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Ben has never said that. Despite all the women being attacked in our city, he’s never once expressed concern for Sienna and me, and the fact that one of us is often home alone.
Luke says then, as if going back on what he said, “Not that you need some man to take care of you. That’s not what I mean. You’re stronger than anyone I know, Meghan,” and, in that moment, something inside of me changes.
I’ve never thought of Luke as attractive, not that he isn’t, but I’ve never thought of him as anything but a coworker and friend. I’ve never thought what it would be like for him to take me in his arms, to press his body into mine, to run a warm hand the length of my hair, to follow me into my apartment, to stay the night with me so I didn’t feel so alone or scared.
Just as quickly as it enters, I eliminate the thought from my mind, feeling wrong for even thinking it. Luke is Penelope’s husband. I have no right to thoughts like those.
My voice is light, dismissive. I make an offhand gesture with my hand. “You don’t need to worry about Sienna and me, Luke. Don’t get me wrong—I appreciate it—but honestly, we’re fine. Divorce or not, Ben is always keeping an eye on us, to the extreme,” I lie. “Some days, it’s intolerable. He means well, but I wish he would leave us alone.”
“Okay,” Luke says, suddenly self-conscious I think, and I feel guilty for a different reason, watching as he backs away toward the door. “Just be careful out there.”
“I will. You too.”
Luke leaves. I watch as the door drifts closed.
I throw the letter away before I go, pressing down with a bare hand, forcing it to the bottom of the trash can so no one will see it. I wash my hands after.
Out of sight, but not out of mind.
Ten
Standing alone in my kitchen, I send Nat a direct message on Facebook. I try and keep it breezy because I don’t want to overwhelm or put pressure on her, but I’ve been thinking about her all day and the way things left off at the restaurant, with something outside frightening her enough to make her leave. All day at work and then later at home with Sienna, eating dinner and helping her with homework, I’ve replayed her words in my mind—He can get mad sometimes. He—before she cut abruptly off and practically ran from the restaurant, concealing herself in a passing crowd. I think of all the ways to finish that sentence. He has a temper. He hits me. He scares me. He might kill me.
Now I just want to hear from her. I want to know that she made it home okay. I wonder where home is for her, how far she had to walk, and whether her ex knows where she lives.
Is your friend feeling any better? I ask in my message, though I wasn’t born yesterday. I don’t for a second believe she left because she was taking dinner to a sick friend, and I understand, but I feel bad that she felt she had to lie to me. I know we’ve lost touch over the years and that we weren’t the kind of friends in high school who told each other everything, but I’d like to think she feels safe with me and that she knows she can trust me. I would have rather she told me what was going on. I would have walked her home myself to make sure she got there okay.
I check and check again all night, but she never reads my message and she never replies.
My ex-husband Ben stands just inside my apartment, stealing all the oxygen from the room. The hostility between us takes my breath away sometimes, and I find it hard to remember a time when we were happy together. Those cozy moments on the sofa and the intimate moments in bed—did they really happen or did I only imagine they did?
“Is Sienna almost ready?” he asks, looking through or past me because he has this way of never meeting my eye anymore.
“Yes. Just give her a minute.”
He’s pissed that Sienna isn’t ready. What little patience he has wanes and he goes to stand at the window, looking out at the street below. “I’m double-parked,” he says gruffly, turning back to glance at Sienna’s closed bedroom door, his not-so-subtle way of telling me to tell her to hurry up, which I won’t because I refuse to be servile.
“I told you she’s almost done.”
“She has thirty seconds,” he says, checking his watch, and not for the first time since he’s been here.
“And then what?” I ask, calling his bluff.
Tension hangs in the air like early morning fog. I wait for Ben to say something, to threaten me with a call to the judge, but this time, he doesn’t.
“Is that a new shirt?” he asks instead, looking at it with something like disdain. I glance down at my shirt. It’s nothing fancy but it is nicer than what I’d usually wear around the house. I put it on after work, slipping first out of my scrubs and then standing, braless, in my bedroom before the floor-length mirror, staring at my breasts, wondering if the right one, in particular, looked any different than usual, as if I could somehow see the cancer itself, a prickly thistle beneath the skin. I regretted that I hadn’t been better with self-exams over the years. I just turned forty a couple months ago; this was my first mammogram, which scares me because if it is cancer, who knows how long it’s been there. Standing before the mirror, staring at my reflection, I pressed my fingertips to the breast, feeling around, but feeling inept; I didn’t know what I was looking for or if I’d know it if I found it. Eventually I gave up and went to my closet, searching for something to wear.
I put effort into my appearance on the nights Ben comes for Sienna. The last thing I need is for him to see me looking exhausted and slovenly in my work scrubs. I want him to see I’m doing fine—no, better than fine—I want him to see I’m doing great. Tonight I’m wearing a black-and-white floral shirt with a pleated neckline and satiny fabric, and jeans.
Since the divorce, Ben pays child support, which is equivalent to 20 percent of his income because I’m the custodial parent, or the one who gets Sienna for the majority of the time. He gets her for a few days every other week, which he was fully on board with because his work and travel schedule preclude him from being a full-time parent like me. Still he gripes about the amount of child support he has to pay, which goes toward things like Sienna’s education, food, shelter, clothing, all of which he was happy to contribute to before the divorce. But now it’s as if he thinks I’m using his money for new clothes for myself.
His is a loaded question. What he really wants to ask is did I use Sienna’s child support payments for my shirt?
Even without the 20 percent of Ben’s income, Sienna and I do fine financially. I don’t make nearly as much as him, but I make enough to support us. Our apartment is affordable and I’m smart with the money we spend. It also helps that my grandmother died sometime after the divorce, leaving me with a significant portion of her nest egg that I was grateful not to have to split with Ben—though he was bent out of shape about it, as if she intentionally timed her death to coincide with the signing of our divorce papers. I’ve used some of the inheritance on expenses, but most I’ve put away in the bank while I figure out what to do with the rest, though Sienna’s college education is at the top of the list. Still, it’s nice to know I have an emergency fund if Sienna and I ever need it. I don’t lose sleep over money like I used to. If something terrible happened—if I lost my job or if I found out I have cancer, for example—we’d be fine for a while.
“It is,” I say. “Do you like it?”
Ben shrugs. “It’s okay.” He looks at his watch again. “It’s ten after five. She should be ready when I come to pick her up. I shouldn’t have to wait. This is cutting into my time with her.”
