Miles has been tracking the game. He swivels to her. “How’s he doing?”
“That’s just it. The whole thing was weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Well, the first thing he asked was whether I was going to the game on Sunday.” Miles slides a finger down his glass, erasing the condensation. “I told him I didn’t know anything about it.” Jackie expects Miles to jump in and say he forgot, innocent mistake. Instead, he is thinking hard. “What’s going on? Are you going with Antonio?”
“I was planning on it, yes, if he’s not slammed with coursework.” Antonio is a sophomore at Monroe University, a few miles away. “And it’s not as though I didn’t want you to come, too.”
“Then why did I learn about it from Harlan?”
“I didn’t want to get into it with you while I was away.”
“Get into what?” She has raised her voice, drawing a look from a woman sitting a few stools away.
Miles straightens and finally meets her gaze. “Harlan told me some things. It made me think you might not want to go.”
“What are you talking about?”
He exhales, takes a drink. “He called me two days ago and said he’d seen you drive by his house a couple of times.”
Jackie swallows.
“Did you?”
“Maybe. I don’t remember. Possibly on my way somewhere.”
Miles nods, as if expecting this answer. “And he also mentioned that you’ve been interrogating Nasira.”
“‘Interrogating’? That’s the word he used?”
“I think so. That was the message anyway.”
“I didn’t interrogate her.” She thinks back to her conversation with Nasira about her weekend plans, and how to explain it to Miles. “It started off as a friendly conversation about her weekend. Then she mentioned Greenbrier, and that had Harlan all over it. We didn’t go there until we’d been together for two years. They’ve only been dating a few weeks.”
“I’m not seeing the crime here, Jackie.”
“There’s no crime. I didn’t say there was. But Nasira was so cagey about it, unnecessarily.”
“She has a right to her privacy, doesn’t she?”
“Of course. I’m not the one who mentioned Greenbrier. It’s like she wanted me to know, but then wouldn’t cop to it.”
Miles shakes his head. “Are you listening to yourself? You’re not making any sense.”
“Wait. Add that to this tidbit. Today, when Harlan comes by, he asks me if Nasira can help out with his MRI study.” She takes a deep sip of her drink, watching for Miles to see her point.
“I don’t get it.”
“A postdoc isn’t an indentured servant. He doesn’t have to ask. He knows that. He was challenging me to say something about them.”
“And did you?”
“No. He wanted me to confront him about Nasira. I didn’t take the bait.”
Miles pushes his stool back a few inches, as if she has become contagious. “Jackie, I’m worried about you. And, frankly, so is Harlan.”
“Perfect. Let me get this straight. While you’re away on business, Harlan’s been talking to you about me, how I’m stalking him, how I’m harassing L’enfant.”
He glances around the bar. “Maybe we should do this at home.”
So now he’s calling her hysterical, too. Fantastic. She downs the rest of her drink, lowers her voice. “Let me finish, Miles. Why, pray tell, didn’t Harlan come to me about this? He was just in my office, literally minutes ago, and didn’t mention a thing. And I know Nasira is of tender age, but she’s definitely old enough to talk to me herself, not go through Harlan and then through you. It’s like middle school.” Jackie’s stomach cramps from the hit of gin. She pushes her hair from her face; her forehead is damp.
Miles is facing the TV screen but doesn’t seem to be watching the action. He scoots forward in his seat, places his hands flat on the bar. “While you and Harlan and Nasira are swirling around each other, how do you think I feel?”
Her husband rarely draws attention to himself, to his needs. He’s the easy one who never causes a ripple. Jackie’s chest tightens. “Shitty, I’d expect. Irrelevant. I’m sorry.” She reaches for the truth. “I did drive by Harlan’s a few times. He’s right about that. And I promised you before that I’d let it go, and I have, for the most part. I’ve really tried. All the rest of it, though, that’s not me.” She leans forward, asking him to look at her. He does. “Harlan came to my lab, Miles. My workplace. He was really odd; I didn’t imagine that. It unnerved me.”
Miles weighs her words for a moment. “I can’t think of a reason Harlan would want to unnerve you. He invited you to the game Sunday, remember? I’m not saying he can’t be a little off sometimes—that’s Harlan—but I don’t want to focus on that. I want to focus on us, on why you are so wound up about another couple. You’re married to me. I feel like I shouldn’t have to remind you.”
Jackie’s nose burns with tears. She hates crying in public and regrets not leaving earlier. She takes Miles’s hand in both of hers. The warmth and weight of it grounds her, and she has the urge to climb into his lap, to fold herself up there, feel his strong arms around her, stay like that for a very long time. Jackie looks into his eyes and tries to say that without speaking. If she speaks, she will cry. She hasn’t meant to hurt him, although clearly she has.
“Hey,” he says, adding his other hand and squeezing hers. “You’re stressed. And probably hungry. Let’s order burgers, watch the game, okay?”
Her throat is still choked, so she nods. Miles orders for both of them, and Jackie excuses herself and heads to the bathroom to regroup. She blots her forehead and cheeks with a paper towel, arranges her hair, applies lipstick. Maybe it’s the fluorescent lighting, but she looks terrible—sallow and tired. Too much time indoors. She vows to go rowing at least once this weekend, maybe sail on Sunday with Miles. Ah, but on Sunday he’ll be at the game. She won’t. She wishes she hadn’t made Miles insecure, but nothing he said has caused her to rethink her take on Harlan, or even Nasira.
Jackie adjusts the waistband of her skirt, returns her bag to her shoulder, and takes one last look in the mirror. She thinks again of what Harlan said to her after his mother’s funeral.
Open your eyes.
Sunday morning on the Potomac. Rising sun lighting up the water, deepening the shadows along the banks. Between the boathouse and the bridge, in the center of the river, a puddle of mercury gives way to striations of silver and black. She climbs into the shell, stores her shoes, straps her feet into the boat shoes attached to the footboard, and gently pushes off the dock.
Another rower is upriver from her, a quarter mile away. She is otherwise alone. She reaches forward, knees to her chest, oars behind her, catches the water, and pushes her feet against the board. The seat slides back. As the shell slides in front of the oars, she leans back to complete the stroke, right hand over left against her stomach. Her back complains, and she ignores it. A small twist of her wrists and the blades are free of the water; Jackie reaches forward for the return, the blades skimming over the surface of the water, a breath of cold air on her face from her movement. The seat comes forward; her knees meet her chest. Her hip joints loosen a little, improving her reach. She dips the oars, catching the water. Push with the legs. Pull with the arms. Lean back. Return. Reach. Dip, push, pull, lean, return, reach. Again. Again. Again.