Apart at the Seams Read Online Free Page B

turned the heat on full blast while simultaneously cracking open the window, hoping to keep the smoke from smelling up the car. I opened the ashtray, a thing I’d never had occasion to do before, squashed my cigarette butt into the pristine little receptacle, and immediately lit up another. The nicotine, or perhaps the simple act of breathing deeply, calmed me.
    But I still didn’t know what I was supposed to do next. I couldn’t just pick up my husband curbside at the United terminal, kiss him hello, and pretend everything was all right. One look at Brian’s face and I knew I’d fall apart, sob and wail and end up looking pathetic and foolish—because I was. Because I’d never seen it coming.
    I couldn’t face Brian, but I couldn’t just leave him waiting at the airport either. He’d be worried that something had happened to me. Or, it occurred to me, he wouldn’t be worried. And that would be worse.
    I rested my cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and started digging through my purse for my cell phone, keeping one eye on the road as I did so, knowing I was breaking a lot of very good laws. Brian was in the air at that moment. I could leave him a voice mail. But what would I say?
    I needed a story . . . a burst pipe at the cottage? Having to run up to Connecticut to deal with the situation? He’d believe that; we’d had plumbing problems since day one. Once I was out of town, I could shut off my phone and ignore his calls for at least a day or two without arousing suspicion. Three years after we’d purchased the cottage, cell reception in New Bern was still spotty. I needed time by myself to figure out what I was supposed to do next—contact a lawyer, or do whatever it was people did when they got divorced.
    Divorced.
    Even after reading that letter—no, memo—even then, it was hard to believe this was happening to me, to us.
    Glancing in my rearview mirror to make sure the coast was clear of police cruisers, I hit Brian’s number on my speed dial, the first in the list, and waited for his voice mail to pick up. Except it didn’t. Brian did. He started talking even before I could get in a word.
    â€œMy connection is delayed—again.” He groaned. “I honestly don’t know why I go through Chicago. Anyway, I’m at the gate, and they say we’ll be boarding in about a half hour, so, assuming they’re telling the truth, I should be home in time for dinner. Did you cook anything?”
    â€œNo, I—”
    â€œThen let’s go out. Italian?”
    â€œI can’t, sweet—” I started to call him “sweetheart.” The endearment is nearly automatic by now, but I stopped myself. “I . . . I can’t pick you up either. You’ll have to get a cab. Drew texted me. . . . I’m driving up to Connecticut.”
    â€œDon’t tell me,” he said in a resigned tone. “That bloody furnace. I was hoping it’d last till spring. But why do you have to go up? Can’t you just call a repairman?”
    The sound of his voice pulled me up short. He sounded so normal, as if nothing had changed between us.
    Obviously we’d moved past the “tell me what you’re wearing” stage many years ago. This is what our conversations are like now. We talk about the kids, our schedules, our jobs, and . . . things like bills and broken furnaces. I never thought that meant we were unhappy. The conversation wasn’t exciting, but discussing domestic details was just part of married life, wasn’t it? And, in a way, it made me feel secure. Obviously, I was wrong. Maybe I’d been hearing what I wanted to hear all along.
    â€œNot the furnace. It’s . . . a burst pipe. And there’s water in the . . .” I paused for a moment, took another run at it, trying to launch into the story I’d rehearsed, but I couldn’t do it. I’m a terrible liar.
    â€œBrian, I