Oh, my God. I double over in my chair, clutching my stomach. “Please… please…” I say out loud. Though I don’t know why or to whom I’m saying it.
I need to get out of this house. I feel like I can’t breathe. I should go sit outside and attempt to clear my head of everything I just read.
Every time I’m reading her manuscript, my stomach cramps from all the time I spend clenching it. I skimmed several more chapters beyond chapter five, but none were as horrifying as the chapter that detailed how she tried to choke her infant daughter.
In the subsequent chapters, Verity focused mainly on Jeremy and Chastin, rarely mentioning Harper at all, which grew more disturbing with each paragraph. She talked about the day Chastin turned one, and she talked about when Chastin spent the night at Jeremy’s mother’s house for the first time at the age of two. Everything that had initially been “the twins” in her manuscript eventually dwindled down to just “Chastin.” If I didn’t know any better, I would think something had happened to Harper long before it did.
It wasn’t until the girls were three that she wrote about both of them again. But as soon as I start the chapter, there’s a sharp rapping on the office door.
I open the desk drawer and quickly shove the manuscript inside it. “Come in.”
When he opens the door, I have one hand on the mouse and the other resting casually in my lap.
“I made tacos.”
I smile at him. “Is it time to eat already?”
He laughs. “It’s after ten. It was time to eat three hours ago.”
I look at the clock on the computer. How did I lose track of time? I guess that happens when you’re reading about a psychotic woman abusing her children. “I thought it was eight.”
“You’ve been in here for twelve hours,” he says. “Take a break. There’s a meteor shower tonight, you need to eat, and I made you a margarita.”
Margaritas and tacos. Doesn’t take much.
•••
I ate on the back porch while we sat in rocking chairs and watched the meteor shower. There weren’t very many at first, but now we’re seeing one every minute, at least.
At one point, I moved from the porch to the yard. I’m on my back in the grass, staring up at the sky. Jeremy finally gives in and positions himself next to me.
“I forgot what the sky looked like,” I say quietly. “I’ve been in Manhattan for so long now.”
“That’s why I left New York,” Jeremy says. He points to the left, at the tail end of a meteor. We watch it until it disappears.
“When did you and Verity buy this house?”
“When the girls were three. Verity’s first two books had released by then and were doing really well, so we took the plunge.”
“Why Vermont? Do either of you have family here?”
“No. My father died when I was in my teens. My mother died three years ago. But I grew up in New York State, on an alpaca farm, if you can believe that.”
I laugh, turning to look at him. “Seriously? Alpacas?” He nods.
“How, exactly, does one make money raising alpacas?”
Jeremy laughs at this question. “They don’t, really. Which is why I got a degree in business and went into real estate. I didn’t have any interest in taking over a debt-ridden farm.”
“Do you think you’ll go back to work soon?”
My question gives Jeremy pause. “I’d like to. I’ve been waiting on the right time so it won’t be a huge adjustment to Crew, but it never feels like the right time.”
If we were friends, I would do something to comfort him. Maybe grab his hand and hold it. But there’s too much inside me that wants to be more than his friend, which means we can’t be friends at all. If an attraction is present between two people, those two people can only be one of two things. Involved or not involved. There is no in-between.
And since he’s married…I keep my hand on my chest and I don’t touch him at all.
“What about Verity’s parents?” I ask, needing the conversation to keep flowing so that he doesn’t hear how exaggerated he makes my every breath.
He lifts his hands from his chest in an I-don’t-know gesture. “I barely know them. They weren’t around much before they cut Verity out of their lives.”
“They cut her out? Why?”
“It’s hard to explain them,” he says. “They’re strange. Victor and Marjorie, insanely religious to their core. When they found out Verity was writing thriller and suspense novels, they acted like she was suddenly denouncing her religion to join a satanic cult. They told her if she didn’t stop, they would never speak to her again.”
That’s unbelievable. So…cold. For a second, I empathize with Verity, wondering if her lack of maternal instinct was inherited. But my empathy evaporates when I remember what she did to Harper in her crib.
“How long did their estrangement last?”
“Let’s see,” Jeremy says. “She wrote her first book thirteen years ago.
So…thirteen years.”
“They still haven’t spoken to her? Do they even know about what’s happened?”
Jeremy nods. “I called them after Chastin passed. Left them a voicemail. They never called back. Then, when Verity had her wreck, her father actually answered the phone. When I told him what had happened, to the girls and to Verity, he grew quiet. Then said, ‘God punishes the wicked, Jeremy.’ I hung up on him. Haven’t heard from them since.”
I pull a hand to my heart and stare up at the sky in disbelief. “Wow.” “Yeah,” he whispers.
We’re quiet for a stretch. We see two meteors, one to the south and one to the east. Jeremy points at them both times, but says nothing. When there’s a lull in both the conversation and the meteors, Jeremy lifts up beside me, onto his elbow, and looks down at me.
“Do you think I should put Crew back into therapy?”
I tilt my head so that I’m staring at him. We’re only a foot apart with him positioned like this. Maybe a foot and a half. It’s so close, I can feel the heat coming from him.
“Yes.”
He seems to appreciate my honesty. “Alright,” he says, but he doesn’t lower himself back to the grass. He continues to stare at me, as if he wants to ask me something else. “Did you go to therapy?”
“Yes. It was the best thing that ever happened to me.” I look back up at the sky, not wanting to see the expression on his face after my next sentence. “After watching the footage of myself on that railing, I was worried that deep down, it meant I wanted to die. For weeks I tried to fight my sleep. I was afraid I’d hurt myself intentionally. But my therapist helped me realize that sleepwalking is unrelated to intention. And after several years of being told that, I finally believed it.”
“Did your mother go to therapy with you?”
I laugh. “No. She didn’t even want to talk to me about my own therapy. Something happened that night, when I broke my wrist, and it changed her. Our relationship, anyway. We always felt disconnected after that. My mother actually reminds me a lot of—” I stop speaking because I realize I was about to say Verity.
“Reminds you of who?”
“The main character in Verity’s series.” “Is that bad?” he asks.
I laugh. “You really haven’t read any of them?”
He lies back down on the grass, breaking eye contact with me. “Just the first one.”
“Why’d you stop?”
“Because…it was hard for me to fathom that it all came from her imagination.”
I want to tell him he’s right to be concerned, because his wife’s thoughts are eerily similar to her character’s thoughts. But I don’t want him to have that impression of her at this point. After all he’s been through, he deserves to at least be able to preserve a positive memory of his marriage.
“She used to get so angry with me because I didn’t read her manuscripts. She needed that validation from me, even though she got it
from everywhere else. Her readers, her editor, her critics. For some reason, my validation seemed to be the only validation she wanted.”
Because she was obsessed with you.
“Where do you get your validation?” he asks.
I turn my head toward him again. “I don’t, really. My books aren’t popular. When I do receive a positive review or get an email from a fan, I never feel like they’re talking to me. Probably because I’m such a recluse and never do signings. I don’t put my image out there, so even though there are readers who love what I do, I still haven’t had the experience of being told to my face that what I do matters to someone.” I sigh. “That would feel good, I imagine. For someone to look me in the eye and say, ‘Your writing matters to me, Lowen.’”
As soon as I finish that sentence, a meteor shoots across the sky. We both follow it and watch as it streaks across the water, reflecting in the lake. I stare at the lake, framing Jeremy’s head.
“When are you going to start on the new dock?” I ask him. He finally finished tearing the old one down completely today.
“I’m not building a new dock,” he says, matter-of-fact. “I just got sick of looking at that one.”
I would make him expand more on that, but he doesn’t seem to want to.
He’s watching me. Even though Jeremy and I have been making eye contact a lot tonight, it feels different in this moment. Heavier. I notice his eyes flicker toward my lips. I want him to kiss me. If he tried, I wouldn’t stop him. I’m not even sure I would feel guilty.
He sighs heavily and lets his head roll back in the grass until he’s looking at the stars again.
“What are you thinking?” I whisper.
“I’m thinking it’s late. And I should probably lock you in your room now.”
I laugh at his choice of words. Or maybe I laugh because I’ve had two margaritas. Whatever the reason, my laugh makes him laugh. And what almost became a moment he’d probably end up regretting turns into a moment full of relief.
I go to the office to grab the laptop so I can work in the bedroom after he goes to sleep. When he’s turning out the lights in the kitchen, I open the desk drawer and grab a small handful of the manuscript to take to my room with me. I tuck the pages between the laptop and my chest.
There’s a new lock on the outside of the bedroom door that I haven’t seen. I don’t want to examine it or figure out if it could somehow be unlocked from the inside, because I’m sure my subconscious would remember that, and I would somehow get past it.
Jeremy is behind me as I walk into the room and set my things on the bed.
“You have everything you need?” he asks from the doorway.
“Yep.” I walk back to the door so I can lock it from the inside after I shut it.
“Alright, then. Goodnight.”
“Alright,” I repeat with a smile. “Goodnight.”
I go to shut the door, but he puts his hand up, stopping me from closing it all the way. I pull it open again, and in the split second since I almost closed it, his expression has changed.
“Low,” he says, his voice quiet. He leans his head against the doorframe and looks down at me. “I lied to you.”
I try not to look too concerned, but I am. His words rush through me, and I think back to our conversation tonight, the conversations that came before it. “You lied about what?”
“Verity never read your book.”
I want to take a step back, to mask my disappointment in the darkness. But I stay put, squeezing the doorknob with my left hand. “Why would you say that if it wasn’t true?”
He closes his eyes for a brief moment while inhaling. When he opens them, he stands up straight through his exhale. He raises his arms and grips the top of the doorframe. “I’m the one who read your book. And it was good. Phenomenal. Which is why I suggested your name to her editor.” He lowers his head a little, looking me firmly in the eye. “Your writing matters to me, Lowen.”
He lowers his arms, grips the doorknob, and closes the door. I hear him latch the lock before his footsteps disappear upstairs.
I fall against the door, pressing my forehead against the wood.
And I smile, because for the first time in my career, someone outside of my agent has given me validation.
I cozy up in the bed with the chapter I brought with me. Jeremy made me feel so good just now, I don’t even mind being a little disturbed by his wife before I fall asleep.
 |
 |
It was the fifth meal I cooked after living in our new house for two weeks.
It’s the only meal Jeremy ever threw against the dining room wall.
I’d known for several days that he was upset with me. I just didn’t know why. We were still having sex almost every day, but even the sex felt different. Like he was disconnected. Fucking me because it was our routine and not because he craved me.
That’s the reason I decided to cook the goddamn dumplings in the first place. I was trying to be nice by making one of his favorite meals. He was having a hard time adjusting to his new job. To make matters worse, he was upset with me for putting the girls in daycare without consulting him first.
Back in New York, we hired a nanny as soon as my books started selling. She would show up every morning when Jeremy left for work so that I could retreat to my office and write every day. Then she’d leave when Jeremy came home, and I’d come out of my office and we’d cook dinner together.
It was a great setup, I’ll admit. I never had to care for them when Jeremy wasn’t around because we had the nanny. But out here, in the middle of nowhere, nannies are hard to come by. I tried watching them myself the first two days, but that was beyond exhausting, and I wasn’t getting any writing done. So, one morning last week, I was so fed up, I drove them into town and enrolled them into the first daycare I came across.
I knew Jeremy didn’t like it, but he realized we had to do something if we both wanted to continue to work. I was more successful than he was, so if anyone was going to stay home and care for them during the day, it certainly wasn’t going to be me.
But the girls being in daycare wasn’t what was bothering him. He seemed to like the interaction they were getting with other children, because
he couldn’t shut up about it. But we had discovered a few months earlier that Chastin had a severe allergy to peanuts, so Jeremy was cautious. He didn’t want anyone caring for her but us. He was afraid the daycare would be careless, even though Chastin was the kid I actually liked. I wasn’t stupid. I made sure they knew all about her allergy.
Whatever it was that had him irritated with me, I was positive it was something a bowl of dumplings and a good fuck would help him forget.
I intentionally started dinner late that night so the girls would be in bed when we ate. They were only three, so luckily, they were tucked in by seven. It was almost eight when I set the table and called Jeremy to come and eat.
I tried to make it as romantic as possible, but it’s hard to make chicken and dumplings sexy. I lit candles on the table and set up my playlist through the wireless speakers. I had on clothes, but underneath them, I was wearing lingerie. Something I didn’t do often.
I tried to make small talk with him as we ate.
“I think Chastin is fully potty trained now,” I said to him. “They’ve been working with her at daycare.”
“That’s good,” Jeremy said, scrolling through his phone with one hand and eating with the other.
I waited a moment, hoping whatever it was on his phone would take a back seat to us. When it didn’t, I adjusted myself in my seat and attempted to grab his attention again. I knew conversation about the girls was his favorite subject.
“When I picked them up today, the teacher said she’s learned seven colors this week.”
“Who?” he said, finally making eye contact with me. “Chastin.”
He stared at me, dropped his phone flat on the table, and took another bite.
What the fuck is his problem?
I could see the anger he was trying to stifle, and it made me nervous. Jeremy never got upset, and when he did, I almost always knew why he was. But this was different. It was coming out of left field.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I sat back in my chair and dropped my napkin on the table. “Why are you mad at me?”
“I’m not mad.” He said it too fast.
I laughed. “You’re pathetic.”
He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. “Excuse me?”
I leaned forward. “Just tell me, Jeremy. Enough of this bullshit silent treatment. Be a man and tell me what your problem is.”
His fists clenched and then unclenched. Then he stood up and slapped his bowl, sending it across the table and all over the dining room wall. I had never seen him lose his temper. I stiffened, wide-eyed, as he stomped out of the kitchen.
I heard him slam our bedroom door. I looked at the mess and knew I’d have to clean it up after we made up so he’d know how much I appreciated him. Even if he was being a major fucking douche.
I shoved my chair under the table and walked to the bedroom. He was pacing back and forth. When I closed the door behind me, he looked up and paused. He was trying so hard in that moment to put his words in order— everything he needed to say to me. As angry as I was at him for throwing the meal I had worked so hard making for him, I felt bad that he was upset.
“It’s constant, Verity,” he said. “You talk about her constantly. You never talk about Harper. You never tell me what Harper learned in school or how Harper’s doing with potty training or all the cute things Harper said. It’s Chastin, all the time, every day.”
Shit. Even with how much I try to hide it, he still sees it. “That’s not true,” I said.
“It is true. And I’ve tried to keep my mouth shut, but they’re getting older. Harper’s going to notice that you treat them differently. It isn’t fair to her.”
I wasn’t sure how to get out of that predicament. I could have gotten defensive, accused him of something I didn’t like. But I knew he was right, so I needed to find a way to make him think he was wrong. Luckily, he turned away from me, so it gave me a moment to think. I looked up, like I was turning to God for advice. Stupid, girl. God won’t help you out of this one.
I stepped forward, cautiously. “Baby. It’s not that I like Chastin more.
She’s just…smarter than Harper. So she accomplishes things first.”
He spins around, angrier than before I even opened my mouth. “Chastin isn’t smarter than Harper. They’re different. But Harper is very intelligent.”
“I know that,” I said, taking another step toward him. I kept my voice low. Sweet. Unoffended. “That’s not what I meant. I meant…it’s easier for
me to have a reaction to what Chastin does because Chastin likes that. She’s animated, like me. Harper isn’t. I give her silent affirmation. I don’t make a show of it. She’s like you in that way.”
His stare was unwavering, but I was almost certain he was buying it, so I continued.
“I don’t push Harper when she’s in those moods, so yes, I do talk about Chastin more. Sometimes I focus on her more. But only because I realize they’re two different children with two different sets of needs. I have to be two different mothers to each of them.”
I was good at spewing bullshit. It’s why I became a writer.
Jeremy’s anger was slowly melting away. His jaw wasn’t as tense as he ran a hand through his hair, taking in what I had just said. “I worry about Harper,” he said. “More than I should, I’m sure. I don’t think treating them differently is the right thing to do going forward. Harper might notice the difference.”
A month earlier, one of the daycare workers had expressed concern to me about Harper. It wasn’t until that moment—when Jeremy was expressing his concern for her—that I remembered her mentioning it to me. She said she thinks we should have her tested for Asperger’s. I had forgotten all about it until that moment during my fight with Jeremy. And thank God I remembered because it was the perfect way to back up my defense.
“I wasn’t going to mention this because I didn’t want you to worry,” I said to him. “But one of their daycare teachers told me she thinks we should have Harper tested for Asperger’s.”
Jeremy’s concern grew tenfold in that moment. I tried to subdue that concern as quickly as possible.
“I’ve called a specialist already.” At least I will put a call in tomorrow.
“They’re going to call back when they have an opening.”
Jeremy pulled out his phone, becoming sidetracked by the potential diagnosis. “They think Harper is on the autism spectrum?”
I took his phone from his hands.
“Don’t. You’ll worry yourself sick until the appointment. Let’s speak to the specialist first because the internet isn’t the place we need to seek out answers for our daughter.”
He nodded and then pulled me in for a hug. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against the side of my head. “It’s been a shitty week. I lost a big client at
work today.”
“You don’t have to work, Jeremy. I make enough money for you to spend more time at home with the girls if that would make it easier.”
“I would go insane if I didn’t work.”
“Maybe so, but it’s going to be really expensive putting three kids through daycare.”
“We can afford…” He paused, pulling back. “Did you say…three?”
I nodded. I was lying, of course, but I wanted the mood of the night to disappear. I wanted him to be happy. And he was so happy after I told him I was pregnant again.
“Are you sure? I thought you didn’t want more.”
“I was sloppy with the pill a couple of weeks ago. It’s still early. Really early. I found out this morning.” I smiled. Then I smiled even bigger.
“You’re happy about it?” “Of course I am. Are you?”
He laughed a little, then he kissed me, and all was back to normal.
Thank God.
I gripped his shirt in my fist and kissed him back with everything in me, wanting him to forget all about the fight we were having. He could tell by my kiss that I wanted more than just a kiss. He took off my shirt, then took off his own. He kissed me as he backed up to the bed. When he removed my pants, he saw the bra and panties I had put on for him.
“You’re wearing lingerie?” he asked. He dropped his head into my neck. “And you made my favorite meal,” he said, disappointed. I wasn’t sure why he sounded disappointed until he pulled back, brushed hair from my face, and said, “I am so sorry, Verity. You were trying to make tonight special and I ruined it for you.”
What he doesn’t understand is that he could never ruin a night for me when it ends with him loving me. Focusing on me.
I shook my head. “You didn’t ruin it.”
“I did. I threw my food, I yelled at you.” He brought his mouth to mine. “I’ll make it up to you.”
And he did. He fucked me slowly, kissing me the whole time, taking turns with each nipple as he sucked them. Had I breastfed, would he be enjoying my breasts as much?
I doubted it. Even after twins, my body was nearly perfect. Aside from the scar on my abdomen, the most important parts of me were still in tact.
Still fairly firm. And Jeremy’s temple between my legs was still nice and tight.
When he had me close to the edge, he pulled out of me. “I want to taste you,” he said, moving down my body until his tongue was spreading me apart.
Of course you want to taste me, I thought. I kept things in tact for you down there. You’re welcome.
He stayed between my legs until I came for him. Twice. When he began to crawl back up my body, he paused at my stomach and kissed me there. Then he was inside of me again, his mouth on mine. “I love you,” he whispered between kisses. “Thank you.”
He was thanking me for being pregnant.
He made love to me with so much care, with so much compassion. It was almost worth faking the pregnancy just to have him love me like that again. To get our connection back.
If there was one good thing the girls brought to our life, it was that Jeremy seemed to love me the most when I was pregnant. Now that he thought I was about to give him a third child, I could already feel his love multiplying again.
There was a small part of me that was concerned about faking the pregnancy, but I knew I had options if I didn’t get pregnant that week. Miscarriages were just as easy to fake as pregnancies.
