Thomas seemed to want to rebuild our relationship. With any other man, this would have been impossible. But Thomas is unlike any other man.
And so counseling sessions were scheduled. Difficult conversations were had. And eventually, date nights were reestablished. A rebuilding commenced.
There was only one problem. Certain aspects of his story did not add up.
Uncertainty is an excruciating state in which to exist.
A moral question that never appeared in my study continues to claim prominence in my mind: Is it possible to look someone you love in the eye and tell a lie without experiencing remorse?
A new perspective soon intruded, threatening the fragile peace we were painstakingly trying to rebuild: What if the other woman was merely the kindle?
What if Thomas was the flame?
Perhaps he burned through the one fling that has been verified.
But a fire is perpetually hungry.
One evening shortly after you snuck into the study, Jessica, my husband arrived home and dropped his keys and change in a small dish on our bureau, as was his habit. Mixed in with the coins was a tiny, folded piece of paper: a receipt for a restaurant lunch for two.
Over glasses of wine enjoyed on the couch, a husband tells his wife of the mundane details that comprised his day: the irritating subway delay, the receptionist who learned she was having twins, the lost glasses that were discovered in the pocket of a blazer.
Lost glasses were mentioned. Yet an expensive lunch for two at a Cuban restaurant was not.
Had you not cunningly inserted yourself into the morality study, Jessica, this question might never have been answered. This experiment might never have existed. It is you who is bringing it to life.
Recollections can be faulty; personal agendas can color one’s words and actions. Only by conducting a scrupulously executed inquiry can the truth be independently verified.
You may have given up your dreams of theater, Jessica, but you have earned a starring role in the next act of this unfolding drama.
When your text appears inquiring about your next session, it is as if you are confirming this, urging us forward: It’s time.
You, with that heavy makeup case you lug around and the wild hair you attempt to tame and the vulnerability you fail to hide.
You have proved your devotion today. Your text confirmed how much you need me.
What you don’t know is how much we need each other.
It is time to prepare for the next phase. It begins with the setting. Outer order engenders an inner sense of calm. The desk in the study—just a dozen feet away from the bedroom where Thomas’s pillowcase used to hold the sweet scent of his shampoo—holds a laptop. Excessive alcohol will further muddy the mind, but two inches of Montrachet are poured into a crystal glass and brought to the workspace. There are minimal distractions in the room, facilitating the ability to concentrate on the task ahead.
An unorthodox plan must be considered from every possible angle. Mistakes are born when methodology is ignored.
Conducting an empirical inquiry requires an established protocol: The collection and examination of data. Astute observations. Painstaking record-keeping. The interpretation of results and formation of a conclusion.
The title of the project is entered on the blank screen of the computer: The Temptation of Infidelity: A Case Study.
The hypothesis: Thomas is an unrepentant adulterer.
There is only one subject: My husband.
There is only one variable: You.
Jessica, please don’t fail this test. It would be a pity to lose you.
PART
TWO
We began as strangers, you and I.
By now, we have become acquaintances. We are beginning to feel as if we know each other.
Familiarity often ushers in an enhanced appreciation and understanding.
It also shepherds in a new level of evaluations.
Maybe you have judged the choices of people you know: The neighbor who screams so loudly at his spouse that the harsh words carry through their thin apartment walls. The colleague who opts out of caring for aging parents. The client who becomes overly dependent on a therapist.
Even with the realization that these acquaintances have pressures of their own—an impending divorce, depression, a family—your judgments still materialize with the surety and swiftness of a reflex.
These reactions might be immediate, but they are rarely simple or precise.
Pause for a moment and consider the subconscious factors that may be coloring your evaluations: Everything from whether you enjoyed eight hours of sleep, are experiencing an annoyance, such as a recently flooded bathroom, or are still absorbing the aftershocks of a domineering mother.
If there is a chemical formula that decrees whether a verbal or silent condemnation is made during the course of everyday, mundane interactions, it contains an ever-changing variable.
That unstable element is you.
We all have reasons for our judgments, even if those reasons are so deeply buried we don’t recognize them ourselves.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Friday, December 7
I was so worried I’d messed up the last time I saw Dr. Shields that when she finally phoned me back, I snatched up the phone before the first ring ended.
She asked if I’d be free tonight, like nothing was wrong. And maybe it wasn’t. She didn’t even mention my message about not expecting to be paid for bringing her the sculpture and forgetting to return her wrap.
The call lasted only a few minutes. Dr. Shields gave me a few instructions: Wear your hair down, polished makeup, and a black dress suitable for an evening out. Be ready by 8 P.M.
It’s twenty past seven right now. I stand in front of my closet, staring at the clothes crammed inside. I push aside the charcoal suede miniskirt that I usually pair with a blush-colored silky top, then I reach past my high-neck black dress that’s way too short.
Unlike Lizzie, who often texts me a series of selfies before we meet up, I’m as confident putting together outfits as I am blending a color palette for a client. I know what styles flatter me, but an evening out probably means something very different for Dr. Shields than it does for me.
I consider the most elegant dress I own, a black jersey with a low V-neck.
Too low? I wonder as I hold it up against my body and look in the mirror. My closet doesn’t contain a better option.
I wanted to ask Dr. Shields for more information—am I going?
What will I be doing? Is this one of those tests you mentioned?—but her voice sounded so focused and professional when she inquired if I’d be free that I didn’t have the nerve.
As I slip into the dress, I picture Dr. Shields in her refined skirts and sweaters, the lines so structured and classic that they could take her from her office to the ballet at Lincoln Center.
I tug up the neckline, yet I’m still showing too much cleavage. My hair is rogue, and the big hoop earrings I wore to work now look cheap.
I leave my hair down, as she instructed, and swap out the hoops for cubic zirconia studs. Then I find the double-sided fashion tape in my underwear drawer and seal up two inches from the bottom of the V.
Normally I go bare-legged or wear tights; tonight I pull out the pair of sheer black stockings that has been sitting in my dresser drawer for at least six months. They have a snag, but it’s on my upper thigh, so the dress hides it. I dab a bit of clear nail polish on the tear to keep it from running, then dig out the basic black pumps I’ve had forever.