Sugar street, p.30
Sugar Street, page 30
First, she let herself flop face-first onto their unmade bed, relishing the feel of the cool sheets against her flushed face and body. The drugstore bag was in the closet, tucked into an old tennis bag she’d been meaning to give to Goodwill. It had been radiating there—out of sight but always in her awareness—for the last several days, waiting for Carras to find her courage.
She tore open the familiar box—a two-pack of pregnancy tests she’d purchased with cash, on a separate order from their groceries. Not that Stuart would read a grocery receipt anyway, but she didn’t want to take chances. They’d stopped taking the tests months ago, no matter when her period showed up or didn’t. Carras didn’t want to become inured to the heartbreak. And the worst thing she could do to her husband now—next to betrayal—was false hope.
Despite that she’d done this a hundred times, she stopped to read the directions, her body shifting with the sudden need to pee now that the toilet was in sight. Stalling, Carras knew, wouldn’t change a thing. But she was already burdened with hope, and if this test was negative, it would all disappear.
Carras stared at the white stick, pink lid in her hand. Four weeks was well past the window of certainty she always made herself observe to avoid wasting pregnancy tests and money on self-doubt and recalculation. It had been almost four weeks since San Antonio, and she had made sure she and Stuart made love the next day. If she was pregnant, it could still be her husband’s. She would cling to that possibility. She would build a life on it.
She knew from experience that watching the window while the single pink line appeared was the worst sort of torture. She’d spent hours of her life sitting on the floor of this very bathroom, watching for the ghost of a line—the second line parallel to the control, which would mean a positive result—which never appeared. Often, she stared so long at a test that she imagined she could see a line there, the same way if you stared at a wall long enough, it would appear to waver. Sometimes there was a false line—some remnant of the testing process or some errant hormone in her body, which would make her hopeful until she took a confirmation test the next day, or even until her delayed period would appear.
And yet she couldn’t make herself set the test down and walk away. She sat on the turquoise shag rug in front of the toilet with her legs splayed out, the test resting on her thigh while her head leaned against the wall. She closed her eyes and forced her muscles to relax, as though by not putting physical energy into waiting, she could somehow spare herself the emotional investment, too.
It will be okay, one way or the other.
Everything happens for a reason. This was her father’s voice. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. When God closes a door, He opens a window.
How would he feel, she wondered, about his death being the door that was closing in her life? And could this child, could any child, open the window enough to replace him?
She opened her eyes.
At first, she was sure the second line was her imagination. In fact, for several minutes she told herself that it had to be, as though denial of what was in front of her face could stave off the disappointment if it turned out to be wrong. But there it was. Lighter than the control line, but clear nonetheless, the sign she’d been waiting for. A bright pink indication that life was about to change.
Right, wrong, or somewhere in between: there was no going back now.
46
Jess
A week later, Jess finished the dishes slowly, letting Tom take his time putting the kids to bed without her interference. Also, she needed something to do with her hands. She made a small pot of decaf coffee, and spiked two mugs with Irish cream, setting both on the table as she heard his heavy stride on the stairs. She straightened her ponytail in the reflection of the kitchen window, where the last bits of dusk were fading to the sound of crickets and cicadas on this late summer night.
“Irish coffee in July?” Tom said behind her.
Jess shrugged. “In the mood, I guess. We have beer if you’d rather…?”
“It’s fine.” He sat down, staring at his phone, and took a sip.
“I heard from Delia while you were upstairs. Sounds like Orson and Belinda talked to the police. It’s not clear yet if he’s going to press charges against her, or if she’ll help find Parker. But their marriage is obviously in trouble.”
“Obviously.”
“The good news for us is that Belinda admitted to the police that she and Parker set us up. Delia said she thinks Orson shamed her into it. She told them that as far as she knew, none of us had knowingly hired Parker for anything except tennis and help around the house…”
Tom snorted. “Help is a broad term, I guess.”
“Anyway. Nothing’s been decided, but the lawyer Gage and Delia hired is putting pressure on the district attorney to drop the charges against us. He said something about harassment and malicious prosecution if they move forward. It seems likely we’re off the hook.”
“That’s a relief,” Tom said, still scrolling through Twitter.
She could tell by the set of his jaw that he was listening, but didn’t want to meet her eye.
“I worry the kids haven’t had a true summer experience this year,” she fished again. “With everything that’s been going on.”
“They’re fine.”
But it wasn’t fine. They’d postponed their vacation to make up for her bail money. She knew the kids had picked up on some of what was going on, even if they didn’t understand the implications. Jess had been flinging herself at them randomly: alternately smothering them with her need for them to be okay, and trying to give them freedom to enjoy the summer. It would’ve been easier if things had been okay between her and Tom, but they weren’t, and the kids weren’t stupid. They knew.
Not to mention, when Tom wanted to avoid a tough conflict with her, he always threw himself into work. Like now, for instance.
She sipped her coffee, ignoring the thin bead of sweat that accumulated on her top lip. He was right; it was too hot for this.
“We’re going to have to talk eventually,” she said.
“About what?”
She waited. When he looked up, Jess hit him with the only thing left in her arsenal: her “are-you-shitting-me-we’ve-been-together-forever-do-you-seriously-think-I’m-buying-that” look.
A smile flickered across his features. He put down the phone. “Fine. Let’s talk.”
“Okay…what do you want me to say?”
He picked up the phone again. “Oh, my bad. I thought you were ready to be an adult and take responsibility for the problem you created in our marriage. If you think I’m going to lead the conversation, I have better things to do.”
Anger and shame forced out the question that had been on the tip of her tongue for weeks. “Is this going to end us?”
“What are you talking about?” He put down the phone.
“Are you going to divorce me over this? Because, Tomás, I can’t see a way forward with you on your…fucking phone during the rare instances we are alone together. This is co-parenting, not marriage.” She paused. “At least not a marriage I want to be a part of.”
He stared at her for a long time. “You know this is my work…” It was a well-worn path, an argument they’d had on and off for years.
“It’s not about the phone.”
Tom kept his gaze locked on hers. “I know. But the phone is easier.”
Her shoulders relaxed. “I know.”
“Fourteen years of marriage, and that’s the first time either of us has uttered the D-word.”
“It’s not what I want.”
“But you said it.”
“Because it’s starting to feel like what you want.” With those words, her resolve crumbled, and she sank into a chair. “I can’t blame you, but I need to know. I can’t exist in this netherworld forever.”
“So, this is, what? An administrative conversation? You need to know whether to get a divorce lawyer? It’s been a little over a week, and you need me to quit wallowing in my feelings about my wife’s betrayal so you can get on with your life?”
“That’s unfair. I don’t think you’re wallowing. You have every right to your feelings, and I can tell you again how sorry I am. We can go to counseling, I will answer questions…”
He put up a hand to stop her. “You’re right.”
The concession stopped her mid-plea. “What was that?”
“You’re right. It’s time we resolve this thing and put it behind us. I have thought about starting this conversation myself, a hundred times. I guess I’m always blocked. Maybe it’s my stupid pride, that you would need some other guy…”
Jess started to object, but he put up a hand. “I know, I know. Nothing happened, it was about us, not him…blah, blah, blah. But that’s the thing, Jess. I worry that you taking desperate measures is a sign that things are so far gone between us, maybe you don’t want me back. Anymore. Whatever.”
“But I do want you. That was the whole point…”
“That’s what you keep saying. I believe that you believe that, Gardner. I really do.” He pushed back from the table. “But maybe, on some unconscious level, this was your way of telling both of us that something is wrong with our marriage.”
A sob knotted itself around her vocal cords and tears dripped onto the ratty white T-shirt she’d thrown on for doing dishes. “You don’t mean that.” She shook her head to push the idea away. “You don’t think our marriage is in serious danger.”
His face softened. “No. But I’m worried that you do. Which is why I’ve been avoiding this conversation. And just now, when you brought up divorce—” Tom’s voice shattered on the word. Even though he didn’t move from his chair, Jess could see the emotion he was fighting to contain in his clenched fists, in the veins that protruded from his neck and forearms with the effort of keeping still.
There was no other response. She went to him, put her arms around him, pulled his head into her chest as if she were comforting one of their children. “Oh, God. Tom. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I was afraid that you wanted… I feel so ashamed.”
He gripped her waist, not moving or speaking. If someone had looked in on them then, it might look like nothing more than casual affection. Only the force with which he held her showed Jess how terrified he was of losing her, how strong he’d been forcing himself to be. She ran her hands through his wiry hair, loving the outline of softer, redder skin where it had begun thinning in front and exposed new skin to the sun. She loved this man, loved the signs of his humanity, proof that they were growing old together. She would take his imperfections over someone else’s perfect. Any day.
“Can we start this conversation over?” she said when she had gathered herself. “With the D-word off the table?”
He nodded, rubbing his face into her belly—childlike and familiar and sexy all at once. She felt overwhelmed with tenderness.
“I don’t want to start over,” he murmured. “I want to put it to rest. Forever.”
She pulled his face up to meet hers. His cheeks were dry but his eyes were red and strained. “How do we do that? You tell me. Tom, I’ll do anything.”
He smiled, a fleeting thing. “I want to know…why. I mean, not why Parker or why this stupid scheme with Delia and whatever. But why didn’t you think you could talk to me about this? If you weren’t happy with our sex life, why not tell me? I miss us, too.” He pulled her onto his lap. “You may have forgotten this, but I’m a big fan of sex. Have been most of my life. And it’s even better when you’re involved.”
She saw the pain beneath his joke and stroked his hair again before answering. “Well. To be fair, I did try.” He opened his mouth to protest but she cut him off. “Not very well, and not hard enough. Obviously. I kept thinking that talking about it too much would make it worse. You know, you do everything for our family and you work so hard and of course you’re exhausted when you get home from a trip. I didn’t want to be the nagging wife who also demanded mind-blowing sex every night on top of it.”
“Every night?” He smirked.
“You know what I mean. I didn’t want you to think I was criticizing you by saying we weren’t doing it enough, or that it wasn’t… I don’t know, as interesting as it used to be.”
“Well, bringing in another dude to make me jealous certainly satisfies the interesting requirement.”
“And you have to admit, Tom, even though I was totally, totally wrong about the whole thing with Parker—it was a huge mistake and I’d undo it if I could—you have to concede that it did work. The sex that night was….”
“Spectacular.”
“Yes. Right? Wasn’t it?”
“Until it almost derailed our lives.”
“Well, yes.” She sighed and tousled his hair. “Until then.”
“Don’t you think we could get to spectacular on our own? I mean, without all the weird mind games and illegal shit?”
“Maybe. I suppose I could have tried harder. There’s a book I heard about that has all these suggestions for spicing things up. Maybe if I’d had more faith in us, we could have done something like that.”
“Why can’t we do something like that now? Or just, you know, do the stuff we used to do before the kids and everything. We were pretty hot back in the day. Remember the whipped cream and chocolate?”
Jess laughed. “Ugh. That was a sticky mess. And I never could get the carpet clean. My roommates and I lost our security deposit.”
“Okay, but maybe, I don’t know…there have to be other ways to shake things up.” He pulled her around to face him, so that she was straddling him against the table.
“Look,” he said. “I’ve been mad at you, and you deserved it.”
“Now, that’s sexy.”
“But, I’m sorry for my part in this too. I’ve taken you for granted, taken us for granted. I know you always preferred for me to take the initiative with sex, and after the kids it was hard, and you’re so hard to read sometimes, and yeah, I’m tired…”
“Wait. I don’t always need you to take the initiative. You don’t like it when I do.”
“What? That’s insane. What man doesn’t want his wife to jump his bones?”
“You said it yourself. You said, ‘I’m not into that whole dominatrix thing.’”
Tom was incredulous. “When the hell did I say that?”
“I don’t know. Years ago, before we lived here.”
“When, Jess? If you’re going to put those ridiculous words in my mouth…”
She bit her lip, trying to remember. He had said it, she was sure. And she’d been disappointed, because they had only been married for a few years… “Oh! I remember. It was at our Glenridge apartment, when you were home for all of December and bored out of your mind.”
“You mean when you made me watch all those movies? Including Basic Instinct?”
“Wait. Did I?”
“YES!” His frustration was giving way to triumph. “You said I needed a pop culture education, remember?”
It was coming back to her now. She put her hands over her face, cringing. “Oh, God. I said Sharon Stone was an underrated genius.”
“Yes. You. Did.” He patted her hip. “Don’t feel bad about it. I said Barry Bonds and Sammy Sosa would be vindicated by history. We all make mistakes.”
“So when you said that about women on top…?”
“Look. I don’t remember saying it, but if I did, it was definitely icepick-freakout-related.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “I’d love for you to take the initiative, okay? Is it too late to change our pattern?”
“Of course not,” she said, more certain than she felt. “But you have to promise you won’t make fun of me when I suggest new things. You have to be open to new experiences.”
“How new are we talking?” He let his hand drift casually to her breast. “I’m getting to be an old man, you know. It’s hard to teach us new tricks.”
Jess rolled her eyes and kissed him, letting herself grind playfully against his lap. It was a jokey gesture at first, speaking the comic language they were both most comfortable with, but soon she felt herself relax into the kiss. Tom’s body responded, and he grew hard beneath his worn cargo shorts. Very hard.
He wrapped his arms around her waist as they kissed, and she could sense that he was trying to reconnect with her in more than one way. The intensity of the embrace thrilled her. “You need me, too,” she observed, as if it were new information. And in a way, they’d both forgotten it.
“Oh, God. Jess.” He ran both hands up her back beneath her T-shirt and clutched her shoulders, pulling her harder against him, making her skin ripple with gooseflesh. “I am absolutely fucking hopeless without you.” He said it without irony, without the requisite one-liner to make it funny and burst the bubble of emotional tension.
She realized with a deep, aching pleasure that she was the one person in the world with whom Tom could abandon his trademark sense of humor, and that for him, that was true intimacy.
For the first time in years, Jess was swept away by her feelings for her husband. She reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head, frantic to have nothing between them. These clothes were obstacles, this kitchen chair inadequate to the purpose. They enraged her, and she launched herself into his kiss with ferocity that felt as if it belonged to someone else.
“Should we…” he murmured into her mouth, “take this upstairs?”
She bit his lip and lifted herself from his lap, carefully moving his coffee cup before sliding onto the table. “No. Here. Now.”
“Here?” He gave her a quizzical look, clearly thinking of the kids and the lights all being on and the fact that they’d never done it outside the bedroom since Mina was born.
In response, Jess peeled off her shirt and tossed it at him, and then—faster than the junior high locker room—removed her bra while his face was covered.
“Here,” he agreed, looking down at her with a smile.
She pulled him toward her by the button of his shorts, kissing him with renewed enthusiasm. Her desire fueled itself: the insatiable need to have him closer to her made her delighted at her own sense of wantonness, which made her want more, more, more… More of this feeling. More of herself as a sexual being, alive and electric and fully present in her own skin. And more Tom.
