“The young woman Thomas cheated with . . .” The words want to remain locked away, but I have to ask. “You said she reminded you of me?”
Dr. Shields reaches out and touches my arm with her thin fingers. The blue veins on the tops of her hands stand out sharply against her skin.
“There was a similar essence,” she says. When she smiles, I see it: A few more tiny, sharp lines around her eyes appear, like the cracks in the glass are spreading. “She had dark hair, and she was full of life.”
Her hand is still holding my forearm. Her grip feels imperceptibly tighter. Full of life, I think. What a strange way to describe a young woman who took her own.
I wait for her next words and wonder if she’s going to say April’s name, or if she’ll refer to her as a study subject.
She looks at me. Her eyes sharpen again. And it’s as if the woman I saw just moments ago—the softer one, who was clearly yearning for her husband—has slipped behind a mask. Her words are devoid of emotion again now. She sounds like a professor, lecturing on an abstract subject.
“Although the woman Thomas betrayed me with wasn’t as young as you, she was about ten years older. Closer to my age.”
Ten years older.
I know Dr. Shields sees the shock in my face, because her own expression tightens.
There is no way April, the young woman in all of those Instagram photos, was in her thirties; besides, the obituary reported that she was twenty-three. Dr. Shields isn’t talking about April.
If Dr. Shields is telling me the truth, there’s a second woman Thomas was with during his marriage. There are three, counting me. How many were there, in total?
“I just can’t imagine anyone would do that to you,” I say, taking another tiny sip of wine to cover my surprise.
Her head dips in a nod. “The important thing is to ensure that he won’t do it again. You understand, right?”
She pauses. “That is why I need you to reply to him right now.”
I go to put my wineglass on the counter, but misjudge the distance. It teeters on the edge of the marble, and I catch it just before it falls to the floor and shatters.
I see Dr. Shields catalog the incident, but she doesn’t remark on it.
My plan has gone drastically awry. The confession that I had thought would liberate me feels like a noose.
I pull my phone out of my bag and type out the text as Dr. Shields dictates: Can we meet tomorrow night? Deco Bar at 8?
She watches as I hit Send. Less than twenty seconds later, a reply arrives.
Panic floods my body. What if he wrote something incriminating?
I’m so dizzy I want to put my head between my knees. But I can’t.
Dr. Shields is staring at me like she can read my thoughts.
I swallow hard against the nausea rising in my throat as I look down at my phone.
“Jessica?” she prompts.
Her voice sounds tinny and distant, as if it is coming from far away.
My hand is shaking as I turn my phone so Dr. Shields can see Thomas’s response: I’ll be there.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-ONE
Friday, December 21
Every therapist knows the truth shape-shifts; it is as elusive and wispy as a cloud. It morphs into different incarnations, resisting attempts to define it, molding itself to the viewpoint of whoever claims to possess it.
At 7:36 P.M. you text: I’m leaving in a few minutes to meet T. Should I offer to buy him a drink, since I’m the one who asked him out?
The response: No, he is traditional. Let him take the lead.
At 8:02 P.M., Thomas approaches Deco Bar, where you await. He disappears from view as he enters through the doorway. He never looks around at the neighboring restaurants and cafés, including the one directly across the street.
At 8:24 P.M., Thomas leaves the bar. Alone.
When he reaches the curb, his hand dips into his pocket and pulls out his cell phone. He gestures with his other arm for a taxi.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like anything else, ma’am?”
The waiter’s intrusion blocks the view out the large, plate-glass window. By the time the server leaves, Thomas is also gone. A yellow cab pulls away from the spot where he stood only a moment ago.
A second later, my phone rings. But the person calling is not Thomas. It is you.
“He just left,” you say breathlessly. “It wasn’t at all what I was expecting.”
Before you can continue, the call-waiting signal beeps. Thomas is on the other line.
After twenty-two glacial minutes—a stretch of time that housed emotions ranging from rage to despair to thin threads of hope—everything is converging too quickly now.
“Hold for one moment, Jessica. Gather your thoughts.”
All traces of authority are removed from the tone as Thomas is greeted: “Hello there!”
“Where are you, sweetheart?” he asks.
Ambient noises, such as the clatter of dishes or the conversation of nearby diners, may be available to him. It is vital that the response is consistent in both the manner and word of a woman who, while not entirely carefree, is enjoying a spontaneous outing after a long day.
“Near the office. I just stopped for a bite since I haven’t had a chance to grocery shop this week.”
Across the street, the door of Deco Bar opens and you emerge holding your cell phone to your ear. You stand on the sidewalk, looking around.
“How long until you’ll be home?” Thomas asks. His voice is gentle, his words unhurried. “I miss you and I’d really love to see you tonight.”
The amassed clues—the brevity of the meeting combined with Thomas’s unexpected request—allow hope to buoy to the surface.
Deco Bar and the café across the street are less than twenty minutes from the town house. But a debriefing is required from you before Thomas can be faced.
“I am just finishing up, Thomas is told. “I’ll phone you when I am in a taxi.
Meanwhile, you remain on the sidewalk, hugging your arms around yourself against the cold. Your expression cannot be deciphered from so far away, but your body language conveys uncertainty.
“Perfect,” Thomas replies, and the call is terminated.
You are still holding on the other line.
“Apologies for the delay,” you are told. “Please, continue.”
“He didn’t come there for a date,” you say. Your cadence is slower now; you have had time to shape your response. This is unfortunate.
“Thomas wanted to see me because he was suspicious. He caught sight of me at the museum after all. He knew it wasn’t an accident that I showed up at the diner. He asked me why I was following him.”
“What did you say?” The question comes out sharply.
“I flubbed it,” you say meekly. “I insisted it was just a coincidence. I don’t think he believes me. But Dr. Shields, he’s clearly a hundred percent devoted to you.”
Your job is not to form conclusions, yet this is too compelling to ignore. “Why do you presume this?”
“I know I told you I’d never been in love before, but I’ve seen it in other people. And Thomas said he was married to a wonderful woman, and that I should stop bothering him.”
Is it possible? All the worrisome signs—the late-night phone calls, the unscheduled visit by the woman with the swinging coat to Thomas’s office, the suspicious lunch at the Cuban restaurant—were simply a mirage.