Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [100]
Yet when I burst through my front door less than an hour later, I am dismayed to find my family gone, the house clean and orderly. The kitchen is sparkling; the beds are made; there is even a load of laundry, freshly washed and folded, in a wicker basket on the stairs. I wander aimlessly around the house, finding myself in the living room, the most formal and least used space in the house, eyeing the high-backed, rolled-arm couch that I don’t think I’ve sampled since the day my mother and I chose it from a decorator’s showroom. I remember the afternoon well, the hours we spent considering various styles, discussing fabrics and wood finishes for its graceful feet, debating whether to pay extra for stain guard. A project that now seems trivial.
As I carefully sit on it now, doing my best to enjoy the rare moment of peace, I can’t make myself feel anything other than lonesome, disturbed by the loud silence, grimly imagining what it would be like if Nick and I ever split up—all the blank space and empty moments to fill. I remember once joking to him, after a particularly trying day, that I would make a superb mother if I were only on duty on Mondays, Tuesdays, and every other weekend. He laughed, telling me not to be ridiculous, that being a single parent would be miserable, that he would be miserable without me. I hold on to this thought as I dial his cell.
“Hey there!” he shouts into the phone. I feel instant relief just hearing his voice, although I can’t shake the feeling that I’m in detective mode as I try to discern his background noise. It sounds like a mall, but the chances of Nick voluntarily going shopping are more unlikely than an affair.
“Hi,” I say. “Where are you?”
“The Children’s Museum,” he says.
“With the kids?”
“Yeah,” he says with a laugh. “It generally wouldn’t be a place I’d come without the kids.”
I smile at my silly question, feeling myself relax.
“How’s New York?” he says. “What are you up to?”
I take a deep breath and say, “I’m home, actually.”
“You’re home? Why?” he asks, sounding startled.
“Because I missed you,” I say, which isn’t entirely untrue.
He says nothing in response, which unnerves me enough that I begin to ramble. “I just need to see you,” I say. “I want to talk to you . . . about some things.”
“What things?” he asks, a dose of unease in his voice—which could be because he’s done something wrong. Or it could be that he’s done nothing wrong and therefore assumes that I am the one with an issue.
“Just things,” I say, feeling sheepish for my vagueness, suddenly questioning my judgment in coming home, initiating a conversation in this way. After all, I might have a legitimate reason to be worried, but was it really enough to cut my trip short by a night, without so much as giving Nick a heads-up before my arrival? It occurs to me that he could think this is a true emergency—a health crisis, an affair of my own, a foray into a deep depression—rather than what is likely going on here: April stirring the pot and me snooping through his text messages. Two paranoid housewives.
“Tessa,” he says, agitated. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“Yes. Yes. I’m fine,” I say, feeling ashamed and more confused than ever. “I just want to talk. Tonight. Is Carolyn still coming? I was hoping we could go out. . . and talk.”
“Yeah. She’s still coming. At eight.”
“Oh. Great,” I say. “What. . . were your plans?”
“I didn’t have specific plans,” he replies quickly. “I was thinking of seeing a movie.”
“Oh,” I say again. “So . . . did you go out last night?”
“Uh . . . yeah,” he says. “I did. For a bit.”
I start to ask what he did, but stop myself. Instead I tell him I can’t wait to see him and silently vow that I