49

daniel

I watch Claire drive away after I walk her to her car. I shouldn’t have said that to her. I could blame it on Dylan, but I won’t. Telling Claire the truth about how I feel was the one thing I told myself I could never do if I wanted her to keep coming back. And I do want her to come back.

Once I’m back inside the house I gather up the empty beer bottles and throw them in the bin in the garage, then sit down on the couch and turn on the TV. I click aimlessly through the channels and finally shut it off.

I wanted Claire so much. I wanted to kiss her and take her clothes off and lay her down on my bed. I know she wanted me, too. I could see it in her eyes, hear it in her breathing. Not capitalizing on it was the right thing to do, but unfortunately I don’t feel noble at all and I sure as hell don’t feel satisfied.

I don’t know what I was thinking taking things so far with Claire.

And maybe it’s better that I don’t keep dragging things out with a woman who belongs to someone else.

50

claire

The doorbell rings in the afternoon two days later. I open the door and find Bridget standing on my porch, tears running down her face. “What is it?” I ask.

“We’re going to lose our home.”

I pull her inside, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Sam lost it all. Our savings, the boys’ college funds, our retirement account. Everything. He got fired six months ago.”

I think back to the day when I saw the man who looked like Sam walking into the credit union.

“He thought he could hide it from me, make gambling his full-time job.” She drags the sleeve of her sweatshirt across her red-rimmed eyes. “The bank will take possession of the house on Friday.”

Bridget loves her home. Her style is more ornate than any of ours, even with all those boys running around. She won’t spend a cent more than she needs to on her wardrobe, and jewelry isn’t her thing, but she’ll hunt down a bargain on cashmere throws and plush rugs. The perfect crystal sculpture or one-of-a-kind painting. Her state-of-the-art kitchen, complete with a fireplace and a small nook where she can drink a cup of coffee and read the newspaper, is her favorite room in the whole house, and she spends hours there making Sam and the boys their favorite meals.

“Oh, Bridget,” I say, pulling her into my arms. She sobs and I rub her back until she calms down. When she pulls away she sighs and tucks her short hair behind her ears. “I told him the gambling stops right now. He gets help and changes his ways, or we’re done.”

“Did he agree?”

“Yes. He’s at a Gamblers Anonymous meeting right now.”

I take her by the hand and lead her into the kitchen. “Sit down. Do you want some tea?”

She shakes her head. “No thanks. I just wanted to talk to somebody.”

“Do the other girls know?”

“Not yet. Can you tell them? I’m just so ashamed and embarrassed. My poor boys, Claire. They’re old enough to understand. I can’t hide this from them.”

“They’ll be okay. Not right this second, maybe, but eventually.” I hand Bridget a box of Kleenex and she wipes her eyes. “You’ll get through it as a family.”

“I should have paid attention. I should have taken more of an interest in our finances instead of letting Sam take care of everything. It might not have gotten so bad and I wouldn’t have been blindsided. I feel so foolish.”

“Where will you go?” I ask. At that moment I’m furious with Sam. How dare he take his whole family down with him?

“We’ll stay with my parents for a while, but I think it’s safe to say that their condo is not remotely large enough to hold all of us. If I can get back on at the hospital, I’ll rent something.”

I put my arm around Bridget’s shoulders as the sound of her sobbing fills my kitchen, and we stay like that until she’s all cried out. “I’ll do anything I can to help,” I say.

“Thanks, Claire.”

I walk her to the door and watch as she disappears into the house that’s no longer going to be hers.

Daniel is on duty, but he calls shortly before I have to go meet the school bus. What happened the night of Dylan’s visit was a big wake-up call and we’re both trying hard to pretend that what he said didn’t change anything.

“How’s your day been?” he asks.

“Good. How about you?”

“Great. I’m just taking a quick break.”

We’re overly cautious on the phone. Gone is the flirting tone I hadn’t even realized I’d been using until I stopped using it and noticed how different I sounded. Daniel pauses before he speaks, as if he’s weighing each word, choosing the ones that won’t send me fleeing. The ones that aren’t so brutally honest. So heavy.

“Are you off on Thursday?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll come by.”

“That would be great,” he says.

I can hear the relief in his voice. “I need to go meet the kids. I’ll call you later.”

“Okay. Have a good night.”

“You, too.”

When he walked me to my car last Saturday night he asked me point-blank if I’d be back. “I’ll understand if you say no.”

I wasn’t sure if I could. Realizing how close I’d come to crossing a line that would cause serious repercussions in my marriage had shaken me. Brought to light just how naïve I’d been. Because if Daniel hadn’t remained a gentleman, hadn’t been the one to end the embrace and take a literal step backward like he did, I’m not sure what would have happened.

“I need a few days,” I said.

“Of course. Take as long as you need.”

Everything feels different and there are so many things to think about. Most overwhelming is the guilt I feel about what I almost did, what I very much wanted to do in the heat of the moment. Then there’s my sadness over losing a friend, because what I had with Daniel now feels awkward, broken. If we can get back on track, put what happened behind us, then we might be okay.

I’m not sure if we can. And I’m not sure if we should.

51

claire

That night, the door creaks slightly as someone creeps into the bedroom. In the pitch-black darkness I sense movement beside the bed and I climb toward wakefulness.

“Who’s there?” I ask groggily.

“Mommy, I don’t feel good,” Jordan says.

I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed, gathering her in my arms. Pushing her hair back, I lay my cheek on her forehead. She feels feverish. I pull her into the bed and lay her head gently down on the pillow. “I’ll be right back. Mommy’s going to get some medicine, okay?”

She moans softly. “Okay.”

I keep our drugs in the kitchen, on a cupboard shelf up high and out of reach. I’m relieved when I spot a half-full bottle of Children’s Motrin and I hurry upstairs. Jordan squeezes her eyes shut when I turn on the lamp that sits on my nightstand.

“I’ll turn it off as soon as you take this,” I say, measuring out a dose and holding the medicine cup to her lips.

“Is it bubble gum?” she asks, as I help her sit up. “I don’t like the purple kind.”

“Yes,” I answer.

She swallows the pink liquid and lies back down, flopping listlessly onto the pillow.