The Burning Side(49)
“I’m sorry.” The words are out before I’ve thought of what to say next.
Leo adjusts his hands on the wheel. “For?”
I pick a cuticle. “I didn’t realize how hard things were for you after Nacho and Izzy’s.”
“Obviously not your fault.”
“Yeah, but I think I’ve sort of looked down on people in similar situations.”
A tired chuckle escapes him. “I know.”
I inhale, processing. “I don’t think I like to confront my own need.”
“What need?”
“Everything. I need the wind to be gentle, and I need somewhere to live, and people who”—I pause, flushing with shame—“love me.”
“Everyone needs that stuff. And it’s stuff you’ve always had.” His tone is impatient, so I look down and say, “Never mind.” It’s hard to have a shift of heart beside someone who is so familiar with it.
The car stays quiet for several minutes before Leo asks, “Does Cody?”
“Does Cody what?”
“Love you.”
I flush again. “I don’t think so,” I say. “But I honestly haven’t talked to him since that day.”
Leo’s eyes stay glued on the road. “And you?”
A shake of my head. “No,” I say quietly. “I never loved him.”
Leo’s grip is tight on the wheel. “Almost makes it worse.”
“Why?”
“Because you blew up our marriage for someone you didn’t even love.”
His words echo through me, through the hollow places I’ve never known how to fill. He’s wrong, though. I blew up our marriage for someone I did love. Because even though I lit the fuse, Leo helped build the bomb. No, I’m not blaming my husband for my affair. But the affair is much smaller to me than it is to him, merely the final desperate weapon deployed. And maybe everything would have been different if we hadn’t both been so terrified of our own need—Leo because he knew it too well, and me because I knew it too little.
We drive quietly on through the city. Straight through the dying light.
LEO
July 18–24, 2022
AGAIN, I WAKE UP ON Lexington Avenue. And again, April’s parents are talking in loud stage whispers on the other side of the wall.
I turn my phone off sleep mode to find the usual blitz of dings and icons: an inbox full of insurance agents and plumbers, estimates and invoices. Our coverage wasn’t great: it’s looking like we won’t get enough money from insurance for a full rebuild, and maybe not even enough to cover a complete demolition. We can’t sell a half-destroyed house, so now we’re looking at a potential loan just to get it fixed or demolished. If we go the rebuild route, one problem after another is being uncovered. In order to get our kitchen redone, we would need to have plumbers replace the cast-iron pipes with PVC, and before that we would need to repair foundation issues that have been revealed. We lost the water heater, we lost the air conditioner. On top of all that, they’re saying something is wrong with a girder beam, and and and. A dozen little fires started by the first. Even if we decide we want to get a loan for the work, the crews have had a string of delays. First the extreme heat and then the supply shortage and now the storm. It’s been over a month since the fire, and there is no real clarity on how long this could take. With each new problem, I wonder how much we should be investing in something that’s only going to end.
Around the corner, Deb is now on a work call, Billy is in his bathrobe, and Sadie is opening up The Giving Tree. The glass of water I downed before bed has moved through me with urgency, but as I go from one bathroom to the next, all three of them are occupied by a Russo sibling. Finally, April frees the upstairs bathroom, so I squeeze past her and the scent of her apricot lotion. Her hair is up, her face makeup-free. Broken trust hasn’t erased desire, so I rush into the bathroom and shut the door.
By the time I come back down to the kitchen, we’re out of eggs and bananas, and Deb is making a grocery list. I volunteer to go. Josie, who is eating the last banana and turning on some music, says, “Trying to egg-stricate yourself from the morning doldrums, are you?” It’s no secret that we’re all feeling a bit cramped. Though for someone who rolls her eyes at her dad’s jokes, Josie sure makes a lot of the same ones.
April says, “I thought you were going to meet that contractor for an estimate.”
Right. I forgot we planned on April staying with the kids today while I head out early to Argyle. Otto is still asleep upstairs, and Sadie is now on April’s lap reading Shel Silverstein in her crisp little voice. And the tree was happy.
“Right. Yeah, I am.” I look at my daughter with her one fuzzy sock and remnants of purple glitter nail polish, turning the page of her book. And the tree was often alone.
Then, I can feel the song start before I can hear it: “The Luckiest” by Ben Folds—the song April and I danced to at our wedding—is beginning on the little speaker in the corner of the kitchen. Is Josie doing this on purpose? Does she know about the divorce? I haven’t heard this song in years. I look between the sisters, but there’s no indication that April has told her anything. In fact, April is looking at me in a silent plea for help, as if someone just died.