I don’t want to believe it, but at the same time, it makes sense. Nobody broke into our house. The evidence just isn’t there. But Ben would have known that the battery in the baby monitor was dead. Ben would have been able to walk into the nursery without waking up Roscoe or making Mason cry. Ben would have been able to open the window from the inside, try to stage an intrusion, before walking out the front door without leaving any prints.
Ben would have been able to come home after, slide under the covers, and wind his arms around my waist, pushing himself close. Pretending that he had been there all along. The realization makes me sick, and that’s when I taste it again: metallic, like blood, thick and sticky and dripping over everything.
Burning my throat, painting my tongue. Coating everything in red.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
I sit in my car, idling, the exhaust billowing out as I slump down in the driver’s seat and stare at his blind-drawn windows. I blink a few times, trying to fight off the sudden heaviness of my eyelids, and imagine what he’s doing right now, without me, the way I have so many times before.
What they’re doing.
It’s still early, about thirty minutes before the office opens, and she’s there. I know she is. I saw two silhouettes outlined against his bedroom curtains earlier, pushed together before peeling apart. One long, slender arm grabbing at his waist, like she wasn’t quite ready for him to leave. They’re probably eating breakfast right now, sipping their French-pressed coffee in silence, his hand on her thigh as he skims the news—the same way he had handled Allison, his touch barely there as he pushed the small of her back around the restaurant, like she was a possession he didn’t want to misplace.
I glance at the clock now—he should be leaving soon—and as if on cue, the front door swings open. After all this time, I still know his routine by heart. I watch Ben step out, briefcase in hand, as Valerie appears on the porch steps behind him. It’s still strange, seeing them together. Watching my husband engage in these easy interactions with another woman, almost as if I’m looking at my own life through a fun-house mirror: one that distorts my features, turning me into somebody else. She’s in his slippers and an oversized T-shirt, her hair a perfect mess, and it takes me a second to recover from how effortlessly she seems to fit into his clothes, his life.
How easy it is for her to slip into my skin and take my place.
Back when I found out about her, there was a certain bitterness in my mouth when I thought about Valerie—it was like sucking on a lemon and feeling that pinch in my jaw, making me wince—but now I realize that makes me a hypocrite. She’s kind and compassionate—she’s me, eight years ago—and I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if someone had warned me then about who Ben was, what he was capable of, before I had gotten too involved. If someone had explained to me the way men like that work: how we’re just pawns in their game, their gentle hands steering us in the direction that’s most beneficial for them.
Using us, sacrificing us, a strategic power play masked as romance.
I wonder if it would have made a difference, if I would have listened, or if I would have just shrugged them off and continued on with my life.
Probably the latter, but I have to try.
I slouch lower as Ben hops down the steps and takes a right, heading toward the office, and stay reclined for another few minutes, making sure he doesn’t come back. Finally, after stealing one last look in the rearview, I dig my hand into my purse and pull out my eye drops, giving myself one more convincing kick of life before turning off the ignition and unlocking the door.
I’m about to step out, my foot hovering over the concrete, but almost immediately, I see Valerie on the porch again and I slam the door shut. Her earlier outfit has been replaced with a shirtdress and sandals, and I watch as she locks the front door, skips down the steps, and slides herself inside the car parked just a few feet from mine.
Before I can think twice, I crank my own car, fasten my seat belt, and follow as she pulls out of the space and drives down the road. Then I tail her at a distance until she pulls into a little residential neighborhood on the opposite side of town.
This must be her house, I think as I watch her ease into a street spot and let herself into a little white cottage. It reminds me of my first apartment, how childish it seemed when I came home after a night with Ben. My inexperience amplified after being in the presence of someone older, more successful. More mature. Valerie’s home has the appearance of someone who tries—there’s a wrought-iron rocker on the porch, a few spindly plants in plastic potters, a pollen-caked rug that’s bleached from the sun—but also someone who clearly thrifts for furniture or picks up discarded couches on the side of the road, reupholstering them to hide the stains. I remember being her age, trying to stitch together a life from scraps. I wonder if she’s ever brought Ben here. I wonder if she felt embarrassed, the way I did, as I watched him take in my Ikea desk and mismatched chairs and plastic silverware washed and saved from takeout bags, his teeth gnawing at his lip telling me everything I needed to know.