Miles takes Jackie’s hand and turns her wedding band. The tenderness of his thick, strong fingers makes her chest tighten.
“I’d love to go sailing,” he says.
Late the following afternoon, Jackie scrounges in the freezer, hoping dinner will materialize. Miles is on the far side of the open-plan space, intent on a football game, a notebook in his lap and a bottle of IPA in his hand. Technically, this is work; he is studying strategy and taking notes on players, considering how his clients might fit into the roster. Miles is careful never to drink when he’s courting young players and their parents, so the afternoon beer is an indulgence for home.
She pulls out a package of meat and holds it in the air. “Beef stew okay?”
Miles turns to her. “Delicious. Let me know if I can help.”
“The Instant Pot and I have it covered.”
Jackie places the meat in cold water to defrost and carries her Kindle, her phone, and a glass of iced tea upstairs to their office and her favorite reading chair. She and Miles have gravitated toward a more modern style, and the chair is shabby and not the least bit chic. Jackie sinks into it, opens her Kindle, shuts it again, and picks up her phone.
Just a bit of snooping, she tells herself, the sort everyone does these days. Just enough to confirm there is nothing to see. She hasn’t breathed either Harlan’s or Nasira’s name since last night, but of course she has been thinking about them, replaying the moment when Harlan greeted her, before she knew who the mysterious friend was, and also the moment she recognized Nasira. If only Jackie had been able to catch sight of Harlan’s face then. She would have seen something.
Jackie opens Instagram—the obvious choice for a millennial—types Nasira’s name in the search bar, clicks through the handful of hits, and selects the only reasonable match. The avatar is a pineapple—an ironic pineapple, perhaps?—so Jackie scrolls through the feed and clicks on the first putative selfie. Despite the sunglasses and wide-brimmed hat, it’s definitely her. That bone structure is hard to miss. Jackie scans the array of recent photos for anyone resembling Harlan but isn’t really expecting to see him there. Nasira is savvy enough to know a postdoc-professor relationship is right at the edge of the ethical void. Most of her posts are of food and, recently, familiar sights in DC.
Jackie sips her iced tea and entertains the thought of reading her book, knowing she won’t. She scrolls to the beginning of Nasira’s feed and opens the most recent post, from 8:33 this morning. Jackie’s heartbeat pulses in her throat as she examines the scene. Poached eggs on greens with avocado on a square white plate. To the side, croissants—enough for two—in a basket lined with slate-gray linen and a small pale-blue earthenware bowl filled with blueberries, a dollop of white on top. Whipped mascarpone, Jackie is certain. Everything is so familiar, it’s as if she took the photo herself. She has eaten there, perhaps at that very table, dozens of times. The food is excellent at Stateside on M Street, but Adams is brimming with breakfast places for Nasira to choose among.
Jackie stares at the screen, pressure building at her temples. She knows something Nasira did not when she posted this shot. Harlan seldom goes out for breakfast, but when he does, it’s there, and he always gets the poached eggs. When Harlan took Jackie to Stateside the first morning after she slept at his house, he recommended them. He was right, as he usually is.
They were delicious.
CHAPTER 3
HARLAN
I stand on the sidewalk in front of Stateside and watch Nasira leave. Her step is graceful and light, feline, her ponytail swishes. I’m thankful she went without protest or future commitment; I can’t stand fussy goodbyes. She’s lovely—and quiet, unlike Jackie. I am certain Nasira and I will see each other again. In fact, I’m counting on it.
She turns right on Franklin, toward her house presumably, and doesn’t look back. Good girl.
The weather is pleasant enough, so I walk the mile and a half home. The round trip into town and back obviates the need for the cardio segment of my afternoon workout. When I reach my front steps, I notice the foundation plantings need attention and remind myself to email the landscape company. I punch the alarm code, step inside, and set about erasing Nasira’s presence. Nothing personal; I must have order. I straighten the coasters on the end table, move a throw pillow two inches to the left, and proceed to the kitchen. As I load glasses into the dishwasher and wipe the marble counters, I mentally revisit last night’s dinner.
The setting was perfect. Estrela is steeped in memories for Jackie and me, and never disappoints. The admixture of pleasure and pain I felt upon seeing her, touching her for the first time in nearly a year was exquisite. My attraction to her is visceral and relentless; only a fool discounts biology. When I kissed her cheek, I felt her wobble, so perhaps she loves me still. Or those ridiculous shoes might’ve been to blame. I did wonder why she chose them. It wasn’t for me. She knows me better than that.
Then Jackie spotted my surprise guest—Nasira, pulled from the sleeve of Jackie’s own coat. Jackie has never been one for masks, and her transparency leaves her vulnerable. Some might find it refreshing or endearing; I find it enlightening. In the moment before Jackie regrouped, each emotion was exposed—embarrassment, jealousy, anger—like a transparent model of the human body in which only the nervous system is shown: the brain and the facial nerves, the spinal cord, the sympathetic and parasympathetic networks, nerves running to the extremities and back again. Her limbic system was firing signal blasts to her prefrontal cortex, urgent, white-hot pleas for a logical response to the emotional bedlam Nasira’s presence had incited.
Apologies for the shoptalk. Simply put, when Jackie recognized Nasira, I saw into Jackie. I always have.
She made a mistake in leaving me, in rejecting me despite everything I gave her. It was as much as I could give and have ever given, and had been enough for her. For years Jackie understood what we had together. Then she changed her mind, and now that she is married, she is smug. It’s not a good look on her, and I find it insulting, to be honest, as if she has taught me something about who she is by marrying Miles. I know exactly who she is, what turns her head, what sparks her anger, what draws that insatiable curiosity of hers to the brightest, hottest flame.
I know because I love her.
CHAPTER 4
Jackie slows her car as she nears Harlan’s house. Logan Street, west of campus, isn’t on her way to work—or to anywhere—but she’s only taking a quick peek. She pulls up to the curb beneath the boughs of an enormous oak. She isn’t exactly hidden here, but it’s not as if she’s staying.
The house is typical of upmarket Adams: a handsome two-story brick Georgian with black shutters and white lintels. A long walk divides the deep front yard. Jackie can’t hope to see in the windows, and she questions why she is even here. Unless Harlan and Nasira have the impulse to screw each other on the front lawn, this drive-by is pointless.
And disturbing, truth be told. What stable, happily married thirty-eight-year-old woman stalks her ex? If Miles knew she was here, he’d be appalled, and rightly so. She is appalled.
And yet here she is.
During the ten days since the Dinner, thoughts of Harlan and Nasira have bubbled up into Jackie’s awareness on a steady boil. Yes, yes, it’s disturbing and appalling—not to mention pathetic—and she has asked herself countless times why she cares. A neutral party would draw the obvious conclusion that she is still in love with Harlan. But love, in Jackie’s view, is rarely the reason for anything, because it’s not specific enough to have explanatory power. Jackie loves her husband, her sister, her brother-in-law, her nieces and nephews, and her mother, but the emotions each person evokes are unique. Including Harlan. She admires him and appreciates his humor and his candor. She is, despite her best suppressive efforts, attracted to him. Is that love? If it is, who cares?