Chapter_29

It happened once,” Rosie said. She had spent the night shivering beneath two inadequate sheets on the sofa. Now she pushed her thumb into the side of her neck. Everything hurt.

Jordan sat on the other end of the sofa. “How am I supposed to believe that?”

“Because I’m telling you.”

“Then again, what does it matter?” Jordan said. “Once? Twice? Ten times? Does it make a difference to me? I’m really not sure.”

“It was once.”

He looked at her, trying to detect a lie, which made Rosie feel that she was lying. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“And?” he said.

“And what?”

“Tell me what happened.”

His expression was distractingly familiar, but she had never seen it on him. Was it a face Alice had once made? A contestant on the reality show? It was a particular look of betrayal that deepened the crease between his eyebrows. She looked at him and realized she was remembering her mother. As a child, she had taken her mother’s turquoise ring and denied that she had, only for it to later show up in the dryer with Rosie’s clothes, the stone missing from its setting. Her mother left the ring out on the kitchen counter for weeks, where it taunted Rosie, who’d had no good reason for taking it other than that she had wanted to. For years she’d felt a wave of dread whenever she heard the sound of the dryer, and the guilt, as though undigested, forced its way back through her now. She felt hopeful for punishment. “Do you really want to know?”

“She must think I’m an idiot.” Jordan stared out the window facing the fold, his arms crossed. “Have you two just been laughing at me this whole time?”

Rosie forced away the memory of shaking the cocktail. “No,” she said finally. “No. Of course not.”

“And you would have done it again, right? If I hadn’t—”

“I don’t know,” Rosie said. “I’m sorry.”

“I want to know what happened.”

“I went over there when you left for the city. After we played rummy.”

“How soon after?”

“About ten minutes after.”

He stared at her in disbelief.

“You had just described your vision for us,” Rosie said. “And it freaked me out. I felt like you had no concept of what would make me happy.”

“You told me you wanted to put down roots here and start a family! What do you think we’re doing, if not that? I’m moving my entire business up here!”

“That’s exactly it,” Rosie said. “I don’t want to just transport our old lives up here. I want to try to live in a different way.”

Jordan rolled his eyes. “You are impossible.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So you went over there. Then what?”

“I kissed her, we hooked up, and we fell asleep.” As the words left her mouth, they became strange and flat.

“Did you cuddle?”

“Yes.”

“And then what?”

“What do you mean? That was it.”

“How do you greet each other?”

“What?”

“Like when you hang out and I’m not there. How do you say hello?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes we hug hello. I didn’t see her because you asked me not to. Until I did.”

“Wow,” Jordan said. He half laughed to himself, rubbing his temples with one hand. “That must have really amped up the tension!”

Rosie shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe it did.”

“When did it start?”

“I told you. It was only once.”

“But when did it start? When did you know you wanted to?”

“I don’t know. When does anything start?”

Jordan shook his head and laughed hollowly. He rubbed his eyes. “So is this what you want? To be with her?”

“No. It’s not like that.”

“So then what’s it like?”

“I love you, Jordan. I just, I don’t know. I just wanted to.”

“You just wanted to.”

“Yes, I really wanted to. I’ve always wondered about this part of myself. I just think there’s more to me than—”

“Than what? Than this? Our marriage?” Jordan gestured between them.

Rosie didn’t respond.

“You know what, Rosie, we all contain multitudes, and we all get one life, and I’ve chosen to live mine with you. I don’t think that’s a curse. I’m actually pretty happy about it.”

“I didn’t say it was a curse.”

“But you think I’m holding you back.”

“I don’t,” Rosie lied.

“You’re selfish.”

“I’m sorry,” Rosie said. “You’re right. I’m selfish. But we both kept secrets.”

“I don’t think what we did is the same.”

“No,” Rosie said. She looked at him. “One of our crimes will propagate itself for generations to come.”

“OK.” Jordan held up his hands. “No more of this. Can we just... can we call it a wash? Can we truce? Chalk it up to a difficult adjustment? I really don’t want to litigate this. This isn’t like us.” He took her hands. “Let’s go back to where things used to be, before I got distracted with work, before they sucked you into their little world.”

Rosie considered what he was offering her, to go back. How far back did he mean? He waited for Rosie to respond, and when she didn’t, he let go of her hands. “I need you to tell her it’s over.”

She looked up at the family friend installed near the media cabinet. She imagined all her past and future conversations hurtling toward that same place, the nouns from those conversations sorted from all else, distilling her life into a series of shopping lists, endless wants.

“Would you like me to do the honors instead?” Jordan walked toward the front door and turned the knob.

“Morning, guys,” Noguchi said sleepily, from the top of the stairs. “Is there coffee, by any chance?”

“I’ll do it,” Rosie said to Jordan. “I’ll tell her.”

“Great.” He pulled open the door for her, and a cold wind blasted inside.

“Just about to put on a pot,” he said to Noguchi before closing the door behind her.

Take your boots off,” Dylan said. “Stay a minute.” She started filling the kettle at the faucet. She lit the stove with a match, then waved out the flame with a flick of her wrist. The child was there, on the sofa, a jumble of wooden blocks in his lap. The fold smelled like pine and oranges and then, eventually, the blown-out match. The fire crackled. Justin lay curled on the rug in front of it. Rosie took a seat on the sofa, next to the child. “Hello,” she said to him, and he squealed. “Mom,” he said, looking directly at her.

“Oh,” Rosie said. “Um—”

Dylan looked over. “What is it, bud? Did you just call Rosie Mom?”

The toddler began laughing hysterically. “Mom,” he repeated, looking at Rosie.

His hands shot in the air.

“Rosie, could you?”

“Pick him up?”

“Yeah.”

She lifted the child and put him in her lap. His legs were doughy and surprisingly strong. For a moment he took her in, staring at her, absorbing her facial features, and she allowed herself to do the same. He had dark crescents beneath his eyes that, coupled with his blue jeans and plain white T-shirt, gave him the look of a troubled singer-songwriter.

“It’s actually about time for his nap,” Dylan said. She scooped him up athletically, and, as she walked him to the bedroom, he twisted in her arms to face Rosie. “She could come,” he said to Dylan.

“That’s a nice invitation,” Dylan said, closing the door shut behind them. Rosie lay face down on the sofa, her cheek pressed against the leather. She heard Dylan singing to the child. Something short and repetitive. Envy encroached on the feeling of failure. Did she want to be Dylan, or did she want to be the child, or did she want to be with Dylan with the child? She could not remember her mother, or anyone for that matter, singing to her. The child babbled and then cried half-heartedly and then was quiet. Shadows slid across the floorboards. Several words cycled through her mind—among them “shouldn’t,” “can’t,” “never,” and “sorry.” How they all strung together felt less and less obvious to her, especially with the kettle whistling, the fire snapping, the smell of the match, the shadows moving on the floorboards, all of it pulling her thoughts to the words “yes,” “more,” and “want.” She rubbed her eyes, and when she opened them, Dylan was standing in front of her with a mug of tea. “You look like you need this.”

Rosie sat up and took the tea, letting the steam hit her face. “Where’s Lark?”

Dylan shrugged and took a seat next to her. “With Sasha, I guess. I’m not sure. She dropped your friend off at the train.”

Rosie blew on her tea. She saw, on the counter, their family friend had been disassembled and smashed, a hammer lying beside it.

“Sorry about that,” Dylan said. “Had to be done.”

“I wish you’d done ours, too,” Rosie said. She watched Justin twitch and pedal the air, asleep.

“What happened between us was a mistake.” She felt like she was reading from a script. “It shouldn’t have happened, and it won’t happen again. I love Jordan. I feel horrible about hurting him, and I’m sorry I did it.”

Dylan smiled at her as if she were a child who had presented a crude but artful drawing.

Rosie’s hand shook slightly, and the tea burned her wrist, causing her to drop the mug, which broke cleanly into three pieces at her feet. Justin woke with a start. “I’m sorry,” she said, picking up the pieces. “I— Do you have a towel for me to—”

“Rosie,” Dylan said. “Just—”

The fire popped. Faintly she could hear the tapping of snow on the windows. A hot tear leaked from her cheek into her ear. “I’ll get a towel,” she said, pushing herself up. She blotted the spilled tea from the floor while Dylan watched.

Rosie looked up at her. “Also, Jordan wants you to move out. He wants the outbuilding for his app headquarters.” She held the broken ceramic pieces in her hand.

Dylan was quiet.

“I’m sorry,” Rosie said. “I know you’ve put so much work into this place.”

“When?”

“By the end of next month.”

“And is this what you want? Do you want me—us—to leave?”

“No, obviously not.”

“So he calls all the shots? What is that?”

“I don’t see how my marriage can survive if you stay.”

“Do you want it to?”

“What?”

“Survive. Do you want to be with Jordan?”

“Yes,” Rosie said. “I do.”

Dylan grabbed a log with one hand and tossed it into the fire. “All I’m saying is, it’s your life, too. You get to make decisions, too.”

“Well, it’s not so simple.”

Dylan laughed. “Talk to him! Tell him what you want! Don’t you have leverage now? Did he not go behind your back and—”

“Yes,” Rosie said.

“OK. So, then, I have to ask again: Why are you acting like his messenger? Fine if you don’t want to hook up anymore. But if he wants me gone so badly, he can come over and tell me himself.” She picked up the empty firewood carrier by the woodstove. “I need to refill this,” she said, making her way out the front door. Rosie watched the fire, which had started to lick at the new logs.

A thin, icy layer of snow had formed by the time she made her way back to the house. Jordan sat on the living room sofa, his computer open on his lap, the TV on mute, and his phone in one hand.

“It’s over,” Rosie said. “I ended it.”

He looked up at her. “Thank you.” His tone was clipped, as though he were thanking her for bringing in the mail. “Noguchi left.”

“I just—we can’t kick them out. It’s not right. That’s their home. They’ve done so much to improve it.”

Jordan snapped his laptop shut and began laughing. Rosie watched him.

“What?” she said, annoyed. “Why are you laughing?”

“You are unbelievable!”

“Look, I know you want them gone, but it’s really not necessary. We can set up relationship boundaries and—”

“Boundaries? The boundary was don’t sleep with the tenant.” He closed his eyes. “What do you want?” he said finally. “What is it you want, Rosie? You convinced me to leave my life behind, you wanted me to support us while you sheared sheep or whatever it is you dreamed of doing, but you don’t want to see evidence of my support, because a start-up job is an embarrassment to you. You had an affair with our tenant, and now you won’t let us kick her out to make room for the headquarters of a company that is allowing us to live in this godforsaken town where everyone is gay, including, maybe, my wife. And when I suggest we move to Connecticut and I work for my mom, oh no, I can’t do that either, too embarrassing. I’m just one giant embarrassment for you! Where does it end?”

“Jordan—”

“All I want is to be a regular guy with a regular life! I want a home, a job, a wife who actually wants to be with me, a fucking... baby, maybe. And just a normal, square, boring life. And I can give that to you, or I can give that to someone else. But it has always been you. I have always only ever wanted you. And I hope that despite me not growing my own rhubarb or weaving my own sweaters or wearing a hand-felted fucking... hat, you can still find something here that you want.” He hit his chest once with an open palm when he said “here,” which Rosie had never seen him do. He wiped his palm against his cheek, pushed himself off the sofa, and went upstairs.

Rosie turned off the TV and followed him.

“Jordan,” she said, entering the bedroom, closing the door behind her. “You’re right. OK? You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll tell them. I’ll tell them to go.”

Jordan looked up at her. “Tell them right now so I can see it.”

Rosie opened a group text to Dylan and Lark.

I’m sorry, she wrote. I’ve talked it over with Jordan. You have to go by the end of next month.

Her finger hovered over the Send button.

“Good,” Jordan said, pressing it for her.