I spend most of the day wandering the city aimlessly. I walk to all my favorite shops, looking at clothes and bedding and perfume, but I buy nothing. I don’t even eat lunch. Shelley texts me a bunch of times, but I don’t want to feed her gossip. I just want to be alone.
Sam comes home after nine, which is unheard of for him. Usually he’s home by five, and if for any reason he’s later than that, he texts me. I texted him to ask where he was, but he never responded. He just shows up after the sun is already down, his hair disheveled, smelling slightly of alcohol. And—maybe this is my paranoia talking—he also smells like Monica’s lavender-scented perfume.
“Do you want dinner?” I ask him when he walks through the door. “I got pizza.”
“I already ate,” he mumbles. “Where?”
He shrugs.
“Monica’s apartment?” I say pointedly.
He glares at me. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that, but what else am I supposed to say when my husband comes home late and smelling like another woman’s perfume? I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t take meth, and he should know that.
“I’m going to go to bed,” he says as he pulls off his tie, which is already hanging loose around his neck.
“But it’s only nine-thirty.” “Yeah, well.”
Except he doesn’t go straight to bed. He goes in the bathroom and I hear the shower running for about half an hour. I turn the television to the news because it’s about all I can focus on right now. This has been one of the worst days of my life. That day we lost the baby was bad, but this is right up there. At least when that happened, I had Sam’s support. I don’t know how he could possibly believe I’m a meth addict. I haven’t been acting that weird.
Have I?
Just as I’m about to get up to go to bed myself, Sam stomps out of the bedroom, his hair damp, dressed in boxers and an undershirt. He’s holding a plastic bag in his hand.
“What the hell is this?” he says.
I stare at the object in his hand. It’s a Ziploc bag which appears to be filled with small, white crystals. “Is it jewelry?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” He’s nearly shouting now. He shakes the bag in my face. “Are you honestly going to tell me you don’t know what this is?”
I take the bag out of his hand. It looks like crystals. Like rock candy or something. I have no idea what this is. Except…
“Oh my God, is this meth?” I breathe.
“You tell me,” he snaps. “I found it in your drawer!” “You were snooping through my drawers?”
“Yes, I was.” He glares at me. “You just failed a drug screen at work and you’ve been acting insane lately, so yes, I looked through your drawers. But I don’t think that’s the most important issue here.”
“I swear to you, Sam,” I say. “I’ve never seen this before.” “Well, why was it in your drawer?”
“I don’t know.”
“You and I are the only two people who live here. I didn’t put it there.
So if it wasn’t you, who did?”
“I… I don’t know.” I flinch at the anger on his face. “But you’ve got to believe me—it’s not mine.”
“Right,” he snorts. “So it’s in your urine and in your drawer, but it’s not yours. You can see why this is a little hard for me to believe.”
“Someone must have put it there.” “Who? Santa Claus?”
I squeeze my fists together. “I don’t know. But I’ve never seen that bag before in my life.”
Sam plucks the bag out of my hand and looks at it in disgust. “I’m flushing this down the toilet.”
“Don’t do that!”
He shakes his head. “Why not?”
“Because it’s evidence. There might be fingerprints on it.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He rolls his eyes. “You know what will happen if you get caught with this? You’ll go to jail. I’m flushing it. Sorry
—you’ll have to get your next high somewhere else.”
I stare after him in disbelief. I look down at my hands, which are shaking badly. I don’t know what’s going on here. Is it possible I’m a meth addict and don’t know it? Maybe I have one of those conditions where I black out and have a whole other life on the side. Is that possible? Because he’s right—there’s only one logical explanation for all of this.
And it doesn’t make me feel very good about myself.
