“Well, when you put it like that . . .”
“It’s fine,” he said, but his straight-ahead stare on the drive home said otherwise.
“Sorry,” I said again when we pulled up to the house. And I was. He had asked for one single thing, and I had repeatedly failed to deliver it.
“Don’t be.” He gave me a small smile. “It was nice to go out with you.”
I put my hand on his. “It was,” I said. “Let’s not have the money-transfer app conversation with the sitter. And I’m okay with your garlic breath if you don’t mind the taste of red wine.”
He laughed lightly. “Deal.”
When we got inside, our sitter, Emma, was slouched on the sofa. Her thumbs continued tapping on her phone as she addressed us. “Have a good time?”
“Yes,” Sanjay and I said in unison, then smiled at each other. I knew what he was thinking: Get out of here.
“That’s awesome?” said Emma, using intonation I suspected was intended for whomever she was texting, or whatever newfangled app she was using to communicate.
While Sanjay cut Emma a check and sent her on her way, I ran to the bathroom, feeling abuzz with nervous anticipation. Aside from our one aborted attempt the night I had drinks with Jael, Sanjay and I hadn’t slept together since before Jenny’s death. And the last time we had, it had been . . . well, it must have been rote, because I honestly couldn’t remember it. But in spite of the parking garage incident, I was feeling optimistic. I could do this.
In front of the mirror, I dabbed concealer under my eyes and on the sides of my nose. Upon further inspection, I decided a bit of blush wouldn’t hurt. Freshly rouged, I went to the bedroom and changed into the new camisole I had ordered online. It looked far better on the model than it did on me—as completely unshocking as this was, it never failed to disappoint—but it matched the underwear that I had purchased to go with it, which were cutting into my hips. Maybe they would stretch if I kept them on long enough. Worst-case scenario, I would swap them for cotton briefs before going to sleep.
I got into bed, draped my legs with the duvet, and waited for Sanjay while attempting to get in the mood.
In my mind, I was striding down a snowy street near Grand Central in Manhattan, just a few months after 9/11. I was still apprehensive about the state of the world, but I was excited to meet Sanjay, whom I had just started dating, for drinks. Then I was watching that no-longer-new boyfriend sleep as the early morning sun streamed through the bay windows in our Brooklyn apartment. I was introducing him as my husband at a coworker’s wedding. I was putting a tiny, dozing Stevie into his arms for the first time. He was carrying me over the threshold of our first home.
It was odd—these were hardly the kind of thoughts that normally turned me on. But they made me remember that I loved my husband, which in turn made me crave the physical connection that once brought us together.
Except . . . where was he? At least fifteen minutes had passed since I’d gone upstairs. I grabbed my cellphone from the bedside table. After turning off a too-bright lamp and turning on another and then carefully positioning myself, I took a selfie from my best angle: from the neck down. The picture was suggestive without being graphic, and would hopefully get Sanjay upstairs before I fell asleep. I texted it to Sanjay.
My phone dinged back at me almost immediately.
Cute, wrote Sonia. Guessing this wasn’t for me.
Ack! No, so sorry!
For your sidepiece? she wrote back with a winking emoji.
Um. Not a chance.
That is not a husband photo.
It is, actually.
God bless you, then. I’d rather get a two-hour bikini wax than send Grant a photo suggesting I want to sleep with him.
Ha—please step away from the hot wax. Let’s catch up sometime this century.
Let’s. Xo
What would make her think I was having an affair? But then, why wouldn’t she? I was the naïve one who thought friends laid it all out on the table.
Sanjay walked in as I was putting the phone back on my nightstand. He whistled. “You look incredible.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Where were you?”
“Just sending a quick email.”
“This late? When we’re supposed to be having a sexy date night?”
“Sexy, huh?” he said, but even his wiggling eyebrows couldn’t ease my irritation.
“You gave me a hard time in the car, but then you go send an email instead of coming to bed?” I said.
“I did not give you a hard time,” he said quickly. “And if you must know, I was emailing myself. I had an idea I didn’t want to forget.”
“For your book.”
“Yes,” he said. There was an unapologetic tone to his voice. But then he softened. “I like your nightie thing,” he said, motioning toward my camisole. “Is it new?”
I patted the bed beside me. “Yes.”
He dropped his pants and his shirt in a pile on the floor. I tried not to think about how I would trip on them when I got up in the middle of the night to pee or deal with one of Miles’ accidents. Then he crawled toward me like a tiger, baring his teeth playfully.
I laughed as he drew closer, and he lifted a finger to his lips. As our eyes met, I felt a flutter in my stomach. We were flirting! I couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.
“How’s this for a sexy date night?” he growled into my ear and I laughed. He lowered himself onto me, and I told myself not to think about the fact that his waist was significantly narrower than my own or that his hipbones were kind of hurting me (though maybe my too-tight underwear was making it worse). I shifted, still smiling, and then he began kissing my neck, which I loved but he almost never did.
I arched my back and began to melt as his lips made their way from my neck to my collarbone. All systems go.
He had just begun to gently tug at my camisole when he raised his head. “Did you buy the nightie thing because of the list?”
“What?” I murmured.
“The thing you’re wearing,” he said. “Is it because of the list?”
“I don’t know.” His question was pulling me right out of my libidinous state of mind. “Can we go back to what you were just doing?”
Above me, his chest heaved in a sigh. “Sure.”
“I was really enjoying that,” I said.
His mouth returned to my skin, but he wasn’t aroused anymore, and after a few minutes it became clear that was not going to change. “Crap,” he muttered. “Sorry.”
“We could try something different,” I suggested, trying to sound game about it. It happened, or so I had read; he wasn’t twenty-five anymore.
“Don’t worry about it. I should have come to bed sooner.” His voice was flat. I looked up at him, then turned my head away because I felt like I might cry.
This was my fault. If I had been more attentive—if I had spent just one or two hours a month meeting what was probably the most basic need for the average married man—he never would have had to ask for sex. Now my failure had become his.
“Sorry,” he said again. He rolled off me, turned off the light, and then slipped between the sheets. After a moment, he said, “Maybe I should give you the next item on the list soon.”
“I think that’s probably a good idea,” I said.
I blinked into the darkness, listening to my husband deliberately slow his breathing just as I was doing. Then the two of us lay there pretending we were asleep.
I didn’t know how much time had passed—at least ten minutes, or maybe it had been an hour—when a sudden revelation socked me in the stomach.
Our project wasn’t working.
In fact, if this evening had been any indication, it was backfiring, and I was pretty sure Sanjay giving me the next item on his list wasn’t going to change that. He may have been dust-busting like a maniac, but we weren’t connecting as a couple. We still weren’t sleeping together, either. And though I was incredibly hesitant to bring it up, not only was he not making more money, I had yet to get the sense he had a concrete plan for doing so.
No sooner did I process all of this when Jenny’s voice echoed into my ears: Then what, Penny? What if your marriage does fail?
Unfortunately, I knew the answer to her question: Then my family fell apart. Then my children didn’t have the happy home I had sworn I would give them. Then I would have broken all of the promises I made myself as a child.
I didn’t know what might happen after that, but it couldn’t possibly be good.
EIGHTEEN
I’d just pulled into our driveway when my brother called. “Nick?” I had picked Cecily and the kids up from camp on the way home, and they scrambled out of the car. “Is everything okay?”
“Very funny, Penny.”
I hadn’t been joking. The last time my brother had called was Christmas. He’d emailed maybe twice in the interim, even though I messaged him every few weeks and sent pictures of Stevie and Miles. I wedged the phone between my ear and shoulder as I opened the front door for the kids. The three of them went clambering into the house, leaving a trail of shoes and backpacks in their wake. “How are you?”
Sanjay was in the kitchen, arranging chicken nuggets on a baking tray. He cocked his head. “Nick,” I mouthed.
“Great. Just got back from Namibia,” Nick said.
“How nice,” I said.
My sarcasm was lost on him. “Dude, it was one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. Landscape like a mother-trucking watercolor painting, and the people were beyond friendly.”
“Dude, I’m jealous.”
“Ha-ha. You should come with me sometime.”
I looked at the dining room table, which had a river of glue running down its center. “I’d love that.”
“So, Pen-Pen,” he said, using my childhood nickname, “have you talked to Dad lately?”
“Dad who?” I said.
Behind me, Sanjay snorted. In his mind, my father was but one small rung above my deadbeat mother. Which was fair—we barely heard from him. When I called he routinely took weeks to call back, so sometimes I just didn’t bother. He had been to visit us exactly one time since we’d moved from Brooklyn. Still, he was my only parent. I couldn’t just write him off.