Page 1 of On Dry Land

Prologue

DRYDEN

Five years ago

My first thought as I read the message from my doctor is that he meant to send it to someone else. That probably happens a lot, and the most reasonable explanation in this scenario is that it’s happening right now. Human error. Even doctors make mistakes.

“I don’t have the clap,” I announce, the words echoing in my empty office.

And yet, I print out the results. I print out the portal message from my doctor and the prescription information for antibiotics. It all has my name and birthday on it. Tapping my fingers on my desk, I start to imagine that I can feel a burning in my groin, as though just the thought of gonorrhea is bringing it into existence. I don’t have it, though. I can’t. I’ve had sex with the same person for years, and that person only has sex with me.

Frowning, I shut down the blueprints I should be focusing on and instead bring up a private browser. Perhaps I’ve gone my entire life misunderstanding the way sexually transmitted infections are spread. Maybe I got it from using a public restroom.

Fifteen minutes of research later, there is an incessant buzz in my ears and a burn in my throat that could be anger but is most likely tears. Curling and uncurling my fingers, I swallow the urge down. Crying will fix nothing. Crying in this office, where any number of people could walk in at any time, will make this worse. Instead, I do what I’m supposed to do. I carefully—ignoring the slight tremor in my fingers—fold up the printed pages from my health record and slide them into my shoulder bag. I take a sip of coffee, long forgotten and cold now, but soothing on my throat nonetheless. I systematically shut my emotions down, one by one, blinking them out of existence. And then I go back to work.

I work late often. I bring work home with me to continue there most days. Dylan, who neither knows nor cares what I do as an engineer beyond making money, takes it in stride when I tell him I have work to do. Most evenings, he’s not home to complain about my hours anyway.

Today, the first day I’ve left the office at 5:00 p.m. since I started this job, his car isn’t in the driveway when I get home. Dylan, whose family own a chain of grocery stores, mainly works scheduled hours. But Dylan is also a socialite and is known for being the type of coworker to invite the others out to drinks. A day spent in board meetings wouldn’t dampen his desire to have a beer with those very same people, regardless of whether he actually likes them or not. I’d asked him once, when he arrived home late one night and sloppily came to greet me in my office. He’d smelled like bourbon and Bleu de Chanel; his mouth had tasted like salt. He had a weakness for snacks—bar peanuts included.

“I hate those bastards,” he’d replied, grinning crookedly.

“Then why are you going out with them, you lush?” I’d asked, laughing. He’d been sitting in my lap by then, kissing my neck and trying to wiggle his fingers into my shirt. Drink always made Dylan horny and affectionate. It also, on occasion, made him angry and mean.

“Because they’re there,” he’d replied, shrugging and focusing once more on the buttons of my shirt.

I’d shaken my head and let him undress me. I should have guessed that would be the answer. Dylan didn’t need quality; he needed quantity. He wanted rooms full of people and didn’t care at all who those people were. He wanted excitement and laughter and stories to tell. He wanted attention. Now, unpacking my bag in my home office, I pull out the folded lab results and think about that night, feeling a tendril of worry curl itself around my heart and squeeze.

My husband, who has no impulse control and the kind of sweet baby face that could both get him into trouble and out of it, needs attention like a plant needs the sun. I’ve always been happy to provide it. I do provide it.

Looking around my office, shame mixes with the worry stewing in my stomach and makes it hard to focus. I do work a lot. Today is the only day I can remember making it home at a decent hour, and Dylan isn’t here. It makes me wonder if that’s because he knew I wouldn’t be either. The presence of this damn office in our home suddenly feels like a problem. Do I spend too much time working?

I’ve never thought so. And I’ve asked, even, when projects brought me into the office on weekends or interrupted our time together. “I could tell him no,” I’d offer. My dad is my damn boss, after all. What the hell is he going to do, fire me? But Dylan would just laugh and tell me it was fine, that he liked how I was a hard worker. He’d make a joke about how I needed to keep the cash flow coming because he had his eye on a boat.

Even on the nights when I felt brave enough to have a conversation about my job, he wouldn’t take me seriously. The thing is, I don’t particularly like what I do. I suspect nobody does, but we do it anyway because we all took the time and spent the money to get a degree. We worked hard to get where we are—even though nepotism gave me a leg up—and at the end of the day, we all knew what sort of work environment we were signing up for. I’ve never complained to my family, but I thought, maybe, I could have that conversation with Dylan. That my husband would be a safe place to whisper fears and regrets and be comforted. But he didn’t get it. And it was hard enough for me to even try and talk about it that the experience left me certain I’d never do it again. Dylan didn’t care to hear about my work; he cared about the paycheck. I stopped bringing it up. I would settle into my job, earn money for my husband, and everyone would be happy.

Except maybe Dylan isn’t happy after all. Maybe he’s a liar, and I haven’t been the only one playing pretend with life.

The sound of the front door opening snaps me awake. I’ve been standing in the center of the room, lab results clutched in my hand, staring sightlessly at the far wall. The painting hanging there was a gift from my mom, and I hadn’t had the heart to tell her I hated it.

“Honey, I’m home!” Dylan calls, tinkling laugh filtering my way from the front room. I can hear his footsteps coming down the hallway. He already knew, without me even shouting back, that I was in my office. Working too much, that internal voice whispers.

I turn to face the door and watch as my husband comes into view. He’s always been a talented dresser, somehow managing to mix clothes in a way that would look strange on someone else but flatter him. Everything he wears costs more than it looks like it costs, a fact I pointed out to him once that made him laugh.

“It doesn’t matter if designer clothes are ugly, Denny. It matters that you can afford to wear them.”

Today, he’s dressed in a garishly colored slacks and polo, equally bright shoes glinting in the light of the room. Everything looks crisp and new, and I know without asking that this is likely both the first and last time he’ll wear the clothes. And, because I prefer to stick to muted, darker colors, I won’t wear them either.

“Golfing?” I ask him, voice steady and STI testing in my hand.

“Yeah. The board went out. You’re home early,” he notes, smiling happily and closing the space between us to kiss me.

I try to smell him. Explore his mouth a little bit. Does he taste like himself? All I can smell is grass and cologne, his lips a familiar mix of spearmint gum and salt. Every inch of him is neat—not a hair out of place, nor even a grass stain marring those yellow pants. Was he actually golfing, or was that a lie? I stare at him, lab results hot in my hand like the pages are on fire, and imagine an infection I hadn’t known was there spreading through my body. Gonorrhea doesn’t always show symptoms, and it’s been two years since I’ve had a routine physical or any sort of checkup with my doctor. I haven’t slept with another man other than Dylan since I was seventeen. The math doesn’t work.

“Shall we grab dinner? Or do you have more to get done tonight?” he asks, expression pleasant as he watches me. Dylan can be so easy to live with when he’s in a good mood, easy to be around. He tells me I make things harder than they need to be and that I’d be happier if I could just let go every now and then. I wonder how often he let go and if I’m holding the consequences of that in my hand right now.

“I’m done for the day,” I murmur, watching closely as his eyes light up, happy and bright.

“Well, dinner it is, then! Where shall we go? There’s a new place over on⁠—”