The Good Wife (32 page)

He’d had that affair three years ago, and it’d been ugly. Very ugly. She’d cried. They’d fought. She’d yelled. He’d apologized. She’d yelled some more, threatened to leave.

He’d made promises. She’d stayed.

She’d stayed.

The stylist returned to peel the plastic back and check Sarah’s roots. “Five more minutes,” she said, tucking everything back into place before leaving Sarah in her chair.

Sarah stared at her reflection, into her eyes, wondering if Boone knew what she knew.

That she loved him too much.

And looking into her eyes, she wondered if that’s why he’d had the affair in the first place.

Because he felt safe and secure, knowing she was the dependent one, knowing she couldn’t leave him.

Sarah’s eyes burned. She looked away, unable to look at herself.

Forty minutes later, she stood outside Mama’s Café in downtown Alameda. So it’d come to this, she thought, disgusted with herself for driving here after her hair appointment instead of going home. It was midafternoon. Dad was expecting her soon. She ought to be home.

Instead she was here. Snooping. Spying. Craving peace of mind.

Sarah peeked through the window of the small café, checking out the interior. It didn’t look like much. Long counter, old-fashioned ceiling fans, and big booths covered in burgundy red leather. Pies and cakes filled a bright glass cabinet. Matronly waitresses moved through tables, pouring coffee, refilling waters, clearing dishes.

She felt foolish now, being here, but she’d driven here today to assuage her curiosity. She should at least go in. Order a slice of pie. Observe people.

Sarah opened the door, felt the gust of chilled air. Shivering, she stepped in, hearing the small bell on the door jingle, and the clink of glass and clang of cutlery.

So normal, she thought, approaching the register, which was also a hostess stand. She could find nothing remotely sexy or threatening about the café.

Sarah smiled uncomfortably as one of the stocky gray-haired waitresses approached, menu in hand.

“Sit where you like, hon,” the waitress said, gesturing toward the red booths and long Formica counter. “I’ll follow you.”

Sarah couldn’t continue with this. It was wrong. She felt hideous. “Next time,” she said, backing up, desperate now to escape. “But thank you.”

She walked outside and then practically ran to her car. That evening, after the kids were in bed, Sarah opened a bottle of wine, drank a glass as she watched the TV, refilling her glass periodically, still in disbelief that she’d actually gone to the café.

As she drank, she leaned back in her chair, resting the wineglass on her stomach, the stomach she worked so hard to keep taut and toned and flat, as part of the body—the package—she was, so important to keep it beautiful and appealing . . .

Because after all, there was so much competition. Women—wives—were easy to replace when there were hundreds—thousands?—of women waiting to step into her empty shoes and bed . . .

Sarah sipped from her glass, letting the wine fill her mouth and warm her all the way down. She needed the alcohol as much as she needed security. Stability. Peace. She needed to know she wouldn’t be replaced. And not just as the wife, but as the beloved, because that’s what she needed most. To be the One.

She would fight for her man to the end, but would he fight for her?

She’d lay down her life for him—hadn’t she already?—but did it mean anything?

Sarah drank again, throat aching, heart on fire.

Love was supposed to be patient and kind.

But love was also the most brutal thing in the world.

It’d been three years, but she still couldn’t forgive him for wanting another woman. And he hadn’t merely wanted her, he’d taken her, enjoyed her, enjoying her again and again over weeks . . . months . . .

He said it wasn’t months. He said it was weeks. But weeks was almost the same thing. Weeks was bad enough.

Sarah headed for the kitchen and took the bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge, emptying the last little bit of wine into her glass.

But he hadn’t just slept with her, that woman, Sarah thought, hand shaking as she tossed the empty bottle into the kitchen’s recycling bin.

Boone had called her and sent her e-mails and texts. He’d told her things, said things, that had cut Sarah’s heart wide open . . .

Want you . . .

Can’t stop thinking about you . . .

Need you . . .

You and that beautiful body are all I can think about . . .

Fuck you, Boone,
Sarah thought, knocking away the tears that fell before drawing a quick, shaky breath, aware that she was close to losing control.

She leaned against the counter and looked across her expansive kitchen to the sunken living room with its huge leather sectional that looked overpowering when empty of sitters but shrank the moment Boone stretched out on it, his six-three frame filling it, reducing it to something practical, functional.

She could picture Boone on the sofa, his big, muscular arm outstretched, gesturing for Ella to come to him, and how it always moved her, every single time, when Ella ran to him. Not walked.
Ran
.

Little girls and their daddies.

Little girls and their hero worship of men.

Sarah had told herself it was because of Ella, and Brennan, that she stayed after discovering Boone’s infidelity. It was because of them that she’d fought to get through her anger and pain . . .

But it wasn’t because of them.

She’d stayed for herself. She’d stayed because she loved him.

All the magazines said if you had self-respect you’d go. All the books and experts said once a cheater, always a cheater, and Boone was a cheater. The media loved to mock the women who stood by their men, whether politicians or actors or professional athletes. The media painted those women as weak. Maybe the media was right.

Or maybe the media was just plain mean.

Lots of people in the world were mean. Haters, Sarah thought, twirling the stem of the glass. The world was full of haters and she didn’t want to be one of them. She wanted to forgive Boone and get past this. Wanted to move past the ugly and get back to love. Get back to happy. Get back to feeling like Sarah on the inside . . . but that was the thing she couldn’t seem to do.

Who was she? What was she? Besides angry?

Sarah lifted her wineglass, inhaled the crispness of the wine, the tangy oak and sweet pear teasing her nose before she sipped, letting the wine sit in her mouth. It was cold and sharp and she waited until it warmed before swallowing.

She was drinking too much. She knew it. Wasn’t proud of it. But she needed the wine, needed the softness it gave her, and the escape, blurring the edges of time and easing the endless minutes of night.

She glanced at her watch. Ten thirty. Boone was in Baltimore. What time would it be there? Twelve thirty? One thirty? Would he be in bed, or was he out having a late dinner . . . drinks . . . with his teammates . . . or with others.

Old friends. New friends. And were those friends female? Were they sitting with him somewhere, having a beer, having fun, while she was here, home, holding down the fort? Was he out there being handsome and sexy and male . . .

Virile.

Single.

Free.

Jesus. Sarah drew a sharp breath, her insides hurting, bruised.

Boone had promised her he’d never cheat again. He’d promised her he’d learned his lesson. But had he? How would she know if he was being unfaithful? She hadn’t suspected before, and yet when she discovered the truth she was shocked by the heat of it, and how carnal it was between them, he and that woman . . . and when Boone had said it was nothing, that the woman meant nothing to him, that it was just sex . . .

Was that really supposed to make her feel better?

Did knowing that he could separate sex and love help?

Did knowing that men were—supposedly—different from women change anything?

No, and no, and no, and no.

If anything it made trust impossible.

How could she trust Boone not to stray when he could say it was exercise, an outlet, a release, and not something more, something important?

What kept her here, in this marriage, was the fact that love and sex were so intertwined. She couldn’t sleep with Boone without loving him mind, body, and soul.

Perhaps the fault was hers. Not being able to have casual sex . . .

Abruptly Sarah dug into her skirt pocket for her phone and tapped Boone’s number on speed dial.

He answered after a few rings. There was noise in the background—voices, music, cutlery. He was in a bar. Or a restaurant with a bar. Someplace lively for one thirty at night.

“What are you doing?” she asked, trying to sound unconcerned even as she pressed her hips against the counter’s edge and felt the stone dig into the small of her back.

“Having a bite to eat with the guys,” Boone answered, laughter erupting in the background. “What about you?”

Sarah strained to hear a female voice in the hum.
Please don’t let there be a female voice. No girls or women hanging out with the guys tonight . . . no girls or women having a drink and feeling pretty, feeling fun . . . please God, keep it just the men . . .

“Tidying things up before I go to bed,” she answered before taking a sip from her glass, draining it. “Where are you having dinner?” she added, hearing the hoarseness in her voice, hoping he wouldn’t. It’d be a dead giveaway, and Boone wouldn’t like it. He didn’t like her falling apart every time he left, but she didn’t know these new guys, didn’t know this team. Were these players
players,
or were they solid family men?

“We’re at the hotel, in the bar. It’s the only place we could order food this late.”

“Ah.” So they were in a bar. The hotel bar. “Any girlfriends or wives on this road trip?”

“One of the bench coaches is from Baltimore, so his wife came, but she’s staying with her family.”

Sarah stared into her empty glass, wishing it wasn’t empty, and smiled bitterly, thinking it was funny, this conversation, knowing she and Boone were playing a game.

She wanted the truth and all the dirty, awful details, and he wanted to give her the truth, but he knew she couldn’t handle it.

“So there are no girls at your table? No women joining you sexy men tonight?” Sarah asked, trying to sound teasing and aware it came out mocking.

There was the slightest hesitation on Boone’s part, which told Sarah everything she wanted to know. “One is a sister of a player, and the sister’s friend.”

“And let me guess—they’re twenty-two and smoking hot?”

“I don’t know their age,” he said flatly. “It’s dark in here, can’t see much of anything.”

“Are they married?”

“I don’t think so, but I don’t know. How would I know?”

“You’re having dinner with them.”

“I’m not having dinner with them. I’m having dinner, and they’re here to see Raul and visit with him.”

“But you’re all together at the same table.”

“Sarah, I’m not interested in them.”

Sarah tensed at another burst of laughter in the background, her gut churning, emotions running hot. She hated that he was out, night after night, having dinners in bars and restaurants with teammates and others, while she was home. “Just don’t take anyone upstairs with you,” she said, smiling again, feeling hateful, and petty, and mean.

“Babe, you know I won’t.”

Her eyes stung. “But I don’t actually know that, Boone. That’s the problem.” And then she said good-bye quickly and hung up the phone.

For a moment she sat there, sick, the alcohol flooding her veins, alcohol and adrenaline.

She’d said too much.

Said more than she’d meant to say.

She went through their conversation, replaying the parts about being out with the guys, and being good and not taking girls up to his room . . .

He said he didn’t. And she should know that.

And then she said something like . . . she didn’t.

Sarah held her breath as the actual words came back to her.
I don’t actually know that, Boone. That’s the problem.

Sarah exhaled, rubbed her temple, queasy. Why did she say that? Not good. Not smart. What was she thinking? Maybe she shouldn’t be drinking.

Panic hit her, flooding her, and she called him back.

After the first ring she went straight to voicemail. He’d switched off his phone. Her stomach knotted, gutted.

She kicked herself, wishing she hadn’t said anything, and tried to call again. Again, straight to voicemail.

The panic grew, exploding in her chest, shooting into every limb.

She tried him again. Voicemail.

She called back a fourth time, shaking, and left a virtually incoherent message. “Sorry, baby, sorry. I’m just . . . stupid. Emotional. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Forgive me. Please forgive me.”

Then she hung up, went to the sink, and threw up, again and again. She was drunk. And sick. And she hated herself.

I’m lost,
she thought, clinging to the sink.

I need help.

I need a life.

I need an identity.

Something that has nothing to do with him.

“Mommy? Mama? Where are you?” It was Ella, crying for her from upstairs.

Sarah rinsed her face and then her mouth, realizing Ella must have had a bad dream. “Coming, baby,” she said, going to the stairs and grabbing the banister, dizzy.

At the top of the stairs, she picked Ella up and discovered she was wet. Sarah changed her out of her wet pajamas, dressed her again in a clean nightgown, and took her to bed in the master bedroom, where Ella curled up against her in bed.

Lying on her back, staring at the ceiling, she stroked Ella’s hair, wondering how her thirteen years of marriage to Boone had changed her from Sarah Brennan, all-star, to Sarah Walker, no one.

* * *

B
oone returned from Baltimore in the middle of the night, sometime around two, but when he climbed into bed he stayed on his side. Usually he reached for her, or slid up against her and put an arm around her waist. He didn’t. Sarah lay in the dark, wondering if she should go to him but feared being rebuffed. So she clung to the edge, too upset to sleep.