Someone Else's Husband(9)

I reached forward to grab my bright-orange duffel bag, forgetting how heavy it was with all my gear, much of which I had no idea how to use. Luckily a VIP porter took pity on me, helped haul it off the belt, and gestured toward the carts. It took a couple more minutes to make my way through customs, and then the automatic doors snapped open, depositing me out into the humid Tanzanian night. I rolled my cart toward a circle of guides holding signs, searching for my name or True Altitude on one of them.

“Ms. Callahan!” a friendly voice, slightly accented, called out just then. When I turned, a short, sturdy Black man dressed head to toe in khaki was already reaching for my backpack. “You made it. We were beginning to worry.” He took the handle of the luggage cart and started to roll it away, cutting through the crowd as I hustled to follow. “I’m Bakari. The others are right over here.”

As we passed through a narrow break in the bodies, I saw a group of four men, and only men, up ahead. Mid-fifties, at least. The tallest one had his back to me.

“Here is the rest of the group,” Bakari said, indisputably motioning toward them. “Right up ahead. They’ve been waiting for you.”

“This is…everyone?” I chirped, aiming for cheerful but leapfrogging directly to shrill.

“Yes, you are just five,” Bakari continued. “A smaller group is better.”

But they’re all men! I wanted to yell, because clearly he’d overlooked this detail. It wasn’t that I was intimidated. If nothing else, the art world taught you how to deal with being the only woman in any room. But that didn’t mean I enjoyed it. Besides, I’d been prepared for all couples. Now I wasn’t just the weird single lady—I was the only lady.

“Okay, great!” I managed, forcing a smile.

The man with his back to me turned. In his leather hat, perfectly tailored khakis, and a loose-fitting white linen shirt, he had an aging Indiana Jones aura. But it was his blue eyes that were transfixing. All I could do was stare back at him.

This was a possibility I had definitely not accounted for.

“I’m Richard,” he said.

Somehow he was already right next to me, shaking my hand. I pulled away as quickly as I could, but it was too late. I’d felt it. Deep in my bones. Like a ghost moving through me.



* * *



*

I lie in bed staring at the ceiling after I get home, unable to sleep. Noah was right. I could have said no, could have told Richard I couldn’t meet. Because what I know is this: No matter how many times I tell myself that I’m just trying to be a good, supportive friend, it’s not true. Richard has a million friends and, oh, yes, a wife. He does not need me.

And I do not need him. I don’t.

As soon as I close my eyes, my phone vibrates on my nightstand. It’s late. When I lift the phone, it’s an unfamiliar number, 508 area code. Massachusetts, I think. A wrong number, probably, or spam. But my brain catches on something as I watch the call ring. Because I do know one person in Massachusetts, don’t I? Maybe. That was a long time ago.

Finally, the call registers as missed. I wait a few more moments. No voicemail. I put my phone back down and try again to sleep, but it’s nagging at me, even though I know I’m overreacting. It’s an area code, a state, that’s all.

Then a ding. A text notification. Shit. I peer at the screen.

How are you?

Richard—relief, joy, guilt. One after another, then all together, in a demented chorus. I shouldn’t be that happy to hear from him. But I am. If I learned anything climbing that mountain on the other side of the world, it’s that you can’t pretend away your feelings, no matter how inconvenient. You can’t erase them, or outsmart them, or rationalize them away. Not the real ones. Those you can’t outrun, no matter how high you climb.

I stare at Richard’s text as if there is a chance I will leave it unanswered.

Things are…okay. What about you?

Okay, I guess. Actually…not great. We still on for coffee?

My hands are damp around my phone in the silence and the dark.

Yes. When do you want to meet?





Grand Jury Transcript


Testimony of Thalia Perez


Conducted by Abigail Hoffman, Assistant District Attorney



November 27


Q. How did you become acquainted with Frankie Callahan?

A. We met at NYU. Freshman year in college. Our rooms were down the hall from each other.

Q. Did Ms. Callahan have many boyfriends back then?

A. Many? I don’t think she had many. I think she had a normal amount. We were in college.

Q. Did Ms. Callahan have a tendency to date married men?

A. What does that have to do with anything?

Q. Ms. Perez, can you please just answer the question?

A. It feels like an attack on Frankie, not a question.

Q. Are you aware of any time when Frankie Callahan had a romantic relationship with a married man?

A. I don’t see what that has to do with anything.

Q. Did Ms. Callahan have a relationship with a married man on one occasion or more than one occasion?

A. I don’t know.

Q. More than two?

A. This is irrelevant.

Q. Let’s try something else before I need to have you held in contempt. Did she ever speak to you about Mr. Falk?