I Don't Forgive You Page 2

  “What are you talking about? Who was supposed to bring them?”

  Karen says nothing, but the woman does not wait for an answer. She whips out her phone. Tap tap tap. “Who the hell is Allie Ross?”

  “That’s me.” I hold up my hand, give a little wave.

  “Right. So what’s up with the hamburger buns?”

  “I didn’t sign up for hamburger buns.”

  Vicki thrusts her phone across the table at me in a pointless gesture, since I cannot read it from that far. “Well, this says you were supposed to bring buns.”

  Vicki looks to Daisy for backup, but she will not look up from the napkins she is busy arranging into a perfect spiral.

  “Look, I’m sorry. There must have been a mix-up. I can run out and get some,” I say. “I’d be happy to.”

  “No, it’s not important,” Daisy says. “Don’t be silly. We have plenty of food.”

  “Right, it’s not important that Karen took the time to make dozens of sliders, and that I brought the pickles, and that, like, you organize this Eastbrook tradition every year. That’s not important.”

  “Vicki, really. It’s fine,” Daisy says.

  “This,” Vicki says, sweeping her hand over the table, “only works if everyone contributes.”

  “Ignore her,” Daisy says and pulls me back into the foyer. “I swear, ever since she went Paleo, she’s been a total bitch.”

  I offer a weak laugh, but my heart thumps wildly in my chest. I step back, as if pushed, my guts clenching. Vicki’s hostility scares me. You don’t belong, screams a little voice inside my head, one that I can usually muffle. But not tonight. Now it is raging. I knew we shouldn’t have come.

  All around me, people laugh, but I feel like I’m going to jump out of my own skin. Deep breaths do little to counteract the familiar tide of panic rising within me. I peel away from Daisy and work my way through the crowd toward the kitchen. I need more wine. But as soon as I cross the threshold, Rob, who is still standing by the wine, looks up and locks eyes with me.

  He gives me a sly grin, a knowing nod. I pivot out of the room.

  3

  I need a quiet place to go. I feel the stirrings of a panic attack. I hadn’t had one since last spring in Chicago, when I couldn’t locate Cole at the grocery store. The walls seemed to close in. I need quiet and space. The powder room door is locked, and a woman directs me to the second floor. I start up the stairs, holding the banister for support.

  My mind pings back and forth, hearing Rob call me Lexi, recalling the confrontation over the mini-buns. That awful, sneering woman. I’m certain I did not sign up to bring them. And even if I did forget, did she have to embarrass me like that? People make mistakes.

  Inside the bathroom, my face is pink all the way to my hairline, outward proof that I am over my limit.

  The past few weeks have been a blur—moving, filling out school papers, getting on the neighborhood’s Facebook page—but I would have remembered signing up to bring mini-buns, wouldn’t I? Maybe Mark did and forgot to tell me.

  I wet my hands and tousle my short hair. Chopping it off had seemed like a good idea when we first moved to D.C. over the hot, sticky summer. I thought it might accentuate my small features, and I needed a refresh on my hair, which had been fried from so many years of highlights. But the truth is that my natural mousy brown makes me look washed out, and if I skip lipstick and mascara, I end up looking like an anemic Peter Pan.

  I take my time powdering my face, trying to hide some of the shine. I’m in no hurry to return to the party, and this oversize bathroom is as good a place as any to kill some time. It’s larger than the bedroom I shared with my sister growing up, and it’s clearly been recently renovated, with a white porcelain farmhouse sink deep enough to bathe a golden retriever in. A stack of fluffy, white towels sits on a marble table beside a glass pedestal jar, the kind usually filled with candy. Only this one has tiny little soaps in the shape of seashells in pale pinks and creams. It reminds me of a scene from one of my mother’s favorite movies, The Flamingo Kid. In it, a working-class guy goes to dinner at his boss’s fancy house and stuffs the little soaps in his pocket.

  I can’t help myself. I take a photo and text it to my sister, Krystle. My mother would love it, but with the way her dementia is progressing, I’m lucky if she knows what year it is these days, forget being able to operate a smartphone.

  But Krystle will get it, and that’s almost as good.

  My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Leah: Just got here. Where r u?

  Bathroom. I’ll find you in five, I tap back. With Leah here, I may be able to handle the party a little longer. A former corporate lawyer turned stay-at-home mom, Leah glides effortlessly between the different tribes in the neighborhood—career moms, SAHMs, empty nesters—like some kind of goodwill ambassador. I need to find her—not just because she promised to introduce me to the moms who, in her words, “don’t suck,” but also because I want to stay in her good graces. I don’t want to piss off the one friend I’ve made. I reapply lip gloss, ready to make some mommy friends.

  I unlock the bathroom door, and it swings inward with such force that I am knocked back. Rob from the kitchen barges in. He kicks the door shut behind him, and in a split second has me pressed up against the sink, the cold porcelain jabbing my hip bone.

  I freeze as his hands travel up and down my body, the air trapped in my lungs. Then the adrenaline kicks in. I try to shove him away. It’s like pushing against a brick wall.

  “Jesus, you make me so fucking hot.” His hands plunge up my skirt, warm fingers exploring. I swat at them to no effect. They crawl up my thighs like a dozen spiders. His mouth mashes my lips against my teeth. I slide my head to escape, to breathe. “You want me to fuck you right here?” His raspy cheek abrades mine like sandpaper.

  There’s no room to escape. He wedges one knee between my legs and pries them open. His fingers slip beneath my panties, delve inside me. “You’re so wet.”

  Shame floods me as my back arches in response to his touch. My brain screams no. I wrangle one arm free and manage enough leverage to jam my elbow into him. He staggers back, hand to his chest.

  We both stand still, stunned. “What the fuck was that?” he asks. “You could have hurt me.”

  I want to tell him I could hurt him a hell of a lot more. Instead, I yank open the bathroom door and stumble into the hall, pulling my skirt down and cursing myself again for wearing it.

  I look up and see Mark halfway up the staircase. His eyes light up when he sees me.

  “Hello. There you are.” The singsong tone of his voice tells me he’s drunk a bit too much. He glances past me, and his smile fades. I turn to see Rob emerging from the bathroom.

  Rob shoves past me, knocking my shoulder, and then pauses at the top of the staircase. He turns, his face red with anger, and leans in to my ear so close I can smell his sweat. “Stay the fuck off Tinder, you cock tease.”

  I open my mouth. No sound comes out. Rob continues down the stairs, and Mark grabs him.

  “What the hell did you just say to my wife?” Mark asks.

  Rob shakes his arm free. “Why don’t you ask Lexi?”

  4

  The foyer is empty when I retrieve our jackets from the coat closet.

  Mark is on my heels. “Allie, what was that about? Who was that guy?”

  “Shhh,” I hiss. “I’ll tell you later.” I shove his jacket at him, ignoring the perplexed look on his face, and pull on my own coat. I just want to get out of here.

  “Are you all right?” Mark’s loud attempt at a whisper would be funny in other circumstances. He smells like beer.

  “Can we just go?” My eyes dart from the living room to the dining room. No one pays us any mind. But Rob is in there somewhere, saying God knows what to people.

  Moments later, we are picking our way across the flagstones to the car. The fresh night air fills my lungs, and I finally feel like I can breathe. Mark stops. “I’m not sure I should drive.
”

  I nod. If he’s saying that, he really is too drunk. And there’s no way I want to get behind the wheel. My whole body is jangly.

  “Fine. Let’s walk.” I turn away, not waiting for a response. We only live across Massachusetts Avenue, a fifteen-minute walk, tops.

  “We could call an Uber,” Mark calls after me.

  I stop and pivot. “Can we please just go? By the time an Uber comes, we’ll be home.” I glance up at Daisy’s house, the stone façade strategically lit by spotlights nestled among the azalea bushes. My eye lands on a figure in the front window, the large one in the dining room, backlit and unidentifiable. Is someone watching us? I shudder.

  He jogs up to me and puts his arm on my shoulder as we hurry toward Mass Ave. At the curb, we wait for a chance to cross onto our side of the neighborhood. The distinction between the two sides is one of degrees. Both are upper-middle-class areas with single-family homes, but Daisy’s side boasts sprawling houses with landscaped yards and accent lights, while our side is filled with more modest brick houses jammed onto small lots and front yards littered with kids’ toys and worn Adirondack chairs.

  “Allie, are you okay?” Mark asks. “What happened back there?”

  “That guy was an asshole, that’s what happened. A drunk ass-hole.” My anger surprises both of us.

  “What did he say to you?”

  “Something about staying off Tinder.”

  “Tinder? The dating app?”

  “I guess.” After a car speeds by, I step into the four-lane road, pulling Mark after me.

  “Why would he say that?” Mark asks, slightly out of breath, once we are on the other side.

  “I don’t know.” I stop to face him. “Can we please just go home?”

  He looks wounded.

  “I just want to take a hot shower. Is that okay? Can we talk about it after that?”

  He nods and we walk side by side through the empty suburban streets, Halloween decorations in almost every yard. It’s mid-October and in the mid-sixties. Growing up in Connecticut, fall meant digging out your wool sweaters, and in Chicago, it meant winter coats. But my first autumn in D.C. has been one long extension of summer—blue skies and temperatures more appropriate for pool parties than apple-picking.

  Relief fills me as our little house, illuminated in the moonlight, comes into view. The white paint peeling off the red brick could be interpreted as shabby chic, or simply shabby, but for me, it is home. More than that, it’s tangible proof of success. It’s the first house I have ever lived in, and my name is on the deed, alongside Mark’s.

  Mark glances up at Leah’s house across the street, looking for the silhouette in the window.

  “The Watcher’s watching,” Mark says with forced cheer. I look up and see a dark figure behind a curtain on the second floor. I think of the figure at Daisy’s party. It’s a part of the suburbs I am having trouble adjusting to, the total lack of anonymity.

  The Watcher is Mark’s nickname for Dustin, ever since he found Dustin lurking in our driveway the weekend we moved in, supposedly looking for his lost drone.

  I force out a half-hearted laugh, trying to let Mark know that I appreciate his attempt to cheer me up. But inside, I am still reeling from what happened at the party.

  We trudge along the path to the back door and enter the back of the house through the mudroom, a narrow room lined with deep cubbies that promised an organized life straight off a Pinterest board. It might have been the single biggest reason we bought this house.

  When Mark flicks on the light, our sitter, Susan, pops up from the sofa in front of the TV, where a Law and Order spinoff is on. She’s clutching her knitting in one hand, and her jangly Scotty-dog earrings swing from her ears.

  “Oh, goodness, you startled me.” She puts a hand to her heart. An elfish sixty-something retiree, Susan lives in the neighborhood with her West Highland terrier, Marnie. She’s more than just a babysitter—she watches Cole after school until I get home from work and has become like an auntie to him. She knows how to talk to little boys. Her last job was sitting for the rambunctious Zoni triplets who live around the corner.

  “Sorry, Susan,” Mark says with a bit too much cheer. His warmth toward others always seems to rise in direct proportion to how upset he is. I remember a trip to Florida one winter when the hotel screwed up our reservations. The more the situation worsened, the politer Mark became.

  The heat of the kitchen hits me as soon as I walk in, which means Susan has been baking. Every time she babysits, she bakes something with Cole and then cleans the kitchen top to bottom, leaving it spiffier than before. Cole relishes these kitchen episodes—his favorite TV show is The Great British Bake Off.

  “You’re home early.” Susan fixes me with her bright blue eyes.

  “I know. Headache.” The lie slides right out. It’s not like I’m going to tell my babysitter that a guy I was flirting with tried to have sex with me at the neighborhood social. The scent of cinnamon hangs in the air, as well as something else I cannot put my finger on.

  “Smells wonderful in here,” Mark says, coming up behind me. He wraps me in his arms. “Doesn’t it smell good, Allie?”

  “Pumpkin bread.” Susan gestures with a knitting needle toward two brown loaves on the kitchen counter. “Cole said he’d never tried it, so I thought, oh heck, why not?” Susan turns to me. “Do you need a cup of tea, Allie? Chamomile is good for a headache.”

  Her concern touches me. A part of me does want to let her mother me—no one else is doing it—but what I really want is a shower, the kind that’s so hot it feels like it’s taking off the top layer of skin.

  “I think a shower and bed will do the trick,” I say, disentangling myself from Mark. If not for Susan, I might strip out of this skirt and leave it in a puddle right here in the kitchen. My hip throbs where it met the hard sink. I’m sure there will be an ugly bruise.

  Mark pulls out his wallet and lays a stack of twenties on the counter. Susan stands there smiling, clucking in a sympathetic manner and making no move to gather her things. I have the feeling that babysitting Cole is something of a highlight in her life. This might be unfair, but she comes off like a walking warning of what happens to a woman who dedicates her entire life to others.

  When I finally get upstairs to my bathroom, I strip down and examine the pale purple bruise on my hip.

  As I wait for the water to warm up, my greatest hits of unwanted touchings come rushing through my mind. The shift manager at the restaurant where I worked during art school, who would find me bent over doing some menial task and make comments like, That’s how I like to see you, ass in the air.

  The first photographer I worked for, the one who reeked of clove cigarettes and always found a reason to follow me into the supply room, breathing down my neck, accidentally grinding against me.

  That man in a parking lot in Chicago who reached out and squeezed both my breasts as my arms hung useless by my side, laden with grocery bags. Stunned, I did nothing.

  In fact, I didn’t do anything about any of those incidents.

  But at some point, I thought it would end. Navigating lecherous men is so commonplace as to be almost a rite of passage. But this, this was different.

  I was a grown woman, married, a mother. I was Mark Ross’s wife. I lived in Bethesda, Maryland, for Chrissakes.

  Didn’t any of those things offer me protection?

  The wine guy, this Rob, lives in the same community, and we were at a neighborhood social event. Anger stirs within me. There’s no way he could have thought this was acceptable behavior.

  I climb into the shower. Under the warm water, I replay the night like a movie. I see myself in the dining room, the hamburger bun fiasco, in the kitchen, flirting, and then bam, Rob is in the bathroom with me, slamming me into the sink.

  And that awful moment, when my body reacted despite me, when my back arched in response to his touch.

  I shudder.

  It’s not your fault.

>   You didn’t want this to happen.

  I scrub hard with a washcloth, trying to scrape away the invisible grime his skin left on mine.

  I shut off the water and lean my head against the cold tile, letting a wave of nausea wash over me. I feel tiny and insignificant, reduced by this stranger. I know it’s not my fault, yet I feel a sickening dread. A tiny, ugly truth blooms in the swampiest corner of my soul. This rotten, little weed, begging for attention, wants me to know that inside of me is a broken thing, which he recognized. I thought I’d been clever enough to hide it. I’ve fooled so many people, people like Mark. But this guy smelled it on me.

  Me. Not anyone else there.

  5

  Wrapped in the towel, I slip into Cole’s darkened room. By the glow of the night-light, I watch his small chest rise and fall. He’s flanked by a stuffed penguin and a pink giraffe, named, respectively, Penguin and Pink Giraffe. My little boy—who pretends to be a different animal baby every day, paints each of his fingernails a different color, and has an imaginary friend named Twizzle—chooses only the most literal names for his stuffed animals.

  I bend down and inhale the dense tangle of his hair. It’s dark and thick like Mark’s, and I’m comforted by the familiar smell of Johnson’s baby shampoo.

  Before I leave, I pull the blanket over Cole’s exposed shoulder, a symbolic act, since it will end up in a pile on the floor in the morning. Beside the pillow lies a dog-eared copy of Pinkalicious. Cole knows it by heart. I smile, picturing him pleading with Susan to read it to him one more time.

  Back in my bedroom, I slip on an old Stanford Law T-shirt of Mark’s that falls to my knees. It makes me feel about as sexy as an extra on Little House on the Prairie, but it’s so worn it’s almost see-through in parts, and despite being washed a hundred times, it still smells like him and I need that comfort. I need to wear something that isn’t even a little sexy, that feels like a big hug.