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Shay—
(Phone ringing.)
JAMIE:We’re not done—
End of transcript.
Chapter Seventeen
My husband was calling. I’d sworn to call him after dinner but forgot, and now, after Fox Lane and the interviews, we were creeping into the early morning hours. I didn’t want to talk to Cal, if I was being honest, but I wanted to escape Jamie and his questions even more.
“I have to take this,” I said.
Jamie stepped closer. “I want to understand.”
There was no room to breathe with Jamie in front of me, Cal buzzing in my hand, and the ghost of Don circling overhead. “Please,” I said, using every ounce of control to keep my voice cool and calm. “I need to talk to him.”
Jamie looked at the space I’d put between us, and for a second, he looked stricken—but it was only a flash, and then his face smoothed, and he was back to being professional. “Of course. Night, Shay.”
When he swept out of the room, I steeled myself and answered the phone. “Cal.”
“I’m stunned you answered.”
It was very late in Dallas, but I imagined Cal sitting in his library in his cognac armchair, one leg crossed over his knee, swirling a glass of whiskey. He was a handsome man, clean-cut, and he carried himself with ease, his untroubled mind obvious in everything, down to the graceful flick of his wrists. Unlike me, he wore his life on his sleeve: it was clear looking at him that he’d always been a favored son, a well-bred Dallas boy who’d slid effortlessly from church and football into a fraternity, then finance.
“I’ll cut to the chase,” he said. “When are you coming home?”
I took a deep breath, leaning my hip against the bed. “I don’t know yet.” The truth was, even the idea of returning to Dallas, to the cold house and calm swimming pool and vacant life, made me ache. I’d been missing from that life for far longer than I’d been here in New York, and it was time I admitted that to myself.
“What’s going on?” Now I pictured Cal setting the glass down and rising, pacing in front of the fireplace. His gait would be smooth, despite his agitation. “I came back to an empty house. You were supposed to be here.”
Maybe it was the late hour, the tense interviews with Jamie, or maybe it was projection, but I snapped. “What, to wait on you? Host your dinner parties and make sure your house is tidy, like a good little wife?”
“Excuse me?” He laughed, harsh and surprised. “Why are you so angry?”
I twisted my hands, making knots in the duvet. “I’m not. I just need to stay here a little longer for my book.”
“You can’t work here?”
“No.”
“Shay, you’re my wife. I want you home.”
Cal and I had never spoken so plainly about our expectations. We’d never needed to, because I’d always conformed to every assumed preference before he could speak it. It was how Cal’s parents, married for thirty-five years, behaved. It was how the other Highland Park wives, the Dallas socialites, acted with their husbands. For all the ways they were strong-willed, opinionated women, they always assumed they’d be the ones to bend, let their husbands’ preferences and schedules take priority.
It occurred to me for the first time that Cal wanted the same things from me Don had. He wanted me tied to home, living a life that revolved around him. I’d run so far and worked so hard to leave my past behind. Had I done all of that only to unconsciously re-create it, at least a shadow of it, with Cal?
What if part of me had never escaped Don’s house?
Claustrophobia squeezed my chest. I was back in that small bedroom, curled in a twin bed, crying each time the walls shook. Standing in the doorway, looking out at a calm suburban night, shaking with nerves. Tied up on the floor of Don’s bedroom, staring at the closed curtains, denied even a glimpse of the sky. Of course I’d gone and found someone like him. You didn’t just break a hold like that.
I gripped the phone so hard my hand ached. “Cal, you told me to quit working so I could focus on my book. That’s my job now. And this is where I need to be to do it, just like you need to be wherever your business trips send you. Give me a little respect.”
“I did tell you to quit,” he said. “When I thought that meant you’d be homemoreoften, not less. Helping take care of our house, spending time with our friends, being present for dinner. Hell, just being present. That’s called sharing a life. It’s what married people do.”
It was getting hard to take full breaths. Cal had never cared about my book, had he? He’d simply wanted a placid housewife, and I’d delivered. “You thought I’d stay in your cage as long as it was gilded, didn’t you?”
“Time out. Are you hearing yourself?” Cal’s voice turned pleading. “Shay, you sound nuts. You fly off to New York on a whim, I can’t get in touch with you, you won’t commit to coming home. Now I’m trying to cage you? Honey, this isn’t normal.”
