When I suggested a vacation to Paris to get away from things, Jolene was hesitant. She didn’t want to leave her father when he was this ill.
“You need this,” I told her. “You can’t be your best for Mercy or your dad if you don’t take a break. Just five days. I’ll romance you.”
She’d smiled at that, and we’d booked the tickets that night. When Fig found out we were going, she’d texted me, angry.
France? You’re going to France with her? You guys barely get along, how will you stand it?
I ignored that one, and the subsequent texts where she tried to make out like she’d not really been angry, but joking. When our trip was just a few days away, she showed up at the house wild-eyed and spitting sarcasm at everything Jolene said.
After she left I cornered Jolene in her closet. “Why do you let her talk to you like that? If anyone else said that shit to you you’d rip them a new one.”
My wife had looked surprised … wait … no, it was more amused. I was trying to look out for her and she was amused by it.
“It’s just the way she is,” she said. “It’s a defense mechanism, Doctor.”
I didn’t like the way she was talking down to me, insinuating someone of my education should know.
“But she’s genuinely mean to you. Cutting.” I watched her rifle through a drawer and pull out a nightie. A pink silk thing I’d bought for her on our anniversary.
Jolene shrugged. “I have thick skin. Do you really think Fig’s little barbs hurt me? She’s terribly insecure, that’s why she’s so hateful sometimes.” I couldn’t argue with that.
“It’s the principle of it. You’re notorious for not taking shit.”
“I take your shit,” she said. “Are you jealous that someone other than you gets away with being an ass to me?”
My skin prickled. Did she know? She was looking at me like she knew something. No, she was just being Jolene. Playing word games to throw me off.
“I don’t like it,” I said, touching her face. Tenderness always won Jolene over. Touching her chased whatever she was feeling away, and replaced it with softness. That’s why when she looked at me with her sharp brown eyes, I was taken aback.
“Then don’t let her,” she said. I pulled my hand away, let it drop to my side.
“If you don’t like the way she speaks to me then say something yourself.”
She pushed past me and walked into the bedroom without looking back. She probably thought Ryan would do that—jump to her defense—that’s why she was saying it. I was a mediator by nature, a Libra. I liked to keep the scales balanced without throwing my weight either way. They’d have to work it out without me, Jolene and Fig. I wasn’t getting involved. I went to the garage to pull out a suitcase for the trip. I’d timed everything just right, so we wouldn’t be here when the papers were served. I’d hired an attorney the week before, and I planned on telling Jolene what happened in France. All of it: Macey’s lies, her transference. She’d believe me, because she loved me.
The first girl I kissed had coffee breath. We kissed in a storage room at school where I was helping her put away classroom supplies. She pushed me up against the cheap plastic shelving, and I saw the rolls of paper towel wobble above our heads, right before her lips hit mine. I didn’t like coffee until I tasted her mouth. When she was done kissing me she drove me home. She was my tenth grade English teacher. Three weeks later, I lost my virginity in the back seat of her Chevy Suburban. She was so wet I thought she’d peed herself. We had sex three more times after that: in my bedroom at home, in her bedroom while her husband and kids were out, and in a state park where we almost ran out of gas on the way back.
A therapist once told me that I was eroticized at a young age. As a therapist, I agreed. If I were my own therapist, I’d say that I thrived on secret relationships and manipulating the vulnerable. We were products of our earliest experiences, replicating the ways we were taught to love, and fuck, and interact with humanity. Some of us broke free of our pasts; some of us weren’t that clever.
Jolene is cheating on me with Ryan. Not physically, what she’s doing is worse—it’s emotional. There is a difference. I have a legitimate problem, a sickness. She’s just tired of me and fucking around for funsies. It hurts. Five months ago, she sent Ryan a picture of her in a bikini. She sent it to me first, and I forgot to respond. Hours later, I checked the iPad and saw that she sent it to him too. I didn’t call her out, of course, because then she’d know how I saw it. I wanted my window into her secret life. Here I was fighting for our relationship, buying flowers, cooking dinners, writing little notes—and she was fucking around with another man.
Despite my pleas, the following night when I got home, Fig was sitting on the kitchen counter watching Jolene cook.
“Dr. Seuss is home,” she announced.
Jolene looked up from what she was doing in the oven to give me a weak smile. I gave her a look, but she just shrugged. What do you want me to do?
There really wasn’t anything. Fig had invited herself on a couple of our dates before. No boundaries.
A song started playing and they exchanged a look.
“What is this song?” I asked casually, pouring myself a drink. I knew what it was. Ryan sent it to Jolene. Of course Fig knew; she hounded Jolene all day for news on Ryan.
“Oh, just a song we like,” Fig said, smiling at Jolene. My wife looked away, uncomfortable.