“Fine, you freak. I can do anything too.”
Lucky, miraculously, picked up the pace, so she was ahead of Bonnie, turning back to her with a grin.
“That’s the fighting spirit,” she said.
Bonnie felt a surge of happiness that carried her all the way home, through the lobby, up the elevator, and to their floor. They were chatting merrily about what kind of smoothie to make for breakfast when Bonnie stopped, inhaling sharply.
“What is it?” asked Lucky, coming up behind her.
There, sitting in front of the door, was Avery. Avery had not yet looked up to see them, and for just a fraction of a second, Bonnie witnessed her sister as she really was. No polish. No facade. No deflection. She didn’t know what had happened, but Avery was hurting. She could feel her sister’s pain in her own chest. Avery was slumped in the doorway, her head bowed, limbs slack, crumpled in on herself. Then she glanced up and saw them. Watching Avery compose herself under their gaze was like watching a great marquee be erected, a slack pile of cloth swiftly transformed by a sharp pull of ropes into a towering structure. As Bonnie raced down the hallway toward her, she thought fleetingly that her sister was always pulling the ropes of herself taut. Before Bonnie could reach her, Avery had hoisted herself up to embrace her and Bonnie wished that just once, she would ask for a hand.
Chapter Nine Avery
The evening that Lucky left London, Avery came home from work late to find Chiti asleep on the sofa, a burgundy throw threaded with gold tangled around her legs. Avery perched beside her and placed a hand softly on Chiti’s thigh, who stirred and peered up at her sleepily.
“It’s late,” said Avery.
“I was waiting for you,” said Chiti.
“Let’s get you to bed.”
Avery made to free Chiti from the knot of blanket, but Chiti sat up brusquely, pulling something from her pocket and placing it between them. Avery knew what it was before the question came, but she prayed, futilely, that she might be wrong.
“Who is he?” asked Chiti. Her voice was cold and quiet.
Avery bowed her head.
“It’s not about him.”
Chiti raised her hand to stop her.
“You could have gotten rid of the evidence anywhere, but you kept it in our house. Consciously or not, you wanted me to know. So let’s talk about it. Who is this man you fucked?”
Avery reached for the handle of her briefcase, as if preparing to run. But, of course, there was nowhere to go. She lifted her head.
“He’s no one. You have to know that, Chiti.”
Chiti clapped her hands in mock surprise.
“Oh, is this the script we’re using? I’ve read this one before.” She affected an American accent that was a cruel caricature of Avery’s. “He is no one. It meant nothing. Please forgive me.”
“He is no one,” insisted Avery. “It did mean nothing.”
“He is not no one,” snapped Chiti. “He is a person. Is it this Charlie poet you’ve been watching on the internet?”
Avery’s eyes sprang to her face. Chiti threw the blanket off her and stood up. She began to pace the living room, avoiding Avery’s eyes.
“Yes, I checked your search history,” she said. “And I have never done something like that before. But of course, I have never felt the need to. Until now.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Avery quietly, uselessly.
“So, it was this Charlie man?” asked Chiti, standing over her.
Avery hung her head again. Chiti put her hands to her waist, her silver bangles jangling.
“You fucked a man,” declared Chiti.
“I swear he was just there, Chiti. It’s not about him, it’s about me.”
Chiti circled around the sofa and Avery stood up. They turned to face each other.
“Do you not want to be with a woman, is that it?” asked Chiti. “You had your lesbian fling and now you’re back to cock?”
Chiti uttered the word cock with such force Avery almost laughed, but when she looked into Chiti’s face, she knew there was nothing funny about this moment.
“You’re my wife, Chiti. You’re not a fling.”
“I know I’m your fucking wife!” screamed Chiti. “Do you?”
“Yes! That’s why I’ve been torturing myself with this! I feel terrible. I hate myself for doing this.”
Chiti was shaking her head in disbelief.
“Do you expect pity?”
“No! I—”
“So, you hate yourself? So what! You’re not a teenager! You don’t get to act on every self-destructive urge you have.”
