You snort a little. It’s not becoming. It’s not you. “Wow. I guess I’m a really good liar.”
“I wanted to be in the dark.”
You want to have all the power and this is why Melanda resents you, because you think being in a shitty marriage makes you superior. “Joe, let’s not fight.”
“We’re not fighting.” We are fighting.
My heart isn’t in my body. It’s on the table. Right in front of you. Bloody. Raw. Beating. “Joe,” you say, and you say it the wrong way. “I didn’t come here to tell you I’m leaving him. This isn’t a date.”
Yes you are and yes it is. “I know that.”
“And I’m not a cheater.”
Yes you are, but things will be different with me. “Of course you’re not.”
“My daughter… if she knew about that night…”
You loved that night and I did too. “I mean it, Mary Kay. I didn’t say a word.”
“And I didn’t come clean because I’m about to make any changes in my life. And if that were to happen… which isn’t to say that it will happen…” Yes it will! “Well… that’s why I can’t do this with you on any level. You cannot be the man who wrecked my marriage.”
Everyone knows that the people in the marriage are the ones responsible for the marriage, everyone except married people, and I sip my water. “Agree.”
“And I am sorry. I should have told you that night at the pub. Hell, when ‘Italian Restaurant’ came on… I mean why didn’t I just say it then? What’s wrong with me?”
I tell you there is nothing wrong with you and you tell the waiter that we want another round—yes!—and you stand—be right back—and I take out Melanda’s phone and sure enough, there you are.
I’m a horrible person aren’t I?
Melanda ignores you because you need to think for yourself. I put her phone back in my pocket and a minute later, you come back. Your hair is flatter and you take a deep breath like you were using one of her meditation apps. “Okay,” you say. “What do you want to know?”
“It’s none of my business. We’re okay. I’m glad you told me and I know it wasn’t easy.”
You clench your napkin. “Please stop defending me. You’ve always been up-front with me. You told me everything about your past…” Everything that matters. “And I let you think that I’m alone. Remember that first day, when you said Gilmore Girls…”
I remember everything about you. “I remember.”
“I should have said it right then. But I admit it. I wanted to pretend. You were so… new.”
You want me to say nice things to you but I can’t say nice things or you’ll call me a marriage wrecker. I nod.
“My husband’s name is Phil. He’s a musician. You might even know who he is…”
You say it like he’s George Fucking Harrison. “I mean it, you don’t have to do this.”
“Phil DiMarco… He was the lead singer of Sacriphil.”
It’s fun to tell you that I don’t know Sacriphil and you wish I did—foxes like attention—and you tell me he’s not just your husband. “He’s Nomi’s dad.”
I nod as in I fucking knew that and you hiss at me. “Well? Aren’t you gonna tell me I’m horrible? I don’t wear a ring and I ran around with you… flirting with you…”
“Well, all we can do is take it from here.”
“But see, that’s the thing. I’m not here, Joe.” Yes you fucking are. “I can’t be here.” Yes you fucking can. “Joe, I lied to you, stringing you along, letting you adopt all those kittens.”
“I wanted those kittens.”
You pull an ice cube out of your drink with your fingers. You hide it in your palm. “Look, no marriage is perfect…” According to all the people who should have gotten divorced ten fucking years ago. “But part of the reason I never even thought about making any change is…” You open your palm. The ice cube glistens. “Joe,” you say. “I didn’t think someone like you existed.”
I want to kiss you. This is our moment but you bulldoze over it with your words, telling me how selfish you think you’ve been, as if you wish I would walk out on you and make it easier for you to stay in your rut. You don’t owe me an explanation but you want to explain. You love talking to me because you can be honest with me. You don’t come out and say it, but it’s true. Look at you, relaxing and thinking out loud. I’m the only one you can talk to. Me.
“See,” you say. “It sounds trite and Melanda would be horrified…” You say her name so casually. You can’t hear the alarms going off in my head because WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO WITH HER, MARY KAY?
I can’t think about that right now so I breathe. Be here now. “How so?”
“Well,” you say. “I got married so young. I’ve never been through anything like this… meeting an available man, spending time with him, getting to know you slowly… And Melanda’s stories about being out there are always so grim. But you… I built my life around the idea that I wasn’t gonna meet anybody like you.”
But you did. “Really, Mary Kay, it’s okay. Nothing has changed. We can wait.”
You shake your head no and you fight my collective plural with your collective plural—We’re a family, Joe, it’s not that simple—and I let you win this battle. There’s no point in arguing with you right now. Melanda’s only been “gone” for a few hours, and already you’re changing. Growing. You’re not there yet, I know. Your maternal instincts have overwhelmed your basic need for love, for self-preservation, and soon your phone buzzes and it’s him.
We both know it’s time to go.
On the sidewalk, we don’t embrace. You say you should probably go and bells are ringing on the shop doors as they open and close. The holidays are all around us. You thank me for being such a grown-up about all this and I tell you the truth, that I just want you to be happy. You think this is goodbye. You think this is the end. But I walk away with a smile on my face.
I didn’t think someone like you existed.
Oh, Mary Kay, yes I fucking do exist and deep down you know there is no going back.
14
I trot downstairs and I’m basking in a cloud of smug. Melanda tried to turn you against me and she failed and even though I should kill her for putting me in this position, I admit it, Mary Kay.
I want to fucking gloat. I want the teacher to know she failed.
She greets me and the donut holes in my hand with a blank stare. “Melanda, there are handcuffs in the drawer of the end table. Cuff yourself to the bedpost and I’ll bring you a snack.”
She bickers as if I’m not the one in hell right now and my sugar high is fading. She’s here, she really is—am I fucked?—and she finds the handcuffs—the cops should have locked her up, not me—but life is a shark that moves forward—even Phil knows that—and my time away was productive. I saw you—you love me—and things are different in here too now. Melanda is slower. She’s slouching, almost apologizing for her inability to get the cuffs on. She’d never admit it but she gets it now: I’m the fucking boss. And she cuffs up because she works in a school system. She’s conditioned to respect authoritative ranks so I enter the room like the professor, like the principal. “Okay, Melanda. What have we learned today?”