eye on the door to the house, scroll quickly through them. There aren’t many addresses in the list, the car hasn’t been many places. The supermarket, the hardware store, a few other Tahoe City destinations. I realize that I’m looking for Michael’s Portland address. This would be the very first place he headed after the dealership, so I run my finger down to the bottom of the list.
And then I stop, my hand skittering across the screen, my fingers thrumming with electric shock. Because the first address that my husband went to in his new car wasn’t in Oregon at all.
It was in Los Angeles.
31.
Week Six
“WHAT WERE YOU DOING in Los Angeles?”
Michael stops in his tracks in the doorway of the kitchen, the morning papers in his hand, snow in his hair. This has become his new daily routine, the drive down the road to the general store, where he buys a stack of newspapers that eventually end up scattered across the chairs and the tables, half-read. One of the papers under his arm, I can’t help but notice, is the Los Angeles Times.
He places the newspapers carefully on the kitchen island, next to yesterday’s papers and our dishes from last night’s meal of frozen pizza. Neither of us has much of an inclination to clean up, and the housekeeper has been off for the better part of the week.
“Los Angeles?” He enunciates the syllables as if sounding out the name of an exotic destination. “What makes you think I’ve been to Los Angeles?”
“I saw it programmed in the destination history in your car. It was the first address in the list.”
A mottled purple shadow darkens his face. He stares at me, his jaw tucking tight into his chin. “For fuck’s sake, Vanessa. You’re checking up on me? You’re spying?” He paces around the island until he’s on the same side as me, standing too close, his chest thrust out in a pugilistic stance. “We’ve barely been married a month and you’re already turning into a jealous wife? What next, you’re going to start looking at my text messages and my emails? Jaysus fuck.” His hands are clenched into fists that tremble at his side, as if waiting to be unleashed.
“Michael, you’re scaring me,” I whisper.
He looks down at his fists, and releases them. I can see the white crescents where his fingers were digging into his palms. “And you’re scaring me. I thought we had something special, Vanessa. Jaysus, what happened to trust?”
“We do have something special.” What have I done? I stumble over myself with apologies. “No, I swear. I wasn’t spying. I came across it by mistake. It just…I didn’t understand, because you said you went to Portland…and the history said Los Angeles.” I want to cry.
He’s breathing heavily. “I did go to Portland.”
“But Portland wasn’t in the list of addresses…”
“Because I didn’t need directions! I know how to drive to my own goddamn house!”
He’s still towering over me; I feel tiny in the face of his fury. And I think, If I upset him he might leave and then I’ll be alone again. “OK,” I say, hating how pathetic my voice sounds. “But I still don’t understand why there’s a Los Angeles address in the destination history.”
“Christ, Vanessa. I. Don’t. Know.” He throws himself down on a stool and buries his head in his arms. I stand there, helpless. Have I ruined everything? The kitchen is silent, except for our labored breathing. And then, suddenly, he lifts his head, and he’s smiling. He grabs my hand and pulls me onto his lap. “You know what? I figured it out. The car probably originated in Los Angeles, right? That’s where it came from, before they shipped it up to Reno. The address you saw was probably from the Los Angeles BMW dealership, or something along those lines.”
“Oh.” I am flooded with relief. “OK, that makes sense.”
He laughs. “Silly goose. What did you think? That I have a lover hidden in Los Angeles? That I’m living some kind of double life?” He cups his hand along my cheek, shakes