I told her I loved her without a thought. When she pulled me in close and whispered it back, I felt a weight slide off my shoulders.
December 27, 2018
I’m home in New Haven for Christmas, and I feel like I’m cheating on Skye. Not only because I lied to her about my holiday plans—I said I was going to Phoenix to visit relatives—but physically, I feel like I’m cheating on her. I swear, Heather hasn’t been all over me like this since before we had kids. The prospect of money has always been an aphrodisiac. I wish there were a way to avoid having sex with her while I’m home, but the last thing I need is to make her suspicious. So I just have to deal with it for a couple more days; on Saturday I’m flying to Palm Beach to spend New Year’s with Skye and her family.
Of course, I hate to sound like that, because having Christmas at home with Garrett and Hopie and Mags is everything. Being away from the kids for such long periods feels unbearable at times, and lying to them is chipping away a piece of my soul. It’s a bizarre sort of comfort to know that despite the giant mess I’ve landed myself in, the love I have for my children still trumps everything.
The financial problems in our household are worse than I realized. Heather pulled me aside on Christmas Day, after we’d opened presents and the kids were vegged out on the couch watching Elf. She reminded me that I still hadn’t written a check for Hope’s second-semester tuition, and that we’d just received our third reminder from the dentist requesting the balance be settled for Hope’s dental implants, a whopping total of $19,000. For fake teeth. Heather explained that the money she’d been bringing in was only enough to cover groceries, electricity, and internet bills, and half the monthly mortgage payment. I nodded, swallowing the knowledge that the only money I have to my name is five grand in savings, and told Heather I would figure something out.
“Make something happen soon, Burke.” Heather folded her skinny arms across her chest. “Or else we’re fucked.”
We’re already fucked, I wanted to respond. But then Mags scrambled off the couch and clasped her hands around my middle. She looked up at me with wide green eyes, her blond hair pulled back—a mini-Heather—and said that having me home from Dubai was the best Christmas present she could’ve asked for. A swell of love surged through me and I had to blink back tears as I held my youngest daughter close. For the life of me I don’t know how I got here.
February 2, 2019
The groundhog saw his shadow this morning; looks like it’ll be six more weeks of frigid New York winter. But living with Skye, my heart is warm. Sometimes I imagine that our apartment is our own little cocoon, sealed off from the rest of the world. I like it best that way.
Outside West Eleventh Street, the pressure is building. Nothing has come of my （private） job search, and I’m starting to feel it’s a hopeless endeavor. I’m due in New Haven again at the end of February, and Heather says we need real money coming in by then. She says we got a notice from Eastern that if we don’t pay Hope’s second-semester tuition by the end of April, she won’t be able to graduate with the rest of her class in May. And I won’t let that happen—I just won’t. So I’ll do it, I’ll email Peter Starling and set up a time to meet him this week so that I can ask for Skye’s hand.
Some days I want to jump off the Empire State Building. I wouldn’t; I’d never do that to my kids or to Skye. To Skye! Look at me. Here I am, all protective of Skye and her well-being while simultaneously on the path to destroying her life. I can’t stand myself.
February 23, 2019
I feel like I’m on the verge of a panic attack, and writing in this journal is my only release. I’m back in New Haven for the weekend, cooped up in the office while everyone is downstairs hanging out—Heather and Maggie are making that chili I love for dinner. I told them I needed to answer some work emails. The kids are so happy to see me and have so many questions about Dubai that it makes me physically ill, and I don’t know how I can continue on this way. Even Todd has been reaching out, asking how Dubai is. I hate lying to everybody. I hate it so much.
What I do know is that I have to propose to Skye, and I have to get our joint bank account opened so that I can start transferring some money to Heather. All of this has to happen soon because we are in serious, serious debt. Not to mention if I don’t come up with the money, Hope will have to drop out of college. But I will get the money—I asked Peter for Skye’s hand a couple of weeks ago, and he said yes. So now I just need to get the ring from Heather, and then I can propose. I know I’m not actually going to go through with marrying Skye—that’s not part of the plan—but it doesn’t make this any easier, or any less evil. I just wish there was a way to—
That’s where the journal ends, the sentence of the last entry unfinished. That was the moment Heather and Maggie walked into the office and I slid the Moleskine behind the desk, so they wouldn’t see.
Sleep isn’t possible, that much I know. I go downstairs and wait for Heather in the kitchen, anger building inside me like a wave. I’ll wait all night if I have to. An open bottle of Malbec sits on the counter, and it takes every fiber of self-control in my body to keep from chugging the entire thing.
Instead, I find a pad of paper and a pen and I start writing a letter to Skye. I must crumple up a dozen different versions.
I’m in the middle of a new draft when the wheels of Heather’s car finally crunch over the driveway. I imagine her turning off the ignition, slumping over the steering wheel for a moment to prepare for our interaction before she comes inside.
It’s two A.M., but she knows that I’m wide awake, waiting for her.
Chapter Forty
Heather
Dear Dr. K,
It hit me in waves, as I nursed Hope and waited for Burke to get out of prison, that our life would never again be the same.
He was released in March, a few months early, one year after his sentence. Our lease was up at the end of the month, and no way could we afford to renew. I’d gotten by on our savings while Burke was away, but with our pricey Gramercy rent and two babies to care for, the balance had notably dwindled. I watched tears glaze my husband’s eyes when he checked our bank account for the first time since being home.
We moved to a cheap two-bedroom in Astoria. I lied to my friends in our Gramercy building as we packed up the apartment, explaining that we were moving to a house in the suburbs with a backyard and a pool. I couldn’t bring myself to admit that we were downsizing to a small walk-up in Queens without a dishwasher.
I felt gutted during our first few days in Astoria, as though someone had died. I missed the shiny marble floors of our old lobby, the cheerful greeting from the doorman, and the sleek, speedy elevator. Garrett’s new room doubled as Burke’s office, which Burke used to hit the ground running on his job search. He was angry, and devastated, and motivated like I’d never seen him before.
The harsh winter melted into a forgiving spring, but Burke was still jobless. By the time summer rolled around he was becoming more and more discouraged. He’d sought out every position in finance under the sun—he applied to big banks, small banks, hedge funds, insurance agencies, accounting firms, you name it. Search agencies wouldn’t work with him once they learned of his background. A felon who’d done time for insider training was the last person welcome on Wall Street—or anywhere else.