was saying, but there wasn’t a lot of wiggle room with that lineup of adjectives.
After a long pause, she said, “Has he shoved you yet? Grabbed you too hard?”
“No,” I quickly replied. “Never.”
“Well,” Blakeslee said quietly. “Maybe he has changed. If you believe that people can. I don’t think I believe that, though …”
I waited, as she threw out another loaded question. “Has he asked you to change your clothes? Or gotten upset at you for wearing tight pants or short dresses or low-cut tops?”
“No,” I said, comforted by the question, telling myself that she was only being a drama queen. Trying to stir the pot. Were we really discussing cleavage?
But just as I was dismissing her as crazy, she said, “Okay. Well, has he gotten crazy, psycho jealous over … nothing?”
I thought of Miller, but didn’t answer.
“He has, hasn’t he?” she said softly.
“Not really. I mean, he can be jealous. But not psycho jealous. Nothing like that,” I said.
“Well, be careful, Shea. Because that’s how it starts … You know … I thought it was me for a long time. Because I wasn’t perfect either. I got really jealous over all the girls who are always after him. And sometimes, at first, I tried to make him jealous back … I told myself that it was my fault for starting trouble. And if I tried harder to be more secure … or more tolerant … or just the perfect wife, I could keep him from getting mad. But it didn’t work that way. And I know now that it wasn’t my fault. And it isn’t his dad’s fault. It isn’t anyone’s fault but his own. And I can’t believe I’m the only one he’s done it to.”
Done what to? I wanted to ask. But I didn’t because the question felt too personal, the answer too obvious. Instead I said, “Well, thank you for calling and telling me this.”
“You’re welcome.”
Silence. And this time she outwaited me as I babbled, “I … I guess I don’t know what to say …”
“You don’t have to say anything,” she said. “And please believe that I’m not trying to hurt your relationship. This is about helping you. And him.”
“Okay,” I said, now desperate to get off the phone.
“Can I ask you for one favor?” she said.
“Okay,” I said again.
“Please don’t tell him I called you.”
“I won’t,” I said, even though I didn’t owe her my allegiance, especially not over Ryan. Yet I had the feeling that I was going to keep her secret—and didn’t have a good feeling about what that meant.
“I just want to move on with my life … But I had to tell you. I wish his girlfriend before me had said something … You know?”
I said I did, picturing Tish Termini, Ryan’s first serious college girlfriend, a petite Italian girl who was as beautiful as Blakeslee but in a slightly trashy way. I remembered her well, flaunting her toned, tanned body around campus, wearing colorful push-up bras under white tank tops, and Daisy Dukes paired with cowboy boots. Everyone knew they had a turbulent, on-again, off-again relationship, but I’d never heard a single word about him hitting her. I put it in the column of evidence suggesting that Blakeslee might be lying or exaggerating, realizing that, no matter what, I was going to feel guilty. Either guilty for denigrating Ryan without a chance to defend himself, or guilty for thinking that any woman would lie about something so serious.
“Well. Thank you again for calling, Blakeslee,” I finally said.
“You’re welcome,” she said. And then—“I’m so sorry.”
I said goodbye and hung up, thinking about her last words: I’m so sorry. There was something about them that was both poignant and telling. She really did sound sorry, although I wasn’t sure if she felt sorry for me, herself, or Ryan.
That afternoon, I went to Lucy’s shop to give her the update. I did not editorialize, reporting only the facts of the conversation. What Ryan said. What Blakeslee said. What I said.
The first question she asked cut right to the crux of the matter: “Do you believe her?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think so … But I wonder … I mean, he did get really jealous over Miller.”
“Lots of people get jealous,” Lucy said. “Especially at the beginning of a relationship, when people are at their most insecure. Neil used to get so jealous. We look back and laugh about it now. It was ridiculous …”
“I know. But this was different,” I