Miles is sitting on the bed, fully dressed, leaning against the pillows, his legs angled so his feet are not touching the covers even though his shoes are off. He’s holding his phone, but his gaze is toward the window, which faces the backyard but is dark now except for the neighbors’ lights. Jackie has no idea what time it is.
He turns to her and sits up. “Are you all right?”
“I guess so.” She comes to the end of the bed. “I drank a bottle of wine and should probably eat something.”
He frowns. “There’s dinner downstairs.”
“Antonio was a surprise.”
“I texted you. Didn’t you get it?”
“I haven’t looked at my phone. But wasn’t he here already when you texted me? I mean, was it a question?”
He rearranges himself on the bed, pulling one leg up. “There was a problem with his sublet, and he had to leave his place. I couldn’t just turn him away.”
Jackie is dizzy, but doesn’t want to sit, so she steps forward and presses her thighs against the bed. “I have another question. Have you done something that would upset me?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “What are you talking about?”
“I wish I knew. Harlan seems to think that if I’m upset or troubled or frustrated or losing my mind—and all of those things are true—that you must be the reason.”
Miles frowns so deeply it’s almost comical. She can’t read his expression, though; is he worried about her or about himself? “Harlan said that? That’s ridiculous.”
“Well, he started to say that. Got my attention, that’s for sure, then he said he didn’t want to meddle.”
Miles spreads his hands. “I have no idea what he could have meant.”
“He mentioned Nasira.”
“In connection to me? I hardly know her.”
“Hardly?” As far as Jackie knows, Miles’s only contact with her was at the Dinner.
“From the dinner we all had. From the football game. From once when she was at Harlan’s.”
“She was at the football game?” Jackie doesn’t know why this bothers her, but it does.
“Yes.”
“The one you forgot to invite me to.”
“Really, Jackie? If I didn’t mention Nasira was there, it probably had something to do with Antonio getting absolutely plastered and me having other things on my mind.”
Jackie blinks at him, remembering the scene—and getting vomited on. She and Miles had been pulling in the same direction then. It feels like eons ago.
Miles is watching her. From his expression, he’s likely having the same thoughts. “What difference does it make, Jackie, if I’ve talked to Nasira a few times? You are making too much of this.” The anger in him fizzles; he is never successful at holding on to it for very long. He comes over to her, holds her arms. He waits for her to lean into him before he pulls her into an embrace. His warmth, his strong arms melt the top layer of her resistance.
Miles lays his cheek on her head. “You’re fatally tired, darling. You’re seeing problems everywhere.”
Was she? She decides to apply Occam’s razor, the centuries-old guidance for deciding between competing explanations. If you can’t decide based on evidence, then choose the simplest one. That Harlan is causing trouble—or meant something else entirely—is a simpler explanation than that Miles and Nasira are having an affair. Nasira is living at Harlan’s by her own admission. It would be bad form to be sleeping with Miles, too, especially given that the men are friends. Jackie is the one who’s a mess lately, not Miles.
Jackie squeezes him and kisses his neck, embarrassed that it took so much thought to decide he is blameless. He’s her husband, after all, and he’s never given her reason to doubt him.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and lets go of him. “I’ll put on some clothes and be down to eat in a second.”
She retreats to the closet and slips on flannel pajama pants, a sweatshirt, and her sheepskin slippers. As she hangs up her robe and throws her work clothes in the hamper, she thinks again of the hotel, the simplicity of it, the anonymity. Over the last three months, her relationships with Miles, Harlan, Nasira, even Antonio, have had the quality of a rickety roller-coaster ride. It’s as if she doesn’t know these people, or they have somehow changed, and she can’t focus on what’s happening because she’s being thrown all over the place. The hotel fantasy appeals to her because she can disconnect and do as she pleases instead of being yanked around by forces she cannot see much less control.
Jackie leaves the bedroom, walks down the hall, and pauses halfway to the stairs.
The hotel fantasy is about becoming her mother. She sees that now, and, surprisingly, the realization does not spoil the fantasy.
The morning breaks clear. Without waking Miles, Jackie dresses in a thermal base layer, leggings, a wool vest, a zip-front top, gloves, and a wool hat and leaves the house with a travel mug of coffee. She drives to the boathouse to administer the antidote to too much wine: a long session of rowing on the Potomac. Her phone tells her the temperature is thirty-eight, warmer than yesterday but not by much.
Jackie sets the shell in the water, latches the oars into the gates, and climbs in. She stores her running shoes, slips her feet into the shoes on the footboard, and gently nudges the shell away from the dock. The shell slides out in a whisper. Jackie points it away from the sun and sets up a rhythm, dipping the oars for the catch, stretching her back muscles for the full stroke, skimming the blades an inch above the surface on the return. The self-made breeze steals her breath, leaving white clouds in front of her. Her hands warm.
Jackie rows until the pain in her thighs overwhelms her. Back at the dock, her legs tremble as she climbs out of the shell. She rests for a long while. When her sweat turns cold, she lifts the shell onto her shoulder, carries it across the dock, and stores it in the boathouse. It occurs to her that a river is much more useful to her than any hotel.
On Sunday morning, Miles is packing for a few days in San Francisco—his last business trip before the holiday break. Jackie is cross-legged on the bed, working on her speech for tomorrow evening. It’s partially recycled from one she gave at a cognitive psychology conference last year, so she should be able to finish it this morning, then do something else this afternoon—like see a movie or read a book or go Christmas shopping. Something normal. She might even find out if Grace is free and get a dose of her nieces and nephews, or steal Grace away for an hour.
Miles stacks his shirts into the roller bag on the bed. He could pack for work in his sleep—and sometimes does. “Antonio says he’s found another place but can’t move in till next weekend. Is that going to work for you?”
“I guess so. I can’t supervise him, though.” Jackie never got the whole story of what happened with Antonio and his roommates. Miles told her it was a subletting mix-up, that the guy whose room Antonio was renting promised he could have it for the whole semester, but then reneged and wanted it back sooner. Jackie thought it odd that a college student would want to move during finals—and right before the holidays—and said so. Miles shrugged and said he could only relate what he’d been told.