I Don't Forgive You Page 12

  “Goodness.” Joan puts her hands over Cole’s ears. He shakes her off without breaking eye contact with his iPad.

  “These days, everything is online,” Charles says. “People are idiots for thinking they can get away with this kind of stuff.”

  But not everything online is true, I want to scream.

  “Two,” Caitlin continues, “she can’t hold a job, and three, substance abuse. Any one of these might be grounds for a less than fifty-fifty split, but put all three together and bam, Dad gets full custody.”

  My phone buzzes on the table, and I flip it over, wondering who it could be now. It’s Leah, and she’s texted three capitalized letters.

  WTF.

  A moment later, another text pings my phone—a screenshot. I tap on it to enlarge it. The blood rushes to my head as I make out what I am looking at. A post on the Eastbrook Neighborhood Facebook page. Clarify … some of you in the community have seen a picture of me and Rob from Saturday’s party … not an affair … sexually assaulted … #MeToo.

  20

  The words swim in front of my eyes.

  I push my chair back and rush to the women’s restroom. I am grateful to find it empty. The din of the restaurant fades once the doors have shut, and I lock myself in a stall to examine my phone. Even before I zoom in to reveal the name and avatar of the person responsible for the post, I know who it’s going to be.

  Me.

  In that blue bikini.

  But that’s not my Facebook account. My Facebook avatar is an old-fashioned Leica camera.

  And I’ve never posted on the Eastbrook Neighborhood page.

  Bile fills my throat, and I am sure I am going to vomit. But nothing comes up. After a few minutes of useless retching, my phone rings. It’s Leah.

  “Are you all right? What is going on, Allie? I mean, I get how annoying all those comments about that picture of you and Rob are, but is this a good idea?” The questions come tumbling out faster than I can answer them.

  “I didn’t. I didn’t post that, Leah. That’s not my Facebook account.”

  “This is insane.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t get it. Are you saying someone is impersonating you?”

  “Yes, I guess that is what I’m saying.” My knees buckle, and I lean against the stall wall so I don’t collapse. “I have to get that post taken down.”

  “The Facebook page administrator is this older guy, Jeff Crosetti. Lives on Brookdale. Want me to try and reach out to him?”

  “Please, Leah, can you? I need this taken down before anyone sees it.”

  “Too late for that. There are like a dozen—wait, hold on.” I hear clicking in the background. “There are like twenty-five responses. It’s like the whole neighborhood is on this thread.” A sharp intake of breath. “Oh no, this isn’t good.”

  “What? What is it?”

  “Can you come over? You need to see this. I’d come to you, but David’s working late, and Dustin’s not home yet to watch Ava.”

  “I’m out at dinner. I can come by after.”

  Right after we say our goodbyes, I realize I never figured out how she learned about my fake Tinder account. I hear the bathroom door swoosh open and the sound of high heels click across the tiled floor. I peer under the stall door and recognize Caitlin’s nude pumps.

  “You in here, Allie?” Caitlin calls out in her singsong voice.

  I flush the toilet, giving myself a few extra moments to pull myself together. “Yup, right here.”

  I open the door to see my sister-in-law preening in the mirror. She has Mark’s coloring—dark brown hair and eyes, and the kind of skin that turns bronze while walking from the car to the house. She styles herself after Jackie Kennedy circa 1960—bobbed hair, pearls, and sheath dresses. “You’ve been in here a long time. We were getting worried.” She takes out a tube of pink lip gloss and begins applying it.

  At the sink next to her, I pump one, two, then three foamy globs of hand soap into my palms and take my time washing my hands, hoping Caitlin doesn’t notice they are trembling.

  She doesn’t. She’s too busy baring her teeth in the mirror, looking for food. “I found a great therapist for you and Mark.”

  My jaw drops open.

  She turns from the mirror to me. “Oh gosh, I hope you’re not upset that he told me you guys were having problems.”

  “We’re not having problems,” I say calmly, but inside, I am roiling. The thought of Mark discussing our problems with his sister galls me.

  “I mean, I’m honestly so happy that you even made it this far. We always thought he would end up with Molly, you know?”

  I blink hard. The name Molly stings. She was Mark’s college girlfriend, an award-winning equestrian from an old-money Virginia family. There was talk of an engagement, but she broke it off.

  “Mmmm,” I say and pretend to search my bag for my lipstick.

  “But then whoopsie!” She smacks her lips at the mirror. “An accidental pregnancy. I really applaud you guys for trying to make it work.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Seriously! At first, Mother and I were like, what is the deal? This girl gets pregnant right when Mark makes partner. Hello, gold digger alert!” Caitlin lets out a shrill laugh and pops her lipstick back in her bag. “Kidding! You know we’re crazy about you and Cole. That’s why we’re worried.” She turns and makes a frowny face.

  “Well, I’m fine, thanks.” One last look in the mirror tells me I’m doing a good job of hiding the rage building within. Mark needs to know he should not be talking to Caitlin about our private business.

  “Cole looks adorbs in those teeny khakis,” Caitlin says. “He’s like a mini-Mark.”

  “We’d better head back. People will think we got lost.” I’m done with being fake nice. I move toward the door, but Caitlin takes a quick step to block me. A former Division I field hockey player, Caitlin moves with grace and speed. She leans in to my face, so close I can see the powder collecting in the pores of her skin.

  “Just a heads-up—when you and Mark get divorced, I’m going to fight to get Cole.”

  I jerk back, startled.

  Caitlin throws her head back and roars. I can smell the wine on her. “Kidding! You should see the look on your face!”

  21

  On the drive home, Cole jabbers on about Piper, a girl in his class who has been keeping him from the monkey bars on the playground. Mark offers gentle guidance on how to handle bullies. I don’t join in. My mind is swimming with thoughts of the forged Facebook post, the fake Tinder account, and Caitlin’s confrontation in the bathroom.

  When you and Mark get divorced. That’s what Caitlin said. Not if, but when. She’s just needling you, I tell myself. It’s not personal. It’s who she is.

  Before I wrangle Cole upstairs, I remind Mark that we need to talk. He glances up at the large clock in the kitchen that looks like it belongs in a nineteenth-century railway station and sucks his breath through his teeth.

  “I have a nine p.m. call with the Singapore office.”

  I try not to rush Cole, knowing that doing so will backfire. He’s already acting out, tired from being up later than usual.

  “I want to pick out the photos for my family tree.”

  “It’s after eight, Cole. We can do that tomorrow.”

  “No, you’ll forget.”

  Worn out, I let him wear the same clothes he wore all day to bed. We’ve just finished speed-reading Pinkalicious when my phone buzzes. It’s Leah asking if I’m still planning on stopping by.

  It’s almost eight forty-five. I text her that I will be there soon, nine thirty at the latest. I still need to talk to Mark.

  Cole bats at my phone with a stuffed bunny. “Mommy, stop looking at your phone. I want cuddles.” I tuck my phone in my pocket and lie down next to him. He scooches into me until the backs of his knees are pressed against mine, his head just beneath my chin, and his curved spine against me, a small spoon nestling into the bi
gger one.

  “I love you,” I whisper into his ear.

  “But I love you more.” He yawns. After a few moments, my shallow breaths begin to steady, matching the easy rhythm of the rise and fall of his little chest. And just like that, he’s asleep.

  I rush back downstairs, where Mark has set up his laptop and some work folders on the kitchen counter. His law firm has opened a new office in Singapore, which is twelve hours ahead of D.C., and that’s meant a lot of these late-night calls.

  I pour myself a glass of wine. Mark raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything.

  “What?” My tone is defensive. I’m a grown woman, entitled to a glass of wine after the day I’ve had.

  “Nothing. Tell me what happened with the police.”

  I run down what happened at the station and wait for him to tell me it’s routine stuff, that I shouldn’t worry. But he lets out a long breath and shakes his head.

  “I don’t like it. I really wish you had called Artie Zucker when I asked you to.”

  “Okay, but I didn’t.”

  “And why not? I mean, I texted you the info. You said you would.”

  “I don’t know, Mark. I got busy. Does it matter now?” I finish off my wine and refill the glass. “I mean, I called him tonight, so can you stop harping on that?”

  “I’m glad you called. I just wish you had done it sooner.” He nods his chin toward my wineglass. “Didn’t you have several glasses at dinner?”

  “So?”

  “Do you think maybe that’s part of the problem?” he asks in a soft voice.

  “What problem is that?”

  “The problem of forgetting things? Of not being able to keep track.” He sighs. “Like the other day when you put the car keys in the salad crisper.”

  “So?” I’m trying to figure out what the hell losing my keys has to do with anything. As soon as I told him about that, I’d regretted doing so. I had searched for hours, afraid I was going out of my mind. Cole found the keys when he went looking for baby carrots at dinner to replace the yucky broccoli. “People lose things, forget things, that’s normal.”

  “Like the hamburger buns?”

  I wince. “Jesus, Mark. You’re kidding, right? I told you I didn’t sign up to bring those.”

  “Okay, fine. I’m not attacking you, Allie. I’m on your side.”

  “Are you? Doesn’t feel that way.”

  “Yes, I am. You don’t have to do everything, you know. Like how I offered to call the lawyer, and you said no.” There’s no accusation or hostility in his voice, only resignation with a hint of sadness. “Look, I’m making enough money now.”

  “Not this again. I love photography. I enjoy the work.”

  “When we first met, you said you hated doing this kind of photography. That your dream was to quit your waitressing job and make art. Well, now you can.”

  “Why are you bringing this up now?”

  “You’re doing too much,” he says. “We’re supposed to host Thanksgiving dinner next month, and half our stuff is still in boxes in the guest room.”

  “Feel free to unpack them, Mark!” My tone is sharp, but I’m fed up. I feel like I’ve been doing everything around here.

  “You fall asleep every night in Cole’s bed.”

  “You fall asleep every night in front of the TV.”

  “I’m waiting there for you. I’ll happily turn off the TV if you come downstairs.” He leans over the kitchen counter and in a low voice says, “Last night was the second time we’ve made love since we moved into this house.”

  “I didn’t realize you were keeping track.” I swallow hard. “Look, we only have ten minutes before your call, and I still need to ask you something. Did you tell Caitlin we were having problems? Do you talk to her about our marriage?” I tell him what she said to me in the bathroom of the restaurant.

  “She shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Why would she think we needed a marriage counselor?” I ask. “Did you ask her for a recommendation?”

  “No. I mean, I asked her if she knew any good therapists, but not for a marriage counselor.”

  “A therapist? For me?”

  “Look, honey, don’t be mad. I thought it might help if you had someone to talk to. You just seem so on edge lately. I know moving here hasn’t been easy—”

  “I can’t believe you told Caitlin I needed therapy.”

  “I didn’t say that. I just asked her for some names. She knows a place outside Baltimore called Bridgeways.”

  I stand up straight. “Bridgeways? Isn’t that a rehab?”

  “Rehab isn’t the right word.”

  “Jesus, Mark. You guys want to send me away to rehab?”

  “Allie, it’s not a rehab. It’s a place where people go when they need a little break. You know—a place you can sort things out. No one’s sending you anywhere. It was just an idea.” He looks at the clock. Eight fifty-seven. He throws up his hands. “I have to make this phone call. I can wrap it up in twenty minutes, thirty tops.”

  “Please. Don’t let me stop you from what’s important.” I sound like a bratty teen, but I can’t stop myself. I feel betrayed.

  “You’re what’s important. I want to talk to you about this. I do. Tell me what you want me to do.”

  “How about the next time your mom asks why we don’t have a second kid, you tell her—” I finish my wine in one gulp, trying to ignore the hurt look on his face. “Just make your call.”

  I head toward the back door.

  “Where are you going?” Mark calls after me.

  “Out.”

  * * *

  “Allie! I am so glad you came over, I’ve been really worried. This whole thing is so messed up.” Leah’s white marble kitchen is covered in bowls and dusted with flour. She peers up from a sheet of rolled-out dough and smiles. My body is jacked up on adrenaline from my fight with Mark. I don’t like the way we left it, and I know tossing that line in about a second kid and then running out was dirty fighting. But it felt good to lash out. I’ve kept so much bottled up inside recently.

  “Listen, Leah, the other day when I left book club—”

  “I am really sorry about that. You probably felt ambushed.”

  “Thank you for saying that, but I need to know—how did you find out about the whole Tinder thing? That Rob Avery had told me to stay off Tinder?”

  She frowns. “You told me.”

  I narrow my eyes, trying to replay our conversations in my head. “I did? Because I don’t think I did.”

  “Yeah, sweetie. At the park. You said he told you to stay off Tinder. And he called you some nickname?”

  “I don’t remember that.” But it makes sense—how else would she know?

  A scraping noise, like a chair being dragged across a floor, echoes from above. Leah rolls her eyes at the ceiling. “God knows what Dustin is doing. He came home about an hour ago and has literally not left his room. Except to grab a piece of cold pizza, which he then took back upstairs. David’s at a client dinner, so me and this bottle of wine are keeping up with the Kardashians.” She points to a tray of tiny little spirals of dough. “Rugelach for International Night. The Jewish table is totally random—hummus from Israel next to rugelach from Poland.”

  I sit down at a stool and try to let the domesticity of the scene calm me down. A Jo Malone candle is burning nearby, and some kind of acoustic music is playing from the small speakers in the ceiling. I search my brain for the file on International Night. There have been loads of emails, and I’ve gathered that International Night is a big deal at Eastbrook Elementary School. Parents set up tables in the cafeteria representing their cultural heritage and serve food and drink from their family’s country of origin. Apparently, some even dress up in elaborate ethnic costumes. Cole and Mark have already been brainstorming what they can come up with to reflect Mark’s Scottish heritage. Haggis is out, shortbread is a possibility.

  “What do you think?” Leah asks. “It’s a Martha Stewart
recipe. Don’t tell anyone it’s not an authentic family recipe from Poland, especially not David’s mother. She thinks I don’t know how to cook authentic Jewish food. I mean, she’s right, my mother was more the TV dinner type, but she’s very judgy about the whole thing.”

  The words continue to flow, and I don’t try to stop her from talking. She grabs a glass and empties the last of the bottle into it. “You want some?”

  As she digs through the small wine fridge nestled beneath the kitchen counter, Leah keeps talking. “You know, she cannot get over my quitting law to stay at home. And I’m like, my choice. Get over it. But the truth is, maybe she’s right.” She unscrews the top and pours both of us a glass, her smile replaced by a concerned look. “Sorry, you’ve got real problems, and I’m complaining about being a suburban housewife.”

  “No, it’s fine,” I say. “I get really lonely when Mark works late, too. How long have you been a stay-at-home mom?”

  “Going on three years. Basically, when I started having to pull Dustin out for testing and therapy. At first, it was great. It was like, ahhhh, relief. But nobody’s around in this neighborhood during the day. You know how D.C. is, all these type A moms working crazy stressful jobs. No time to socialize. But I am so glad you moved in! That was a lucky break for me.”

  “Me, too,” I say. “I feel really lucky you’re my neighbor and not like Vicki or Karen.”

  She laughs. “And I love my kids to pieces, but I swear, Dustin is sending me to an early grave. He and David have just never clicked. And now he’s in the you’re-not-my-real-father stage.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, where is Dustin’s biological father?”

  Leah pinches the bridge of her nose. “He, umm, died. A long time ago.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.” Leah sighs and clinks her nails against her wineglass. “It was suicide. I haven’t told Dustin yet. I know I should, but I just can’t.” She sniffles. “On the one hand, I’m afraid he’ll be angry that I haven’t told him earlier, and on the other hand, I am terrified of giving him any ideas.”