Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [123]
“What happened?” he says, as if he already knows the answer. His voice is more angry than worried, the one thing absent from Cate’s reaction.
“Nick had an affair,” I say, the first I’ve used the word, having decided only a few hours ago, in the bakery, that even “one time” constitutes an affair, at least when there is emotional involvement leading up to it.
Dex does not ask for details, but I give a few anyway, covering Nick’s confession, that I kicked him out, that I have not seen him since, and that, although he has a few hours with the kids now, he will be spending Christmas alone.
Then I say, “I know you’re going to want to tell Rachel. And that’s fine. But please don’t say anything to Mom, I want to tell her myself.”
“You got it, Tess,” Dex promises. Then he exhales loudly and says, “Dammit.”
“I know.”
“I can’t fucking believe he did this.”
His loyalty, so fierce and unwavering, makes my eyes water, my heart ache. I tell myself I can’t cry. Not right before going home. Not on Christmas Eve.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say as I pass the Church of the Advent where families are mingling on the sidewalk, a service just over or one about to begin.
“Can I call him?” he says.
“I don’t know, Dex . . .” I say, wondering what good could possibly come from it. “What would you say?”
“I just want to talk to him,” he says, making me think of a mobster going to “talk” to someone with a pistol tucked into his waistband.
I drive along Charles, its storefronts closed and dark, and say, “There’s no point really . . . I think I’ve made my decision.”
“Which is?”
“I think I’m leaving him . . . I don’t want to live a lie,” I say, thinking of April, suddenly deciding that her way is not an option for me.
“Good,” he says. “You should.”
I am surprised by his definitive answer, especially because of how much he has always liked Nick.
“You think he’d do it again, don’t you?” I ask, thinking of our father, certain that Dex is, too.
“I don’t know. But I don’t think you should stick around and find out,” Dex says.
I swallow hard, wondering how I could feel so conflicted by his sure advice. Although I am comforted by his black-and-white stance, I also feel the urge to soften it, force him to acknowledge that this is murky terrain.
“You would never do this to Rachel,” I say. “Would you?”
“Never,” he says with all the certainty in the world. “Absolutely never.
“But. . . you—”
“I know,” he says, cutting me off. “I know I cheated before. But not on Rachel.” He stops suddenly, likely realizing his painful implication. That he wouldn’t cheat on his wife, the love of his life. That people don’t cheat on their true love.
“Right,” I say.
“Look,” Dex says, trying to backtrack. “I’m not saying Nick doesn’t love you. I’m sure he does . . . But this . . . This is just. . .”
“What?” I say, bracing myself.
“This is just unforgivable,” Dex says.
I nod, my eyes filling with tears as I replay the word in all of its forms—unforgivable, forgive, forgiven, forgiveness. It is the word that echoes in my head as my brother and I exchange I love yous and good-byes and I drive back to Wellesley, past April’s house, its windows trimmed with scarlet-bowed wreaths, then into my own driveway where I see Carolyn’s white Saab parked in Nick’s usual spot. I can still hear it as the kids and I put sugar cookies and eggnog out for Santa and while I sit in the basement, wrapping presents, reading leaflets of small-print instructions, and assembling plastic parts. Can I forgive Nick? I think with every ribbon curled, every turn of the screwdriver. Can I ever forgive him?
There are other questions, too—more than I can possibly keep track of, some that seem to matter, others that don’t at all but still can’t be silenced. What would my friends do? What will my mother say? Do I still love my husband? Does he love me, or another woman, or both of us? Does she love him? Is he truly sorry? Was it really only once? Would he