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No one tells you how hard it can be to occupy all the hours in a day. I know he’s referring to sex, but without coffee coursing through my veins, I’m not feeling particularly creative. “I think I have an appointment.”
“An appointment? What appointment?” He seems surprised, and then I realize why. “I took a peek at your calendar. I saw book club on there…but not anything about an appointment.”
“Really?” It’s actually surprising how clingy he’s become, so unlike the man I’ve been married to for the last decade and a half. For days now, all he’s done is wander the house, hovering, unsure what to do with himself or what to say. His insistence that we keep the girls home from school—to recover—has been less than ideal. They are bored, I am bored, and now Michael is bored. Nevertheless, he was adamant about it—even after I pointed out that almost all psychologists say sticking to a normal routine is best after trauma. I was overruled. Three to one.
It hasn’t exactly helped that none of us can leave the house without being accosted. But this—all of this togetherness, being holed up in our home—doesn’t exactly amount to privacy either.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” I tell him, untangling our bodies, moving toward the window. The street is quiet but far from empty. “Maybe it’s tomorrow.”
“Didn’t see anything about an appointment tomorrow either…”
“Maybe it’s on my work calendar.”
“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe you’re just tired. You haven’t slept in days.”
“I slept a little. On the couch. Didn’t wanna wake you.”
“It’s understandable, Charlotte,” he replies with an edge I know. “You don’t have to pretend everything is fine—wh
en it clearly isn’t.”
“I know it isn’t,” I say with a nod toward the stairs. “Hayley isn’t sleeping either.”
After several long beats, he sighs. “I think we’re going to have to talk about it, don’t you?”
“We are talking about it.”
“I mean—really talk.”
Turning away from him, my eyes close slowly. I squeeze them shut and count to five, making sure to keep my voice calm and even. When it comes to lying, practice doesn’t make perfect. There are always telltale signs. Tone is one of them. “What do you want to know?”
“Well, for one, I’d like to know how it is possible that my wife is basically a sharpshooter and I had no idea.”
I knew that Michael was going to have questions about the gun, so this does not exactly come as a surprise. I turn to face him. “I’m hardly a sharpshooter. I shot him point blank.”
“Jesus.”
Chewing at my bottom lip, I realize his expression is why it’s important to manage this conversation appropriately. I assumed he would want to know how I knew to shoot, where I got the gun, and why I had it to begin with. For the most part, the answers to those questions are easy. “It’s really not a big deal. I’m fine—Hayley is fine—this will all blow—”
“You killed a man, Charlotte. You just said it yourself. You shot him point blank in the face. Who could be fine after that?”
“In the head,” I say, correcting him.
He glares at me wide-eyed with his mouth slightly open.
“It wasn’t exactly for sport.”
“I know,” he says crossing the kitchen. He takes my hands into his. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound insensitive. This is just a lot to take in.”
You have no idea. “For me, too.”
Michael’s response gives me hope that this will in fact all blow over. Most people, Henry included, have a hard time believing that it’s possible to hide what I do from my spouse. Especially, if you consider I’ve been doing it for so many years. But that’s because people these days have forgotten what discretion truly is. Privacy is power. What people don’t know, they can’t ruin.
It’s always funny to me. People think they know what their spouse does when they’re outside the house. But do they really? Eight, ten, twelve hours a day—sometimes more—the person you share a life with leaves home and essentially lives another life, fulfilling a role, earning a living, being someone else, doing something else. Believe me, I’ve stewarded enough flights to know. We all wear different masks.
“Maybe,” he suggests, “We could run through it. Perhaps it would help if you talked to someone—if you talked to me.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for that, Michael.” I take a deep breath in and hold it. Obviously, I’m aware that I can’t fend off his curiosity forever. But so far, I’ve managed okay, and I’d like to keep managing. “You have no idea what it was like. The gunfire…all those people… all that blood.”
