Her heart was broken. And her home, her life, would likely follow.
The boys’ lights were out; she could just make out the orange glow of their night-light through the drawn shades. She was sorry that she had missed kissing them good-night, but she was glad she didn’t have to put on a happy face.
Since her encounter on the train, she’d been buzzing—something about the stranger, her voice, her words. She wasn’t going to be able to sit with this. She couldn’t pretend, not for another day.
She killed the engine, leaving the car in the drive with enough room for Graham to get his car out. If she opened the garage door, she risked waking the boys and she didn’t want that.
Entering the warmth and light of the foyer, she dropped her bags by the door and walked down the hall to the kitchen and waited.
When Graham pushed in through the door, she could see that he’d showered. Of course. Washing away the scent of what he’d done. But he looked good, smelled good.
“Hey,” she said. “We need to talk.”
* * *
They met on a rainy evening in the East Village. She was on her way to a book party for a famous mixologist at a tiny venue near Avenue A. Selena, running late, jogged down the street under a helter-skelter umbrella that had twisted in the wind and was essentially useless, broke a heel and went tumbling to the sidewalk. The contents of her bag rolled onto the concrete, phone flying into the street with an unpleasant crack.
“Oh my god! Are you okay?”
She was more stunned than anything, though she’d scraped her knee pretty badly. A hunky guy with dark hair, a stylish bomber jacket over slim pants, chased after her phone, her lipstick, her wallet. He helped her to her feet. The umbrella was a tangled mess on the ground. The rain kept falling. They were both getting soaked.
“It’s okay,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. “I’m a klutz. I’m used to falling.”
She was clumsy, and always wearing some kind of impractical shoe. The city sidewalks conspired to take you down; she seemed always to be running late, was rarely mindful.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Ugh,” she said, looking down. “Gross.”
Blood ran down her calf, a single rivulet from her knee to her ankle. She dug a tissue out of her bag while they stood there in the drizzle. She could barely look at him, she was so embarrassed. He took it from her before she could stop him, bent down and wiped at her leg.
When he looked up at her and smiled—rakish and knowing—she was in love.
“I’m Graham,” he said.
“Selena.”
“Are we going to tell our kids about this night?” Graham asked when he rose, tossing the tissue in a nearby bin.
She almost started to cry; it had been an awful day—overslept, missed her train, fouled up royally at the office, earning a talking-to from the boss who already seemed perpetually underwhelmed by her performance. But it turned out to be the best day of her life. That day.
Poor Will. They were living together at the time. She broke up with Will before she started dating Graham; she wouldn’t even kiss him until she’d moved out into her own place. It was a politely painful split, where they tried to hold on to their friendship. Are you sure about this guy? Will had asked a few months later over coffee. More sure than I’ve been about anything. Which, looking back, was an insensitive thing to say to your ex.
A glorious courtship—dinner at Eleven Madison Park, zip-lining in Costa Rica, a surprise trip to Paris. A glittering diamond presented at Wollman Rink in Central Park. Big (stupidly big) wedding at her father’s country club, honeymoon in Hawaii, a new house. Picture perfect.
Are you sure about this guy?
The first time she caught Graham cheating—well, not really cheating as he saw it—he was sexting with an ex-girlfriend. Selena happened to see his phone, discovering the X-rated chain complete with dirty pictures. There was a screaming blowout. She went to stay with Beth in the city for a few weeks—this was before the kids. He begged her forgiveness. There was counseling.
Graham had issues with self-worth, and admitted an addiction to porn (this sext affair was really just an extension of that, wasn’t it), fear of intimacy—all this from the male therapist. They worked on it, moved on. Then there was Oliver. A babymoon period followed where they were in love with their child, their new life as