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