But the question that comes from her son surprises and saddens her. It will reverberate through her mind the rest of the evening, fighting her attempts to sleep until, finally, at a little after 11:00 P.M., she takes a Xanax to quiet her brain.
Bennett asks, “If you and Dad do get divorced, can I live only with you?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
AVERY
THE FAINT ODOR OF COOKED meat hits me when I walk into my house, as if someone is eating a hamburger in my kitchen.
I stand motionless in the doorway, my eyes roaming over the items littering the hallway and living room: torn paper towels, eggshells, an empty carton of Greek yogurt, and a mushy speckled-brown banana peel I threw away yesterday.
For a split second, I worry someone has broken in again. Then I identify the culprit.
Romeo stares up at me, his tail thumping against the wood floor, part of the grease-stained Five Guys foil wrapper from last night’s takeout stuck to his plastic cone.
“Are you kidding me?”
His tail raps harder as I sigh and begin to clean up. In the kitchen, I discover the built-in drawer holding my trash and recycling bins is wide open. Either I forgot to shut it tightly, or my dog has figured out how to open it.
“My little Dumpster diver, you were doing so well out of the crate. What happened?” I scold Romeo as I wipe down the floor. He licks my hand and looks suitably ashamed.
I have no idea what he is digesting, and I don’t want another unwelcome surprise from him, so I change into my workout clothes, clip on his leash, and take him for a long walk. It feels a bit like I’m rewarding Romeo’s bad behavior, but I remember Skip’s advice to go easy on him.
I no longer trust Skip, but he did seem to have a way with my dog.
Every few minutes, I spin around and check the street behind me, and I scrutinize the faces of people who pass me. I don’t intend to let Acelia’s henchmen catch me unawares again.
When we get back to the house, I reset the alarm, then settle in to work, keeping Romeo in my office with me. After paying a few bills, conducting a Zoom session with a client who had to unexpectedly leave town to care for her ill mother, and returning a few other calls, I turn my attention to drafting emails to send to Matthew and Marissa separately. Our next session is Devastation. I need the Bishops to be in a positive frame of mind when they come to see me on Thursday, because experiencing an abrupt drop in emotions—such as the dip in the roller coaster that comes after the slow climb—will strip away more of their superficial gloss.
I craft my message to Marissa first, thinking about what I want to accomplish.
When he learned of his wife’s betrayal, Matthew’s ego suffered a major blow. Marissa needs to offset some of that damage. I type this instruction: When you next see Matthew, bring up something that makes him a great husband. Be specific.
Then I follow up with a message for Matthew. Marissa feels unseen in her marriage; this is one of the top reasons a woman will stray from her husband, and why it’s so important for Matthew to make a course correction.
When I spoke to Matthew alone during our first session, I took him back to the early days of his relationship with Marissa in the hopes of recapturing some of those positive feelings.
Given the bomb Marissa had just thrown into the room, it took a while for Matthew to be able to say anything positive about his wife. But when he did, it was such a stunning, raw declaration that I still find myself replaying it in my mind. The sentiment Matthew expressed is one of the reasons why I’m eager to help the Bishops find their way back to each other.
I send Matthew the following instruction: You told me the first time you kissed Marissa, it was like glimpsing the ocean for the first time. The next time you see her, tell her this.
Before I can hit SEND, my cell phone rings and Lana’s photo appears on my screen. We spoke earlier today, while I was driving to Dr. Hernandez’s office, so I’m surprised she’s reaching out again.
“Hey, sweetie—”
“Avery! Oh my God—my car—I just left work—I can’t believe someone—”
“Slow down. Are you hurt? Were you in an accident?”
“No, no.” She lets out a huffing sound. “My tires! Someone let the air out of them—all four. They were that way when I got to my parking spot. Who would do that to me?”
I suspect I know exactly who: Acelia.
The parallel is clear: someone came after me in a parking garage today and now they’re messing with my sweet, guileless stepdaughter in a different parking lot. Fury courses through my body.