for a second or two, but when she sees me looking, she closes her legs and cocks her head. We share something with a look, no words necessary. With a small nod, she gets up and begins to gather her clothes.

Will looks up from my neck when the front door closes. His mouth is wet, his eyes a little glazed. His face, when I press my cheek to it, is flushed and warm.

“She left,” I say, in answer to the question he hasn’t asked.

The taste of soap coats my tongue. It’s the flavor of disappointed anger. I think of the way he was looking at her before he knew I was there, and there’s no denying it. I’m jealous. That he told me to come, knowing I would see him with another woman, makes me more than that. I’m furious.

I kiss him, too roughly. Our teeth clank. Chins bump. I break the kiss by pushing him away.

Will frowns. “The hell’s wrong with you?”

“You’re what’s wrong with me. You.” I stab my finger into his chest.

He captures my hand and holds my wrist, keeping me from poking him again. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” I tug, but he won’t let me go.

We’re both breathing fast. My heart beats fast, too. My nipples are hard, and the ache between my legs begs for him to touch me there. But I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that. Instead, I lift my chin, defiant.

“It’s late. I should go.” It’s an echo of that first time we were together. I didn’t mean it to be, but as soon as I say it, his mouth quirks into a half smile.

He keeps my wrist imprisoned in his grip. “Yeah. You should go.”

I snap myself free of him. I can’t banter. I can’t grin. I can’t flirt. “Stop it.”

Will’s gaze flickers. “You’re pissed? About Chelsea.”

“Shouldn’t I be?” I need my purse and can’t find it. I run my fingers through my hair, knowing I’m a mess. My lipstick is far from perfect.

“No.”

I stop my fussing. We stare at each other without blinking. “You knew I’d be there. You told me to come. I said I was on my way.”

“I didn’t know she’d be there. Naveen texted me, said he had a girl he wanted me to meet. I told him where I was.”

“Did you tell him I was coming?”

Will looks guilty.

“Why would you do that?”

“I didn’t think about it,” he says, but I suspect he’s lying. Maybe only a little, but it’s enough.

“He can’t know, Will.”

Will’s gaze remains steady, unblinking, his mouth no longer quirking, but straight and almost grim. “I didn’t set any of it up, Elisabeth.”

Seagulls scream at the sound of my name in his voice. “I saw you looking at her.”

“Of course I was looking at her! She wanted her picture taken!”

We are toe to toe like fighters in a ring. My fists and my jaw are both clenched. A trickle of sweat rolls down my spine, and when I lick my lips, I taste salt. My throat is tight.

“You wanted to fuck her!”

“Of course I want to fuck her,” Will says after a long, long pause. “I’m not blind.”

His words punch the air out of me. The pain in my chest flares, and I press a hand to my sternum, but the stab won’t go away. I have to breathe, but I can’t because it hurts.

“Fuck you.”

He grabs my arm when I turn, and doesn’t let go even when I give him a look that could burn concrete. “You told me to. Just remember that. You told me—”

“That doesn’t mean I want to see it!” I shout. “You didn’t have to shove it in my face!”

“You want me to be alone? Is that it? You won’t be with me, but you don’t want me to be with anyone else?”