Page 57 of This Is How It Started
“Yep.”
“Yep, you saw it? Or Yep, you’ll do it?”
“Both. I cleared my decks for the new house but can squeeze you in.”
“Really?” I don’t know what I was expecting, but I didn’t think it would be this easy. “You don’t mind that it’s not carpentry?”
“Nope. How ’bout I come over tomorrow to get the keys to the new place and you show me what you want done?”
“I was going to meet you and Jess at Liberty. I have a gift for you guys.” Closing day is usually a big production. I meet the clients at the house, present them with the key and take lots of happy pictures that I can later use in promotional mailers about how I make dreams come true. It’s also standard operating procedure to give the buyers something for the new house. In Campbell and Jessica’s case, it’s a home warranty. I’m figuring most of the appliances that come with the place are circling the drain. At least the warranty will pay for replacements.
“You didn’t have to do that, Rach. But if you want to meet at the house first, that works. I’ve got to motor, but I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Campbell. You’re a lifesaver.”
I click off, relieved that I can check the pool house off my list. Although I have my reservations about being near Campbell every day—things never feel resolved between us, like we’re always walking on eggshells—I know he’ll get the job done and finish on time.
It’s cooler outside than I thought, and my arms prickle with goose bumps. That’s what I get for not wearing a jacket. I try to brave the chill in my short sleeves so I can let the swing take me away for a while, but the cold eventually sends me scurrying inside.
It’s been a few days since I checked in with Mommie Dearest and should probably give her a call. Instead, I linger in the kitchen, considering the wisdom of a second cup of coffee. Ultimately, I go in for the second cup but reject Mom. There’s too much for her to wheedle out of me, and I’m still not ready to share.
Instead, I shoot Josie a text and ask her what she’s doing for dinner. Suddenly I feel restless. It’s hard to believe it’s been nearly eight months since the accident. My life has changed in ways I never could have predicted. Here I am in my childhood home, running it like a Motel 6 with my father’s child widow, who I’ve actually come to respect. And maybe even like (the jury is still out on that one). My brother-in-law is no doubt schtupping half the blondes in the city. And my husband had a whole other life he kept from me. Maybe it’s not infidelity in the classical sense, but I feel cheated. It doesn’t mean I love him any less, but it has made me question everything I thought I knew about us. And that’s not a good place to be when I can’t ask him for answers.
In other news, my professional life is still in the shitter. So at least some things have remained the same for consistency’s sake. This morning, though, I did get a referral from Zillow. A middle-aged man looking for a house in the Inner Sunset, who seems like a serious buyer and not just a lookie-loo.
After finishing the rest of my coffee, I drag my ass upstairs for my laptop. I should probably start searching the MLS for him since we’re scheduled to go out Saturday and I have nothing to show him.
But instead of searching for homes, I grab Josh’s laptop, plop down on my bed and return to his Gmail account to spend more quality time with him and Beth. I realize that this is unhealthy, bordering on obsessive compulsive. That some things are better left in the dark. But I can’t seem to help myself. I have to know how it ends.
Where did I last leave off? Oh, Beth, the slinky dress, and the fitting room. I find it interesting that Josh never responded to Beth’s selfie picture. No you-look-incredible return text. It could be that he was simply too busy to reply. But that doesn’t seem to be his MO as far as their texting history.
I skip to the next one, which is a few days later.
Josh: “I’m at the store. Should I get milk? Or did you?”
Beth: “Get milk.”
Next day.
Beth: “I’m two doors down from the dry cleaners. You want me to pick up your suit?”
Josh: A thumbs-up emoji.
Hmm, it appears the honeymoon is over. Yet the fact that they’ve fallen into a domestic rhythm makes me feel worse rather than better. They may as well be a married couple, which is like a dagger in my chest.
I sort through the perfunctory—i.e., boring—texts and hunt for the ones that will shed light on why Josh was single the day I met him. What if Beth died and Josh was so crestfallen he couldn’t say her name without having to be rushed to the hospital? Or what if it turns out she was married and living a secret life with Josh, and he feels so foolish about the way she duped him that he vowed to erase her memory for all eternity?
It does occur to me that maybe he wasn’t single after all, and the reason he never told me about Beth is because he was still with her while he was in a bar, flirting with me. I don’t really know how to feel about that.
I’m through more than a year’s worth of texts when I come to one in September, just five months before Josh and I met.
Beth: “I’m going out for drinks tonight with Jamila and Jacob. Don’t wait for me for dinner because we may go out and grab something.”
Josh: “Where? I may get off early tonight, in which case I’ll meet you.”
Beth: “We haven’t chosen a place yet. I’ll text you as soon as I know.”
Four hours later.
