19 Myths About Cheating: A Novella Read online

  “Happy Holidays.” Adam took his hand. “Thanks for having us.”

  “Merry Christmas, Mr. Peretta.” Molly handed him a wrapped box. “This is for you.”

  The agony spent choosing an all-purpose family-holiday gift in no way matched the contents of the box. Organic popcorn, rich fudge sauce and a tin of imported cocoa—the most expensive food Williams-Sonoma sold—nestled among six mugs and plates decorated with UNICEF drawings.

  “Thanks, honey.” Guy accepted the silver and blue wrapped box. Henry held the bag with the requested unwrapped gift for a poor child: the newest iPad. Shamed by the expensive house present, the posh clothes, the blow dry and perfume, I followed up by wildly overspending on the anonymous kid.

  “Please, Molly, call me Guy. No Mister anything. That goes for you too, sport.” Guy took the shopping bag from Henry.

  Sport? “Sorry we’re late,” I said. “Where does this go?” The weighty casserole blocked handshakes, cheek kisses or hugs.

  “You’re right on time!” He sounded like Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life—after the angel’s visit. “The food goes to the kitchen where Kate’s presiding. I’ll bring it.”

  “We’ll do it.” Adam’s hearty voice sliced through me. “And say hello to our hostess.”

  “Sure thing. Right through there.” He gestured down the hall. “Coats on the pile in the first bedroom. Then straight down to the kitchen.”

  Guy glanced at me, and then quickly faced Molly. “Lisbeth’s in the family room, buried in glitter and pine cones.”

  Molly disappeared through the archway. Adam, Henry and I moved with Guy into a square white foyer. The Peretta home was modernity spread over one floor. Caribbean folk art and multicolored wall hangings vied with garlands of greens, twisted with hot-pink, turquoise and yellow grosgrain ribbons, carrying through the ethnic-art hot, hot, hot hall theme.

  “Let me show you to the video games.” Guy clapped Henry on the shoulder.

  Henry nodded reluctant assent, though clearly he’d rather shadow me. Nothing would make me happier than having him glued to my side.

  “Try it out, son,” Adam said.

  Shoulders sagging, Henry let Guy steer him away. Adam and I went into a bedroom serving as a coatroom; Thank goodness, not the master.

  “You’re mighty quiet,” Adam added his coat to the pile on the bed. A collection of multi-hued rag dolls sat in a small rocking chair.

  I made a noncommittal sound, somewhere between mmm and hmm.

  “Are you okay?”

  Arthritic from apprehension, I slowly unwrapped my red scarf.

  “My head is pounding. Maybe I’m getting sick.”

  Adam put his hand on my forehead. “You might be warm. We’ll get you home early.” He turned me around and lifted my coat off my shoulders. “Let’s meet the Wonder Woman who’s replaced you in our daughter’s affections.”

  From behind, Kate Peretta appeared as though she could be twenty. Her multi-shaded blonde hair wasn’t lank as I remembered, but damned glossy hanging halfway down her back in a French braid. When she turned, she appeared less youthful, but her appearance held the memory of once being stunning. A candy-red apron covered the green velvet sheath hugging her model-thin curves.

  She wiped her wet hands on a towel. “The Golds, right?” She had the husky voice of a former smoker.

  “Are we wearing invisible name tags?” Jocular Adam kibitzed next to his rigid wife.

  “We all met at Henry’s open school night,” I reminded him. “I told you in the car.”

  Kate chuckled and shook her head at me, as if to say “Men!”

  I gave back a stiff smile. “Thank you for inviting us. Molly was thrilled. Here’s our contribution.” I handed her the still warm dish, wrapped in many layers of foil.

  “Should I put it in the oven?” she asked. “It’s set at two hundred.”

  Waves of a woman on the edge emanated from Kate. My paranoia grew.

  “Two hundred sounds good.”

  “What is it?”

  “Noodle kugel.”

  “Kugel! Wonderful!”

  How wonderful could it be, added to the twenty dishes lining her counter?

  “It looks delectable.” Her seemingly genuine happiness at the kugel made me feel spiteful and catty, but more important, her words reassured me that she didn’t know a thing.

  “So far we have Southern pecan pie, a Scottish beef stew. . .Honestly, I’m not sure what makes it Scottish—” She stopped her list and laughed.

  I didn’t want to like her.

  “Penne with sausage, Indian lamb curry.” She ticked the dishes off on her fingers. “Russian coffeecake, Russian blintzes, paella, and a green salad. I made the salad.”

  She paused as she bent to put the kugel in the oven. “I couldn’t figure out my ethnic contribution possibility, besides cookies. Salad in Jell-O is my Midwestern specialty, but only Guy would eat it, and only do it to spare my feelings.” She smiled with wifely warmth.

  “Good man,” Adam said.

  Some contribution needed to be dredged from my empty brain and fed through my desiccated mouth. “This is an admirable effort,” I managed.

  “Everyone helps. Considering how many of the women here have jobs, it’s amazing. Do you work, Isabelle? I mean outside the home?”

  “I work at home.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  “No, I truly work in my house,” I said.

  With my thoughtless words, Kate’s face tightened.

  “I don’t mean that! Everyone, of course, works at home. Just that I have a little at-home job. Part-time. Nothing big.”

  Adam, unaware of the mother wars, broke in. “My wife is being modest. She’s an editor. For Faneuil Press. She’s worked on some of their biggest books.”

  “Impressive,” Kate said.

  I shook my head. “Not especially. It’s a solitary thing. Uncredited.”

  “Oh, no. You have it all. A satisfying job you can do at home. No commute and you can be there for your children before and after school. No calling in sick. I envy you.” Kate bent over the oven and removed a steaming arroz con pollo.

  “Everything smells delicious.” Adam looked over the crowded counters. “Can I do anything to help?”

  And there was my perfect husband helping Guy’s perfect wife.

  I drifted through the rest of the party in a wine haze, avoiding Guy and his soulful gazes by burying myself in the tight groups of women, nodding at every complaint about the holiday drudgery and smiling at every acknowledgment of families being everything. When Henry found me, I drew him close and kept him there.

  I almost cried from relief when Kate began carrying dishes to the kitchen and folks took the cue to find their coats.

  “Here you go.” Adam held out my coat and Henry’s. “I’ll pry our daughter away from her new family, and we can go home.”

  Home. Right then I felt like Dorothy tapping her ruby slippers.

  Molly arrived home afloat on her blooming friendship with Lisbeth, a connection based on cross-cultural admiration and pinecones. The glitter and glue gave her one more moment of childhood before she catapulted into the no-backsies of growing up.

  This could be a pivotal coming-of-age friendship, and I wanted the experience for her, but while I was prepared to sacrifice my social comfort for her, thoughts of the cost swallowed my spirit. Their friendship would remind me daily of my season of selfishness. I pictured Lisbeth at Molly’s wedding. Guy and Kate.

  Henry yawned as he shook his coat off. I bent and picked it up.

  “Come on, pumpkin.” I put my arm around him. “Time for bed.”

  He sagged against me and leaned on my shoulder.

  “Did you have a good time?” I asked Molly.

  “Fantastic! You?”

  “It was impressive, sweetheart.”

  “Aren’t they wonderful? Kate and Guy?” She turned over their first names in her mouth, tasting her maturity. “Isn’t their house u
nbelievable?”

  I answered truthfully. “They have a beautiful house.” Beautiful was an understatement. My house could be Charlotte’s in comparison, and Charlotte’s home appeared decorated by a drag queen without wit.

  Half pushing, half leading, I guided Henry up the stairs, stopping to look back at Molly. “Good night, honey.”

  She bounded toward me with a kiss and hug. “Good night, Mom.”

  “I love you, cookie.” My eyes teared at the unexpected sweetness.

  “Me too.” She ran past Henry and me as we plodded up the stairs. “You too, Dad. And you, Henry,” she added.

  Adam and I traded glances, connected, tenderness for the kids filling the air.

  Emotions played bumper cars in my heart as I lay on Henry’s bed, waiting while he brushed his teeth. Over Henry’s dresser was a Harry Potter poster. Harry appeared brave and pure-hearted. And Hermione! So smart and peppy—she didn’t take any guff. You just knew she deserved to be close to Harry.

  Henry climbed into bed and snuggled next to me. “Stay for a minute.”

  “I’m here, baby. Go to sleep.” I curved around him and closed my eyes.

  Forty minutes later, stumbling with sleepiness, I found Adam reading in bed. The Modern Jazz Quartet played in the background.

  “Fell asleep.” I bent and kissed him. “Gotta brush.”

  He traced the curve of my bottom. “Brush fast.”

  I came back wearing only a thin robe and my expensively styled hair. Silky strands tumbled as I covered Adam’s bare body with mine. Nuzzling deep into my neck, he inhaled the perfumed cream rubbed into my skin. I rolled over, bringing him with me.

  After dodging battalions of bullets—that only I knew about—that morning, we were the happiest and most normal of families. We ate our cereal, put our bowls in the sink, and after packing everyone off to school and work, I settled at the computer.

  The ballerina entered her third bout of detox. The morning’s chapter revealed the pathetic story of being screwed, literally and figuratively, by her rehab therapist. With her bleak unremitting life, who could blame her for the pills and vodka?

  Email pinged, but times had changed. Now, instead of my heart leaping upon seeing something from Guy, I had heartburn.

  Hey, pretty awful, huh? Kate thought you and Adam (and the kids) were terrific. (Is that actually information you want?) I bet you’re sick to your stomach.

  Don’t hate me for this, what I’m about to write: Can we talk?

  This is so confusing. I need to see you.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Just go away.

  Guy,

  Can’t deal with it at all. Won’t meet.

  9

  Myth: Cheating means having sex with someone other than your partner.

  Truth: Cheating can take on many forms:

  emotional infidelity, pornography, cybersex,

  and even flirting on social media.

  After avoiding texts, calls, and emails, every nerve ending in my body was on high alert. By afternoon, I hit such a high level of hyper-vigilance, when my cell shrieked I smashed into my shopping cart hard enough to send a jolt of pain through my funny bone. I searched through my shoulder bag, moving aside cosmetics, pens, and keys until I found the screeching object flashing Guy’s cell number pseudonym—Salon.

  “What?” I maneuvered the cart through the tight parking lot with one hand.

  “Rough night, huh?”

  I tucked the phone under my chin and opened the trunk. “Your wife is lovely.”

  “It was difficult seeing you like that. Actually, to be honest—”

  “We don’t need to process. The best thing—”

  “Let me get this out. Last night, more than anything, I knew my best friend had disappeared. And the only person who would understand was her. . .you.”

  He must have cribbed the line from a romantic comedy. “Friends? We weren’t friends. We were synapses firing.”

  “Won’t you miss me at all?”

  “Listen—”

  “Wait,” he said. “You won’t like this, but I have to say it.”

  I sagged against my back fender, watching an old woman toddle from the supermarket entrance carrying a quarter-filled bag.

  “Sometimes I think I’m a bit in love with you.”

  My stomach turned over. His loose cannon declaration made fireworks of the colossal size of my mistake. All those years of decrying my mother and here I was replicating her behavior. My life would never pass the Bechdel test. My life resembled Babs’, with an existence all about the men with whom I surrounded myself.

  “I’m not trying to flip you out. I just needed to say it at least once.”

  I moved to avoid the Mercedes tearing out of the lot. “I’m going. Now.”

  “Can you call me later?”

  “No.”

  “When, then? I need to see you.”

  “Stop. You’re having some sort of romantic dream.” I lifted my bags into my trunk with one hand.

  “I’m going insane.” His bitter laugh reeked of self-pity. “Who can I talk to?”

  For God’s sake, why didn’t men have any friends they could talk to? Did we have to do everything—fuck them, feed them, minister to them, talk to them and then comfort them when we left them?

  “Talking isn’t a good idea.” I banged the trunk closed.

  “Nothing we did was a good idea. Let’s end decently. Saying a proper goodbye isn’t an awful thing. Nothing physical. I swear.”

  My chest tightened as his need strangled me and threatened my family. The man I thought the popular high school kid who gave a high five as he left, had become the boy sending sad love poems.

  “Talk, damn it,” he pushed. “At least humor me. After, I’ll be able to let go. Honest. I promise. Just this one time. Then I can stop calling.”

  I opened the door with cold trembling fingers. His threat worked. “Fine. We’ll say goodbye. Friday. Late afternoon. By your office. Email me with a place. I’ll be there.”

  Moods are as easy to read as menus when you’re married. We might as well walk around with cartoon bubbles above our heads. Adam’s foul mood announced itself with the sound of his key in the door.

  “What’s wrong?” I kept my shredded nerves hidden. Debts must be paid.

  “Nothing.” Our kiss could better be described as a skin collision than an exchange of tenderness.

  “I’m making something delicious. Does that help the ‘nothing’?”

  “I said I was fine. Where are the kids?”

  “They went to your sister’s for dinner, giving us a night to ourselves.” I batted my lashes until Adam groaned. “You’re sweeping me off my feet there, buddy.”

  I smiled to show how very droll I was being. Fighting was the last thing I wanted.

  “I’m dead on my feet. Can this not be a rekindle-the-marriage night? Let’s just have supper and watch the news, okay?”

  Fine. “Did you have a bad day?”

  “Unbelievable. Suffice it to say that Marion was out sick, and half-wit Kimberly scheduled three emergency patients before two o’clock. Three. Because they were in pain. As though I can suddenly work at warp speed because she’s feeling empathic. They were already on their way, so I had to take them all in boom, boom, boom.”

  He collapsed in a chair and took off his shoes.

  “Then one of them had the nerve to be angry at me because he broke his bridge. What kind of moron eats taffy with twenty thousand in his mouth?”

  Repetitive conversation, number 103. Kimberly the-half-wit receptionist combined with the absence of Marion, Adam’s assistant, made for Greek tragedy. Short of beating my breast and rending my clothes in sympathetic torment, I couldn’t match Adam’s work rants.

  “TV instead of candles. Got it.” Humor was marriage-glue, right? So said a book I once edited. Married for Life. Or was it A Married Life?

  “Seinfeld. Nightly News. Whatever you desire, my liege.”

  “Thanks.” He walked
toward the den.

  Let it go. Keep inside thoughts inside. More hints from that book. Chicken and vegetables bubbled. Thickening the stew liquid with a roux of butter, flour, and wine I remembered all my awful deeds and my incredible luck at being in this kitchen cooking. Adam’s inattention seemed a ridiculously small price to pay.

  Fifteen minutes later, I balanced a tray with plates of cucumber and tomatoes, sprinkled with cilantro and goat cheese, chicken stew, and two glasses of Cabernet. Slowly, and with great care, I carried it all into the den and set it on the desk. Adam slumped in the leather recliner, angled next to the sofa. I left tracks in the rug dragging over two wooden snack tables. His eyes never left Jeopardy.

  Adam took a wine glass from me and swallowed.

  I brought his plate. Scents of winey garlic rose with the steam. I bent over and waved it under his nose before placing it on the small table. He grunted, pushed it away, and moved his head to the left to see around me.

  He began shoveling in food, resembling a feral animal as he chewed, unaware or uncaring that I didn’t have my plate yet.

  “How is it?” I asked.

  He nodded, his mouth full.

  “Do you like it? Is that what you’re signifying by the nod?”

  “Don’t start, okay?”

  Don’t start. No words made me angrier. Except, maybe, calm down.

  “What’s it like to come home and have someone serve you, Adam? Have your clothes hung up, your bathroom scrubbed, your food given to you on a platter? Tell me, how is it?”

  He huffed a pained breath before looking at me. “What’s your problem?”

  Such disdain. As though there were an uprising in the slave quarters or the vacuum cleaner started speaking.

  “What’s my problem? You grunt at me when I serve you supper? You thank every waitress at every damned restaurant we go to, every time they fill your water glass, but can’t even acknowledge me?”

  Adam clutched the holy remote. A commercial played on. He gave another beleaguered sigh that I hated like death. “Are you so oppressed? Can we lose that I am woman, hear me roar shit just for tonight? Can you just leave me alone?”