Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [133]
“Can we go find a place to sit down?” I say, determined to be in charge of this encounter, keep the upper hand.
She nods, and as I follow her to the back of the bookshop, I am speaking to Nick. This is who you picked? This woman? This woman I would pass on the street without a second glance? This woman I’d overlook at a dinner party?
And yet. He did pick her. Or at least he let her pick him. He had sex with this person, now seated across from me at the table she apparently reserved for our conversation.
We exchange awkward hellos, and I force myself to ask about her son. Several long seconds pass and when it becomes clear she is waiting for me to speak, I clear my throat and say, “Well. Look. I think we both know why I’m here . . . Why I wanted to meet you.”
I tell her this, even though I am not completely sure of my mission—whether it is one of discovery or about preserving my pride or finding closure of some kind or another. But no matter what, I am relieved to get this inevitable moment over with, ready for anything she might tell me, bracing myself for the worst.
She looks at me and waits.
“I’m here . . . because I know,” I tell her, which seems to cover all the above. I lean across the table, holding her gaze so that there is absolutely no mistaking my message and no possible escape for her.
“You know?” she says. She gives me a puzzled look that infuriates me, and I resist the sudden, intense urge to reach across the table and strike her. Instead I continue calmly, determined to maintain my dignity and composure.
“Yes. I know ... I know everything” I say—which of course is not entirely true. I know a few facts—but none of the details. But I continue the lie, hoping that it will prevent her from doing the same. “Nick told me everything” I say.
She starts to speak, then stops, her eyes filled with unmistakable hurt and surprise that brings me a measure of comfort. Until this moment, she likely believed, or at least hoped, that I was here only on a hunch, or as a result of some solid spy work. It is clear by the look on her face that she did not know that Nick confessed. As I stare at the sharp lines of her chin, memorizing the facets of her diamond-shaped face, I suddenly realize that I couldn’t have called her, and certainly couldn’t be here facing her, had I learned the truth any other way. It’s almost as if the facts about my discovery level the playing field between us. She slept with my husband, but he told me their secret. So in the end, he betrayed her, too.
“It was just once,” she finally says, her voice so soft that I can barely make out the words.
“Oh. Just once,” I say. “All right then.”
I watch her cheeks turn a deeper scarlet as my sarcasm registers, further shaming her. “I know. I know . . . It was one time too many . . . But—”
“But what?” I snap.
“But we were mostly just friends,” she says, the way Ruby sounds when making up an excuse for her blatant disregard of a basic rule. Yes, Mommy, I know I scribbled all over the walls, but isn’t it a lovely picture?
“Friends?”
“He was so ... so kind to Charlie,” she stammers, “and such an amazing surgeon . . . I was so ... grateful.”
“So grateful that you had sex with him?” I whisper.
Her eyes fill with tears as she shakes her head and says, “I fell in love with him. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I don’t know exactly how or why it happened. Maybe it’s because he saved my son . . . Or maybe I just fell in love with him . . . because.”
Her voice trails off as if she’s talking to herself. “I’ve never met a man like him. He is ... exceptional.”
I feel a fresh rise of fury that she would dare tell me about my husband. Someone she’s known for a measly three months as opposed to our seven years together. But instead of pointing this out, I say, “Exceptional men don’t cheat on their wives. They don’t have affairs. They don’t put a cheap thrill ahead of their children.”
As I say the words, the paradox of the situation crystallizes in my head. If she was a cheap thrill, then Nick isn