SUNDAY
THE LAST DAY
AIMEE
I rise early out of sheer force of habit. I can’t shake my sleep patterns when I’m away from the girls. I don’t imagine what they’re eating, or worry whether they’re brushing their teeth, but the baby’s phantom cries wake me with a start at 5 a.m. I’ve never been away from them long enough to test whether my internal clock would adjust, or how many days it would take.
I turn onto my side and pull the goose-down comforter to my chin, my knees into my body. My eyes adjust to the dark and I take in the strange room. Adam is fully clothed beside me on top of the powder-blue sheets. I open my phone and gaze at the picture of us that I posted yesterday. It really is too adorable. And it has twenty thousand likes already. Let the love shine through.
Farah texted with an invitation to sip coffee and watch the sun rise. As nice as that sounds, it’s not where I am this morning. I need to expend the energy roiling in me to make sure today is all about forward momentum. I need to run.
I dress in layers. My phone tells me it’s sixty-four degrees and clear. It makes it hard to register the tropical storm alert for the area, so I ignore it. Outside, I stretch with wide steps as I make my way up the pebbled driveway. I jog in place to build warmth while I wait for the gate to open, but nothing happens. I jump up and down, but it doesn’t move.
“Screw it.”
I decide to climb over the fence rather than go back to the house for the remote. I land on the other side ready to take off, but instead I pause. In the silence I hear water lapping behind me and the sound of birds trilling at first morning light. The sky is the deep purple of early dawn. It feels as bruised as I do. In my reading, I held back because I still don’t trust Rini, but the memories of ten years ago haunted me all night long.
I used to follow them around. I wore a dark wig and fake blue contacts. Yes, I had too much time on my hands, but so did they. Out gallivanting during the day. Skipping out on life’s responsibilities like they were optional. I tailed them to brunch dates and watched them make out on park benches. I followed them back to her apartment. I only let myself cry once.
Her name was Miranda and he called her Mira. Get it? Spanish for “look,” as in Look at this college coed who wants me even though I’m almost thirty. I wasn’t aware he was the kind of man who would make up a nickname. He’d never once called me Aim or Ames. I was just Aimee to him. That hurt.
I waited days for them to have a fight. A bad one. One afternoon she ran away from him in tears, while he stormed off righteously. I had no idea what the fight was about, but I knew that even Adam the adulterer thought he had the moral high ground. He’d probably say, in his estimation, that this girl was being irrational. I could assume this because I’d been her a few years ago, and that was his favorite line to use on me. I was too emotional. What he meant was I had emotions that made him uncomfortable. Anger. Frustration. Rage. Adam couldn’t handle anything that wasn’t love and unconditional support.
That afternoon, Adam disappeared into a cab and I buzzed her apartment. This was the confrontation I’d been psyching myself up for. I wasn’t there to hurt her. She meant nothing to me. She was a pawn in my game. I needed her so I could betray Adam right back. I knocked on the door timidly, signaling that I came in peace. Or at least I came to start a war against him, not her.
She was surprised to see someone other than Adam. She opened the door a crack, but she didn’t recognize me. Clearly, she hadn’t even had the decency to stalk me on Facebook. I had to push my way into her apartment. My heart raced from the physicality.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I said. “Hear me out.”
She was visibly upset, both from her fight with Adam and my intrusion. Her arms were crossed and she gripped her opposite elbows. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for her phone or a weapon.
“What do you want?” she asked.
I took a seat to appear less threatening, a ferocious dog rolling over and showing their belly. I spoke quickly.
“I want us to band together. I know Adam—Professor Flynn—the same way you do.”
The lie came out of nowhere, but I knew it was perfect. If I screamed at her, it might push them closer together. But if I could win her over by pretending to be on her side, then we had a common enemy, and she was more likely to listen to me. Besides, why should she think she’s special when I knew I wasn’t? I continued.
“I had a fight with him a few months ago and he ghosted me.”
“You’re a student?” she asked, unkindly.
Bitch. I still get carded.
“Grad school,” I admitted through gritted teeth. I might have looked young for my late twenties, but that’s still really old to a college sophomore. “I followed him today and saw the two of you together.”
“You got dumped,” she said with a casual shrug. When her shoulder dropped she was visibly more relaxed. She could deal with a crazy ex over a serial killer or a robber.
“There’s no pain like a broken heart. It can feel like it will last a lifetime and never heal,” I said.
I took my time. I acted like this was hard for me to admit, when in reality I was overwhelmed at the absurdity of what I was doing. There’s no guidebook on how to react when you find out your husband is cheating on you, but I’m used to forging new paths. I sat on her couch.
“You should leave,” she said.
I was relieved and willingly complied, for the moment. I slapped my palms on my knees and stood up. I moved toward the door, but I wanted to leave her with something to think about. Something that would impress her.
“He’s so smart,” I said with my back to her. “It’s one of the things I love most about him.”
I held my hand on the doorknob, waiting for her to speak.
“It’s a different kind of smart,” she said.
I turned to look at her with a knowing smile.
“Not that he could tell you everything about ancient Egypt,” I said. “But that he could create a whole world only for you. Like you were Cleopatra in another life, in his life.”
She swept her gaze to the floor, but she nodded.
I picked up a piece of junk mail by the door and found a pen.
“I’m not mad,” I said as I scribbled my phone number on the back of an envelope. “I was for a second, but it fizzled away. I wasn’t enough to keep him entertained. You probably are and I can help you.”
That night I checked Adam’s phone. There had been no contact between them after their fight. She was probably waiting for him to apologize. He was probably over the whole thing.
She texted me before midnight, asking if I’d seen him. I was in.
I had to convince her I wasn’t interested in a threesome or anything kinky. I imagined being her Cyrano de Bergerac. Then I had to explain Cyrano de Bergerac because she was only nineteen. I told her it was too late for me, but I could help her get him back. Two were better than one. After that, she shared every sweet thing he said and every perceived slight she wasn’t sure how to interpret. There had to have been part of me that dissociated from the fact that she was talking about my husband. Or maybe I liked the game of playing with both of them.
