“Preach it, sister,” said a woman. “Let him have it.”
“You are a class-A turd, mister,” said a very beautiful shirtless young man.
“Nice, Lillie,” Brad said, the condescending prick. “You always did love melodrama.” He looked at the gathering crowd. “We’ve been growing apart for years,” he said.
This was happening. This was really happening. My marriage was dying in front of a dozen strangers. My mother was going to feast on this. What about Dylan? What about our son?
My anger went out like a match in the wind.
I didn’t want a divorce. I loved being married. I loved our little family. I loved our life. Could he just . . . just end it? With no input from me whatsoever? Was that even legal? Two people had to consent to marriage. Shouldn’t two people also have to consent to divorce?
What could I do? I started walking to the car as fast as I could, dodging the tourists like a ninja, outpacing Brad. Thank God I’d grabbed my purse when I left the restaurant. Brad could call an Uber or Cape Cab. He sure as hell wasn’t getting a ride from me.
Was my dad around? Should I drive down the wharf and check the boats? Should I circle around and head for Mom’s? Ha. When had she ever been a comfort or support? No. I shouldn’t talk to anyone right now. Maybe this wasn’t really happening. Maybe it was a joke, or a momentary lapse on Brad’s part. Maybe he had a brain tumor, and so he was sick and didn’t know what he was saying.
I pulled out of the lot and inched down Commercial Street. Past the intersection where the cop jauntily directed traffic; past the Portuguese bakery run by my fourth cousins, where we bought malassadas every time we came here with Dylan; past the clothing shops where Brad had blown two months’ income. Couples were everywhere—Provincetown was a romantic place.
Not for me. Not tonight. My husband wanted joy, and apparently not from me.
The filho da puta.
My brain was in shock, the poor thing, and a high-pitched whine was all I could hear.
When I got home, Dylan’s car wasn’t there. Good. I went up to our bedroom—mine now—and ripped off my clothes, got in the shower and let the water get so hot it burned. Scrubbed my skin with the scrunchie as hard as I could, because I felt filthy. Contaminated.
He was leaving me. He was leaving me. If I was honest, I’d always thought he’d won out in this deal of ours. He was （had been） a good enough husband, but I was an incredible wife. I made our home what it was. I created our family life, arranged our social life, organized our holidays, kept Brad in the loop about Dylan, because Dylan told me more. I listened to Brad, far more than he listened to me, because, as he’d once said, “I can only hear so many birth stories, Lillie.”
I’d never said, I can only stand so many client stories, Brad. Never said, Your book is unsuccessful because it doesn’t have an original sentence in the entire thing. I always told him how proud I was of him. I thanked him for working so hard, shouldering people’s troubles, helping them find the right path. And now he was having an affair.
An hour later, as I sat on my bed in my pajamas, I heard a car come into the driveway and Brad’s voice. The Uber. Brad slammed the front door to make sure I knew he was angry at having to get a ride. When I heard him stomp down the stairs to the guest bedroom off the kitchen, I came out and went into the living room.
Our home looked so sad. Was that possible? That our house, which was such a huge part of our family, our history, our holidays, our marriage, knew that our family was crumbling?
The mother swallow was chattering to her babies, clicking and squeaking at them. As it got darker, she quieted. I went outside to look in on them—she was there, her black eyes looking at me, snuggled in with her babies. Then, in a flutter of wings, her mate arrived, and they both settled in. After a minute, I went back inside and sat on the couch, unsure if this was how people sat. My body didn’t feel like my own.
Some time later, Dylan’s car turned into the driveway. I always waited up for him. Of course I did.
He came in with a rush and a thump, incapable of being quiet. Dylan, the best thing I’d ever do, so tall, so good-looking, the best of the Fairchilds and Silvas. He had my father’s unruly hair, but it was blond, like Brad’s. My dark eyes and some ancestor’s long lashes. Once upon a time, I’d held that little boy there against my shoulder, tucked him on my hip, never wanted to put him down.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Pippa had a flat tire, and she didn’t know how to put the spare on, so I helped her. Grandpa will be wicked proud.”