“Yeah, I guess. Isabel’s mom has been helping them. Maybe he just needed to get out. He still has to eat.” I had no idea why I was defending him. Tim was right. It was a little strange that he was here, alone.
“At the Milling Room? If he wants to get out and grab a slice of pizza, fine. He doesn’t need to be treating himself to a five-star dinner when his wife is probably in a ditch somewhere.” Tim had taken off his glasses and begun cleaning them aggressively with a napkin.
The sharpness in his tone surprised me, as did the violence of what he had said. “Hey. We have no idea if Isabel is dead. And we shouldn’t judge how people deal with their stress. I know that better than anyone.” I immediately regretted saying this, though there was no way Tim could have known what I was truly referring to. I cleared my throat, trying to shake it off and reclose that door. “He probably doesn’t even eat pizza, anyway. He’s probably, like, a paleo person. Plus, they have tons of money. To him this probably is the equivalent of grabbing a slice of pizza.”
I was trying to be funny, but Tim took in that comment with a grimace. He always took conversations about money personally. If I remarked that private school likely wasn’t in the cards for us, for example, or noted that we weren’t financially ready to move to a bigger place, he got very defensive, which was all ridiculous—he had a great career as an architect and loved what he did. And he made a good living. Plus, I thought the notion that the man should be the “provider” was a horrifically antiquated expectation, and Tim knew that. Still, I tried to tread lightly when the subject of money came up, so as not to hurt his feelings.
As our food arrived, I could see that Connor was talking to the bartender loudly, practically shouting at him from across the bar. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, because the buzz of conversation around the restaurant muffled his words, but the fact that I could hear his voice at all from our table meant that he was at top volume. The restaurant was bustling.
I tried to ignore Connor and focus on Tim and our meal, but he was in my direct line of sight, and I couldn’t stop glancing over at him. He ordered two more drinks in about twenty minutes. He wasn’t talking to the bartender anymore, just staring at his phone, holding it about four inches from his face. Squinting slightly with one eye. I knew this expression too well. He was drunk.
We got a she’s stirring text from Jackie at around ten as we were sharing a piece of cheesecake, so we signed our check and made our way to the restaurant’s front door. Connor was still at the bar. Tim had his hand on the small of my back, and unlike earlier when he’d held my hand, it felt natural, and right. It made me feel like he was proud to be my husband. It made me feel like our relationship could be simple again.
“I think I should say hi to Isabel’s husband,” I said to Tim as we were about to pass the bar. I hadn’t been planning to, but I couldn’t resist. I was dying to know if there had been any leads in the case. It was frustrating having so few ways of learning anything. I wasn’t a close friend. I didn’t know her family. All I could hope for was random leaks of information here and there, on the internet, or secondhand from one of the other moms in our group. And the information I was hoping for was as much about myself as it was about Isabel: an explanation of what I had written and deleted. What I would never speak a word of. Maybe at some point, I would learn something that could help me resolve it. But only if I was somewhat proactive about searching for answers.
“Really?” Tim looked skeptical. “I figured you’d be eager to get home to Clara.”
“Yeah, I am, but it’ll just take a sec. Just want to see how he’s doing. It seems rude not to, right?”
We walked up to Connor’s stool, Tim reluctantly trailing behind me. “Hi, Connor,” I said timidly. He didn’t even turn around. “Hi, Connor?” I tried again a bit louder. He craned his neck to face me without moving his body. His face was flushed with alcohol and showed no sign of recognizing me. “I’m Jenn. From Isabel’s moms’ group. We met the other day, at your house? This is my husband, Tim. We saw you at the bar and just wanted to come over and ask how you are.” Tim stuck out his hand but Connor didn’t register it, so Tim quickly returned it to his pocket, reddening slightly.
“Well, not great, Jenn.” He whirled around in his chair to face me completely, leaning forward so his face was only about a foot from mine, so close that I could feel his hot breath on my face. It was a strange mix of whiskey and menthol, and as it washed over me, a jolt of electricity went through my body, like a dizzying hot flash. It passed quickly, fortunately.