Slip of the Tongue (13 page)

The men crowd around a scoring machine and take turns rolling their big dumb balls down the narrow alley. The pins smile at me until Nathan scatters them with a strike. I applaud from my barstool. He glances in our direction. Maybe he’s right, and it was a bad idea to suggest spending this time apart. Does it make me a bad wife? It never occurred to me he’d want me here as much as the women seem to think.

Lasers cut across the darkness. My stool has a bum leg, and it rocks when I sway. The bourbon hits me all at once.

I
am
a bad wife. I can still feel Finn’s thumb on my bottom lip. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck where his arm was curled around me. I can hear the clunky thud of the record player as it hit the ground. I’ll buy him a new one, a better one, to make up for breaking his small declaration of freedom.

I billow the neckline of my blouse. Finn’s apartment is stifling, and I miss the warmth. His hot breath, his hot body. I shut my eyes and wonder about his mattress on the floor, if he sleeps there naked, sheets shoved aside. My clammy skin sliding against his. I bite my lip.

“We never drink this much.” Alyssa flops over Joan’s lap to get to me. She also had an Old-Fashioned or two. “You’re a bad influence.”

I smile wickedly. “I try.”

“Will you come every Wednesday?” Joan asks. She’s pouting as if I’ve already said no.

“And ruin playtime for Nathan?” I ask. “Hell yeah.”

They don’t seem to understand my insinuation that he’s been flirting with them—Joan, specifically. They laugh and laugh. I join them. I can feel the mascara-black circles under my eyes from a long day. I lick my thumb and scrub them off.

“You’re making it worse,” Joan says. “Let me try.”

She wets her finger. I flinch each time her nail gets too close to my eyeball. “I think it’s permanent.”

“Damn it,” I say too loudly. Her lashes are thick and long. “Your makeup is perfect. How do you do that?”

She launches into a lesson on smudge-proof eyeliner. So she can apply fucking mascara—who cares? I have a communications degree and the attention of
two
godlike men. Would Finn find Joan attractive? I try to be subjective. The only thing we have in common is our dark hair. She’s curvier than me and wears it well. Neither of us looks anything like blond, petite Kendra. I close my eyes briefly. Bile rises up my throat, and I have to push the image of Kendra and her daughter away.

I get out my phone and call my brother to ask him what his type is these days. “I’m sleeping,” he answers.

“It’s not even midnight,” I exclaim.

“Call me when you have a kid, you drunk.” He hangs up.

I giggle. Andrew doesn’t like to be woken up. I love him because he knows Nathan and I were trying to get pregnant, and he doesn’t treat me like glass because of it.

I’m not sure how much time has passed when Nathan finds me. “We’re leaving.”

“Five more minutes,” Donna pleads with him.

“Fine.” He nods down at me. “I’ll meet you out front.”

I grip the bar to keep steady. “Nate, wait, stop—”

He hasn’t moved an inch. His eyebrows are drawn together. “What?”

“I’m ready. I’ll come with you.” I lean over to get my purse from under the bar. I swipe for the strap, miscalculate, and slide off the stool.

Before I fall over, Nathan catches me by the waist and hoists me back into place. “You’re drunk, Sadie.”

“No, I’m not.”

A chorus of giggles erupts, including my own.

“Come on.” Nathan heaves a chest-expanding sigh. Maybe it’s the alcohol coursing through my system, but I think he might be a little amused. “Let’s go home.”

“I just need to say bye.” I turn to Donna and Alyssa and promise, as loudly as I can, “I’ll see you next week. For wivesies night.”

“I need your number,” Donna says.

Alyssa claps her hands. “Me too.”

I look back at Nathan, who rolls his eyes. “I’ll be out front.”

“You won’t leave me?” I ask.

“I doubt you’d even make it home.” He leans in a little. “Go straight to the front. Don’t wander off somewhere.”

His breath tickles the outside of my ear. Was alcohol the route back to him all along?

I give Donna and Alyssa my number. I don’t ask for theirs. They can get in touch if they want. “Where’s Joan?” I ask, realizing I haven’t seen her for a few minutes.

“Probably fighting with Mike,” Alyssa says.

“Oh.” I put my phone away. “Tell her I’ll see her next week.”

I go looking for Nathan. Connor calls me over. “Glad you made it. Donna’s loving that you’re here.”

I look around distractedly as I say, “Me too.”

Mikey appears and introduces himself. “Joan’s boyfriend,” he tells me in a thick New York accent.

My attention catches on his introduction. “She said you were engaged.”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, we are.” He grins. “Keeps slipping my mind, but don’t mention that to her. She gets pissed.”

I can’t remember if Nathan said to meet him in the front of the building or on the sidewalk. Once again, I search the crowd for him, and then for Joan, who is not here fighting with Mikey as Alyssa said she’d be. She’s nowhere to be seen. And neither, for that matter, is Nathan.

ELEVEN

Nathan definitely told me to meet him out front of Brooklyn Bowl. I think. I squint at the bouncers, who lean against barstools and chat. A group of guys spills out of the building, making enough noise to echo down the street. A stocky man throws his arm around me. “Where we going?” he asks.

“I’m not with you.”

He looks down, and his thick-rimmed glasses fall forward. He pushes them back into place. “You are now, sexy. Come on.”

He leans his weight on me. My world is already off kilter, so we stumble forward a few steps. His friends cheer us on.

“Okay, fine,” I say. “Let me just get my husband.”

“No shit?” He releases me as if I’m contagious, then speed walks away to catch up with his friends. I fix my blouse and wander down to the corner to look for Nathan. The area is deserted. When I turn around and start back, I spot Nathan talking to the bouncers.

“Christ, Sadie,” he says when he notices me. “I told you to wait here for me.”

“I couldn’t find you . . .”

“I was in the bathroom.” He holds out my coat, which I’d forgotten since the alcohol is keeping me warm. His arm sags, as if it weighs a hundred pounds. “You’re drunk, you don’t listen, and you’re out in the freezing-ass dark. What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t know.” It’s a bad time to hiccup, but that’s what I do. He rolls his eyes as he walks away. Still, I don’t think he’s as annoyed as he pretends. “What were you doing in the bathroom?” I ask, struggling to get my coat on and keep up with his long strides.

He looks at me, his confused expression almost cartoon-like. “What kind of a question is that?”

So he disappeared at the same time as Joan. It doesn’t mean anything. Or it could mean a million different things.

I trip over uneven sidewalk and drop my purse. I’m one arm in my coat and one out. The world is slightly spinning, so it takes me a minute to pull myself together. “Will you hold my purse while I put on my coat?” I ask, straightening up. He doesn’t answer. He’s halfway down the sidewalk. “Nathan. Hello?”

He stops and sticks his hands in his pockets but doesn’t turn around. When I finally get my coat on and my purse back on my shoulder, I catch up with him. “Sorry if I’m inconveniencing you,” I say dryly.

He doesn’t answer, but takes my elbow as we cross the street.

“Can we just get a car home? I’ve been in the same boots all day, and the subway is still blocks away.”

“I need the fresh air.” He takes out his cell. “Want me to get you a car? Who knows what the subway’ll be like at this hour.”

“No.” I yank on his arm, and he drops his phone.

“Sadie,” he groans.

“I’m sorry.” I pick it up, brush it off, and hold it out to him. “It’s fine, babe. Not a scratch.”

He glances at me sidelong as he sticks it back in his pocket. “What were you drinking?”

I grin. “Old-Fashioned.”

His raises his eyebrows. “Thought you hated those.”

“I figured they’d do the trick if they’re potent enough for my dad.”

“Potent, huh?”

I hope he’ll ask what I’m trying to accomplish by choosing my alcohol by that criteria. At least it would start a conversation. He leads me across another street. I glance at his hand on my arm. I’m not even sure he realizes he’s doing it. “You’d save yourself some trouble if you just held my hand.”

“It’s no trouble,” he says and lets go of me when we’re back on the sidewalk.

“Oh.” I nearly trot just to keep up with him. “Did you win tonight?”

“We were just screwing around.”

“But you kept score. I saw. I saw three of your strikes.”

He rubs his nose. “I guess, technically, I won. But it wasn’t really—”

“I knew it,” I say, clasping my hands. We’re nearing the subway, where it’s more crowded, so I’m not the only loud girl. “You’re the VIP.”

“VIP?” he asks. “You mean MVP.”

“You’re my VIP
and
my MVP.” I slur the last part because of my goofy grin. I think I’ll make those girls at the bar my new friends. Assuming none of them are sleeping with my husband, that is. The thought makes me snort. “Hey,” I cry, suddenly remembering my talk with Donna. “Donna invited us to Park Slope for dinner and sangria. I think we should go.”

Nathan nods at me. I swear he’s holding back a smile. “Yeah? You’d leave the city for once?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” I ask. I’d prefer we were in Manhattan, where a cab ride home would take five minutes, but I keep that to myself.

“I guess,” he concedes. “Thanks for coming.”

It takes me a moment to register his unexpected gratitude. Maybe all Nathan wants is for me to take a little more interest in his life. If that’s the case, I’ll definitely show up for the next Wifey Wednesday. “I really like the girls,” I say and mean it. Riding the Brooklyn wave that got us into safer waters, I continue, “They made Park Slope sound great.”

Instantly, he tenses, and I watch his almost-good mood extinguish. “Really?” he asks, pursing his lips. “Is that what
the girls
said?”

I frown. There’s no missing the sudden irritation in his voice. What set him off, though? Does he not like me hanging around them? Joan, specifically? “What’s wrong?” I ask. “You don’t like them?”

“I have no problem with them.” He kicks a beer can on the sidewalk. It flies into a brick wall with some Banksy-style graffiti. He sighs. “Awesome. We’ll go to Park Slope if that’s what you want.”

I furrow my brows at his sarcasm. “I thought you’d like the idea.”

“Whatever.”

My smile fades. “Whatever,” I mimic. “So grumpy all the time.”

He glances at the ground but quickly looks back up. “Are you really coming next week?”

“Yes,” I say. “One-hundred percent. I will be there.”

He scratches his jaw and squints ahead of us. Bedford station is in sight now. People of all sorts are gathered around it, loitering by storefronts, smoking, playing music. Others are just trying to get through. “I don’t think you should.”

His words sting, transporting me right back to this morning’s rejection in the shower. I felt like we were making progress just now. I keep coming back for more, though, and I struggle to get words out. “You don’t want me there?”

“I don’t know. I think I need these nights to myself right now.”

Without warning, tears scald my eyes. Maybe it’s the bourbon. Maybe it’s the ache of my feet, swollen from a long day in heels. It’s hard to swallow the truth—but in a way, these little jabs, like his earlier dismissal in the shower, are breakthroughs. Before now, he hasn’t really admitted anything is wrong. At least we’re no longer on different planets.

“Don’t cry.” He mutters too softly for me to determine if he’s annoyed or concerned. I don’t know how he can tell. He didn’t even look at me.

Our footsteps are hollow on the sidewalk. I wait until I’m sure the threat of tears has passed to ask, “Why don’t you want me to come?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I have time.”

He shrugs. “I don’t want to talk about it. For one, you’re wasted.”

“I’m sobering up fast.”

He swallows, focused on the subway stop ahead. “You won’t even remember this tomorrow.”

“You know that isn’t true,” I argue. “You just want an excuse not to talk. It’s really unfair to shut me out like this.” He picks up his pace, and I pick up mine. My boots are getting tighter and tighter, the balls of my feet screaming. I avoid making eye contact with people I pass. “Nathan,” I say. “Hello?”

He turns on me. “It’s unfair, is it?” he asks. “Is it fair that I’ve told you a hundred times about Park Slope, yet you act like you’ve never heard of it until
Donna
mentions it?”

Between his pace and all the people around, I have to concentrate to catch each of his words. I’m shocked. It’s entirely possible he’s mentioned Park Slope before, but I usually wave it off when he talks about moving. Gramercy Park is perfect for us. Growing up so close to Manhattan, it was the only place I ever wanted to be, and it has everything we need. “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just that Brooklyn—”

“Is it fair that every other wife shows up for her husband but mine?” he continues. “And when you do, you have the gall to accuse me of not wanting you there. No, it’s not fair, but that’s how it is in Sadie world.”

My mouth falls open.
Sadie world?
I have no response. If I live in my own world, it’s not news to Nathan. He used to love doting on me. I’ve always made sure he knows what an important part of that world he is.

I’m a few paces behind him, and my feet start to cramp. They hurt. I hurt. “How long have you been feeling this way?” I ask.

He gets out his subway card and wipes his forehead on his sleeve. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“No,” I say.

He heads down the stairs, and I hobble after him, rifling through my purse for my wallet.

Nathan waits at the platform entrance for me. “Midnight in a subway station is not the time to have this discussion,” he says.