Chapter 14

14

ASPEN

Call it intuition. Call it insecurity. Call it whatever you will, but whatever it is, it tells me that Ben is hiding something from me. I know this feeling—am unfortunately familiar with it. A sickening darkness like an octopus writhing in my gut, unfurling its tentacles, stretching them as far as they can go, infecting every inch until my entire body is filled with its poison. It’s a knowledge that only a wife would have. An alarm telling me that there is a separate reason why Ben is pulling away. It’s not because of us, or rather, not just because of us. There is an external factor involved here. Years ago, when my earnings first surpassed his, Ben had some sort of crisis and started dabbling in stocks. He quickly spent most of his savings, and it was only my timely intervention that stopped him from going into debt in his fervor to outearn me.

I shudder at the memory. Above everything else, financial security is the most vital thing to us as a family—to the girls’ future and well-being. If Ben is doing something that might endanger it…

I try to shake the thought from my mind. But the whole morning, it plagues me. I’m distracted, unable to focus even on the simplest tasks. When I try making a pumpkin focaccia for social media, I end up spilling half the dough in my haze. I utter a frustrated cry so loud that it jerks Sabine awake. She rubs at her face and starts wailing. I take in the mess in my kitchen, and I want to cry at the thought of having to clean it up. I can’t. I just can’t. I can’t stay here, trying to make TikToks while Ben is out there doing god-knows-what. I scoop Sabine up and bounce her on my hip while I rush through the house, grabbing things and stuffing them in her diaper bag.

“We’re going to go on a trip, sweetie,” I coo at her.

Thankfully, by the time I get her into her car seat and deposit a strawberry cookie in her hand, she’s stopped bawling. I slide into the driver’s seat and consult the family calendar. Right. Ben is supposed to have an open house today. I glance at the rearview mirror at Sabine, who is sucking on the cookie.

“Ready to see Daddy?” I don’t bother waiting for an answer before backing out of the driveway.

The whole way there, my thoughts are a scrambled mess. This is crazy. I’m being ridiculous. I’m being one of those jealous, insecure wives who can’t stop themselves from snooping through their husbands’ phones.

I’m not being insecure. I’m trusting my instincts, and my instincts are telling me that there’s someone else. You don’t go from loving husband to distracted and secretive unless something is happening. Not that Ben was a loving husband before this. But this is different. He was aloof before, but now the rift is getting wider, and it’s because something, or someone, is prizing it open.

A small voice says: You’ve been distracted . Maybe that’s it. My mind has been on everything else but my marriage, and he can feel my distraction.

A loud honk shatters my mental argument with myself. Jesus, I just ran a stop sign. My throat closes up and I have to focus on breathing. I just ran a stop sign with my baby in my car. I strangle the steering wheel, willing myself to calm down. Focus on driving, goddamn it.

Somehow, I manage to drive us to the open house in one piece. After turning the engine off, I sit there for a long time, until my heart rate goes back down to something approaching normal. Sabine gurgles and I glance at the rearview mirror. The sight of her makes a sob lurch out of me. “I’m sorry, baby girl. Mommy’s so sorry.” I can’t believe I drove so irresponsibly with her in the back seat. I will do better. I will get my shit together.

For once, Sabine doesn’t fuss when I take her out of the car. As I walk down the street toward the open house, I sift through my options. I could tell Ben I happened to be in the neighborhood—though what I could possibly be doing in Alhambra, I have no idea. Maybe I could lean into the loving wife angle? Tell him I missed him so much I had to drop by to see him. Nah, our marriage has deteriorated enough that he’d be suspicious at this sudden show of affection. Or maybe I could use that. Say that I’m making an extra effort to revive our marriage. Maybe even sneak in a quickie? Maybe the open house has a nursery we can plop Sabine in for a bit.

The idea of having sex in a stranger’s home sends a tingle down my spine. That’s the kind of crazy thing we used to do when we were dating. We used to have sex everywhere—his backyard, a deserted park, the back seat of his car. Now, sex has to be penciled in a week in advance to coincide with the kids’ crazy schedules.

There is a spring in my step as I walk. Maybe we’ll have super passionate sex on the kitchen counter. Now that would definitely spice things up. Maybe this can be our thing: every time Ben has a house to put on the market, we can christen it. Hope is a beautiful thing. Just a tiny grain of it is enough to change one’s whole outlook on everything.

Hope is a cruel thing. Just a tiny grain of it, when dashed, can shatter everything.

I realize that when a glance through one of the windows shows Ben leaning into a woman. His expression is one of such tenderness that I instinctively look away, wanting to give them privacy. Then my brain catches up with me and goes: What the fuck? Give your husband privacy? To do what? Kiss another woman? I drag my eyes up and force myself to look—to stare through the glass at the nightmare unfolding before me. For a moment, I stand there, completely frozen. A pillar of salt cursed by a vision I shouldn’t have seen. Every muscle is petrified, my mind stuttering in place.

Then Sabine writhes, and I’m yanked back to reality. Panic surges through me like an electric shock, and I dart away from the window. I can’t let Ben see me. Not like this. Why? I don’t know. All I know is, I can’t stand to face him and—and that woman. Ben’s mistress. Ben is having an affair.

The thought strikes me like a physical blow, and sobs wrench their way out of my mouth as I stagger back to my car. I bundle Sabine into her car seat, slide into the driver’s seat, and let my head drop onto the steering wheel as the anger swallows me whole.

Why? I’ve worked so hard to provide for our family. I starve myself so I can still fit into the same pair of skinny jeans I wore eight years ago. My belly is still as flat as before I had kids, albeit with a little loose skin. I adhere to a seven-step beauty regime with vitamin C and snail slime and essence of whatever the fuck, and my skin is as youthful and supple as it has ever been. Whenever I make the school runs, I see the other kids’ moms side-eyeing me with open envy while their husbands leer at me. I’m supportive of Ben’s every need. I’ve never stopped him from doing whatever it is he wants to, whether it be golfing or a Vegas trip with his buddies. I look after the kids, cook impressive meals, and keep a pristine house. How dare he?

What do women have to do to make sure their husbands don’t fuck other women? And why do we have to do whatever that thing is? Why can’t we sit back and be confident, smug, in the knowledge that our husbands won’t stray? Why is loyalty from men never a given?

My swirling thoughts are interrupted by a sudden trill from my phone. I grope for it blindly, my vision blurred by my tears, and answer before registering the name on the screen.

“I’m right outside your house,” the woman says, her voice as sharp as a knife’s edge. “And I’m not leaving until you come out and see me.”

Fear claws at my throat like skeletal fingers. “I’m not at home right now,” I sputter.

“Then come back now.” She hangs up.

Just like that, all thoughts of Ben evaporate from my mind.