If Ch. 01

What an idiot I was.

And many times during those lonely contemplative mornings, I've wondered if Nick and I would have ever found out our partners' secrets if that crash had never happened. Did Mike love Jessica? Did she love him? I never asked.

I listen to horrible instrumental music as I wait for Joy and Mike to finish and text Nick.

Magic 8-Ball says Signs Point to Yes.

The door opens and Mike walks out. He still limps a little from the accident but he refuses to use crutches. He won't look at me when he plops into a chair across the room.

"Claire?" Joy's voice calls.

I go into the small room, smiling a little when I see Joy sitting on the ledge by the window. Her box of cigarettes is open and she's tapping one against the window. I close the door behind me and she gratefully breathes out, lighting the cigarette and leaning against the slightly open window.

She only relaxes herself in front of me. She told me one day she just had to have a cigarette, and I didn't react. She said it wasn't very professional of her. I told her I couldn't care less.

I'm not entirely blind. I know she considers me a tough egg to crack and so she thinks that by conspiring together, I might open up a bit more to her. The crazy thing is it usually works.

"Forgive me for smoking, but after today's session... I need one."

I sit on the ledge beside her.

"And how is Nick?" she asks once I'm sitting.

I shrug a shoulder. "As dysfunctional as I am."

"Still craving you all the time?"

"He doesn't crave me." I roll my eyes and then watch her smoke, wishing I could take up the habit. She does it with a certain finesse that I admire. Plus, it's so deliciously self-destructive.

Joy shakes her head and her green eyes watch me carefully. "You are the human morphine to his pain."

"You are like my husband and his fond use of metaphors." I stretch out my legs and try to think of a way to change the topic. I don't like discussing Nick with her. Unfortunately he's her favorite subject. "I don't want to talk about Nick."

"What do you want to talk about?" she sighs, exhaling her last puff of smoke. "Have you been sleeping better?"

"Yes. I don't have to get up and give Mike his pills anymore; he can do it himself."

Her eyes are shrewd, suspicious. "No more nightmares?"

"Jesus Christ. No. I don't even remember my dreams."

"Claire. You are coming to a point now where you have to make a decision." Joy shuts the window and hops off the ledge. Her eyes never leave mine. "You have two men who need you, for very different reasons. It's unhealthy not to address this and figure out what you want. Not just for you." She sits and I don't like the expression on her face when she asks, "Do you think you're punishing both of them?"

My pulse quickens. "What? No." I think about Mike for a second. Sure, it could be a form of punishment to stay with him and not hide my affair, but I've been taking care of him ever since he came home from the accident. And I'm certainly not punishing Nick. Were hugs and orgasms punishment?

As if she can read my thoughts, Joy smiles sadly. "Are you having an affair with Nick to get back at Jessica?"

"No," I whisper. "No. Of course not. We... We need each other. We are in this together."

"Do you really need him?"

I think of Nick's face. The scar on his shoulder. The way he looks at me. When he grabs me in the middle of the night and quietly sobs against my back.

"Yes."

Joy is unconvinced as she scribbles something in her notepad. "I think that'll be all for today. We'll pick up where we left off next week, okay?"

I stand up and practically run to the door. I feel stiff, exhausted.

"And Claire?"

My hand is on the doorknob when I peek over my shoulder.

"Call me." Joy is playing the part of sad confidante again. "If you need to. Any time. Okay?"

5 YEARS EARLIER

I was at a BBQ, and far too sober to enjoy myself. I listened to stoned people contemplate politics, pretended to listen to strangers' long-winded stories, and said the potato salad was amazing when asked. My friend Shane was flirting with a girl who couldn't have been less interested, and he kept asking for my advice. Problem was, he was wasted and the girl—and the entire party—could hear him. She left at some point, so Shane prowled the BBQ for his next victim with another full Solo cup.

My other friends were either in private conversations with their significant others—it was that time of the night—or dancing to the terrible music coming out of a tinny speaker. Someone stepped on my foot at one point and I was nearly positive he broke my toe. I cursed loudly and was embarrassed when half the BBQ looked over at me. I was about to tell my friends I was leaving when it happened.

Freezing, pungent beer ran down my chest, soaking my dress and sticking to my skin. It happened so fast I hadn't even had a chance to watch it happen. Some drunken moron was heaved up by an apologetic friend. "Sorry. I'm so sorry. He's wasted."

"Then maybe it's time to go home, huh?" a voice asked close to my ear.

I turned so fast that my hair softly brushed across his face. I had never laid eyes on him before. The man handed me a bunch of paper towels but stared at the two guys.

"Should I call you a cab or are you okay to drive him back?"

The apologetic friend bobbed his head in a nod. "Yeah, I can drive." His eyes swept to me. "So sorry."

I cleared my throat, trying to pretend like my beer-soaked dress wasn't plastered to my body. "Not your fault."

The two disappeared and I was left with the stranger. He watched me awkwardly dab at myself.

"Don't think that's doing the job, honey. Maybe you better go home." I looked up and he grinned; I fell halfway in love right there, I think. "Sorry. Don't mean to be rude. Just sayin'. And now you're limping. These things come in threes, right?"

I cleared my throat and tried to think of something clever and not humiliating to say, but I went with simple. "Uh, yeah. You're probably right. I should actually go before someone drops a house on me or something. Ha."

Well, there went not humiliating myself, I thought.

He had a confused expression on his face.

"You know. The Wizard of Oz. It wasn't very funny, anyway."

He leaned against the apartment building, his mouth softening into an amused smile. "Are you a good witch or a bad witch?"

I stopped furiously dabbing my dress and my mouth dropped as my wide eyes focused on his. "Excuse me?"

"Are you a good witch or a bad witch?"

He was playing along, I realized, but I wasn't sure if he was hitting on me or if something incredibly kinky might be happening.

I opened my mouth to say something before he thankfully interrupted. "How are you getting home?"

He was seriously confusing me. I felt drunk all of a sudden, and a little too focused on his face.

After a moment, he asked again. I was ten different kinds of moron.

"I'm walking," I eventually replied. "I just live five blocks away."

"Perfect," he laughed. "I could use a walk."

When we walked through the gate and out on the sidewalk, he touched my upper arm and I paused. We were in complete darkness, and I could only see the hint of light in his eyes.

"I really am sorry about the beer, by the way. A friend of mine. We'll pay for it, okay? The dress."

I blushed and thanked all the gods ever created that he couldn't see it. "That's really not necessary."

I could hear the smile in his voice when he said, "Yeah, it kind of is. At least for me. Plus, it's a pretty dress." I opened my mouth to say something but he interrupted me with a squeeze on my arm. "I'm Mike, by the way."

Mike. For some reason, I was giddy. Mike. He was Mike, and he was a very nice guy. I could tell. I'd been looking for one.

"I'm Claire."

"Claire," he repeated, and though I couldn't be certain, I thought he was feeling the same bizarre giddiness bubbling in my chest. He took my hand and it wasn't awkward or cheesy or uncomfortable. "Nice to meet you, Claire."

And the rest was history, as they say.

PRESENT DAY

The snow is heavy when we leave our session. Mike watches it from his window, determined not to look at me. It suits me fine; I just wish we could get home faster.

I'm thinking of the first time we met. Of how I looked at his eyes and just knew. I was so certain that first night, in a way I'd never been certain before. Our relationship had been so easy. It was obvious we were going to get married. When he proposed, I wasn't surprised. Thrilled, but not surprised. Was that bad? Should I have been? Should we have had a healthy dose of insecurity here or there?

As I slowly pull up our driveway, I can feel Mike's impatient energy. He wants to burst into the house and get as far away from me as he can. And why? Because I actually told the truth for once?

He waits as I unlock the front door and then bolts for the kitchen. I'm itchy. Craving something. I want to drive to Nick's and have angry, rough sex and collapse into an unfeeling bundle of flesh and blood in the familiar cocoon of his bed. But then I think about craving and of what Joy said, and I'm irritated. Fucking psychology.

I want to go there. But I don't want to be craved, and I'm not sure why.

What I really want to do is fight. So I decide to pick a fight with Mike.

He is fiddling with stuff in the fridge, studiously avoiding my presence.

"Did you love her?"

He stops. Inhales so deeply that his whole body rises, and then exhales like a tremendous weight has been lifted. Cliché and all. It's the question he's been waiting for, or at least one of them.

He closes the fridge and turns without looking for me, sitting at the table. "Will you sit with me?"

"I don't want to have a soul-searching conversation with you. I asked you a simple question."

I'm not sure why, but I'm shaking. It's adrenaline. Fear. I shouldn't be asking him this because I don't think I want to know the answer, but it's something I need to ask now. Now.

"Claire," he sighs, like he's incredibly tired. I look at his profile. He probably is very, very tired. I have no idea what his sleeping habits are like anymore. I'm either at Nick's or in the guest room. He probably has nightmares. He mentioned that once to Joy. That he dreams of the accident. Sometimes he dreams I'm in the car. I snidely mentioned that must've been the guilt creeping in and he stopped talking about it.

I sit across from him. His tired eyes eventually meet mine, but it's a slow and tortured journey. As much as he's longed for this question, he's clearly dreading the answer. Which tells me all I need to know. What I always knew.

"Yes."

I breathe. I didn't realize I was holding my breath.

The answer hurts. How can a positive word like "yes" hurt so badly? And why does it hurt?

I'm crying. Softly. Things are happening to my body I hadn't expected.

He looks crushed. I can't even derive any satisfaction from that.

This was a mistake. Except that it wasn't a mistake at all. I had to ask. I had to know. Especially today, when I am nostalgic and fragile.

"Can I explain?" he asks after a while.

I wipe my eyes and laugh. "Sure."

"I loved you, too. I did. I mean that. We just couldn't... stop. We tried a thousand times. We knew what we were doing was wrong."

"And you didn't divorce me? I mean, you loved her. Clearly more than me."

He doesn't know what to say, but I'm sure he has an answer.

"Why are we doing this to ourselves, Mike?"

Those eyes catch mine, only this time I don't feel a jolt. The first time in five years.

The strangest, most persistent thought in my mind is—why does that make me sad?

"I'm not going to make you go to sessions anymore." He is uncomfortable and devastated. "I understand there's no way to fix this. I'm going to release you from everything, okay? Whatever you want."

I don't know what to say. Thanks or fuck you seem off.

"I'm going out tonight," I say. I'm numb again. No more tears. The words have no emotion.

Mike nods once. "I thought you might."

I get up and collect my things, but before I walk out of the room, Mike tries to grip one last piece of candor before the moment is gone.

"Do you love him, Claire?" He traces an invisible line on the kitchen table with his finger, not looking at me. "Most of the time, I hope you really do. I hope he makes you happy."

I never think about that. Ever. It's as if Nick is a ghost, who exists only when I'm with him. I don't think of him when I leave him, even if I can still smell him on me. In spite of everything, it still feels like betrayal. It also feels like an added complication to an already difficult situation.

Nick is my morphine, too.

I watch Mike. There's nothing left to say. He doesn't really want an answer, and I don't have one to give. So I say the only thing I can. "Goodnight."

I should go to Nick's. I should sink into his caresses and lose a few days in his arms.

Joy's words, however, are on a continuous loop in my mind and I can't see him. I'm still fresh from my conversation with Mike, and thoughts of Jessica keep poking in, too.

Like how I'd always been fascinated by her. Enamored with her, quite frankly. She was glittery sunshine. She was never pessimistic, or unsure, or mean. She loved everyone. Including my husband, it seemed.

I know she loved him.

Nick gave me her diary. I don't know why he did that; I told him it was the last thing I wanted to read. But he said he'd found it and he couldn't stop himself, and he thought he would share it. I guess it was like whenever you find out a disturbing fact, or when you see something unbelievable or horrible, you have to share it with someone to somehow make it more manageable, or make them as scared or horrified as you. He was successful on that front. I read her journal in twelve hours, and then the other two he provided the following day. My emotions ranged from uncontrollable rage to impenetrable sadness. I mourned her as deeply as I hated her.

She never said why they didn't just break up with Nick and me. That haunts Nick. I know it does. It haunts me, too. Were they afraid of what people would think of them? Were our relationships with them lies?

Mike can't provide an answer, which probably means I don't want to know it.

I drive around for nearly an hour. I hear my phone vibrating and know it's Nick without looking.

So I go to my parents' house. They don't seem surprised when I come in, stomping the snow off my boots.

"Have you eaten?" my mother asks. My father lifts himself off the couch to make tea.

I'm home. A variation of home, but home. My mother looks at me and sees me. And so she hugs me. She hugs me hard, and for a long time. She hugs me so intensely that time vanishes and I sink into the human touch that has no strings attached whatsoever. She finally pulls back, and unconditional love sparkles in her eyes.

"Are you okay?" She looks me up and down and doesn't react, so I must look okay.

"I need to stay here for a few nights," I whisper. "Just until I figure things out."

Mom rubs my arms. She is as delighted as she is sad. "Of course. For as long as you need."

Brooklyn is unimpressed by my reappearance the next morning. He doesn't seem interested in a walk, and begrudgingly gets off the couch when I dangle the leash. I'm not sure where Mike is; I'm just relieved he's not home.

We go a few blocks. It isn't snowing anymore, but it is unbelievably freezing. I see Brooklyn shivering and head back. I try not to think about the possibility of Mike being home, but of course I do. And he is.

When I come in the front door, I shake the snow off my boots and ignore him sitting on the couch. Brooklyn takes a treat after I unleash him.

"You didn't go to Nick's last night."

I stare at my husband. He doesn't wait for me to answer.

"He came here looking for you. He wouldn't leave, at first. Said he'd been calling you nonstop. That you were supposed to come over. After he left, I got worried. I drove past your parents' house and saw you were there."

I don't know what to say. I can only mumble, "Okay."

He fiddles with his wedding ring. "Remember when we first met?"

"You said you won me over by promising me a new dress."

Half of his mouth quirks up in a smile. Then it fades as we stare into each other's eyes. "I wish I could give you a better explanation. You deserve one. Jessica and I would never have made it. We both knew that. We both we knew we had better with our spouses, but we were greedy. That's why we couldn't just go run off together. I loved her. I did." He clears his throat.

Mesmerized, I cross the room and sit next to him. He rubs his bad leg unconsciously and keeps eye contact.

"One day we were going to tell you. Both of you. We had it planned. It was going to be when we all got home from work. But you were cooking dinner when I got home, and you were in that dress. You laughed when you saw me staring, and you were just like, 'Look what I found!', all giddy and happy. You were beautiful. Then I remembered that night like I was reliving it. I watched you all night, waited for my move. Well, you know the story. It was perfect. I just knew I couldn't tell you that night. I called Jessica. She was not happy. I promised soon. Soon turned into months. Soon turned into the car accident."

I let his words sink in. "I narrowly avoided being walked out on because I wore that old dress? Mike, it has a permanent Merlot stain in it. And it's two sizes too small now. I was being goofy."

He laughs. It's throaty and real, and I haven't heard it in so long. "Yeah. I guess if you put it that way. Yeah."

I look away. It is a dreary Sunday; the older man across the street is slowly shoveling his driveway. Everything is the same, and yet it's not.

Mike takes my hand. "I miss her sometimes. I miss that little bit of unpredictable excitement she always brought around. I miss Nick, too. God, I miss Nick. I don't even know who he is anymore, and I did that. I know that. I know that I've changed you, too, and there will never be enough words to tell you how I sorry I am."

"Would that 'soon' you promised her ever have come a reality?"

He knows what I'm asking. Would I have found out? Would he have left me?

He thinks hard, his dark eyes peering into mine as if they hold all the answers. "I don't know," he finally rasps. "I want to give you an honest answer. When I look back on it now, we were completely high. We didn't think about tangibles."

"But Jessica was pushing, you said."

Mike roughens up his hair a bit and looks away from me for the first time since I walked in. "I can't speak for Jessica or her marriage with Nick. I know she loved him. I know she loved me more."

"What about me?" I notice tears are trailing down my cheeks. "What did she think about me?"

Mike's eyes swing back to mine. "She always thought you would inevitably understand."

I wipe my cheeks and look around the room, feeling displaced. "How?"

"Claire. People can rationalize plenty of things. Jessica was good at that."

Nodding, I stand. I don't want to know anymore. Not today.

I pick up a book. "I'm going to read in the guestroom. I'll order dinner out, if you're interested. I'm staying here tonight."

I see his body jolt with surprise out of the corner of my eye, but I don't react and I certainly don't look back.

6 MONTHS EARLIER

"Do you think I'd be a good mom?"

I looked up from the dress I was inspecting. We were having a dinner party in a week and I wanted to look perfect.