“What the fuck is going on here?”
“Nothing. Look, I was upset and Beth was comforting me and we were a little too close for a second, but that’s all.”
“Don’t fucking talk to me about my wife,” Matt said. Never in my life had I heard him use the word fuck so often in such a short span of time. It was so frequent that it was almost ridiculous, like a teenager who’s just learned to swear and is trying to sound tough. It sounded wrong coming out of his mouth — he was too proper for that. But each time he said it, everything around me sharpened into focus, like I was waking up from a dream.
“Matt, really,” I said. “It was nothing.”
“Nothing?” he asked, looking at me and then turning back to Jimmy. “Were you about to fuck my wife?” He pushed him against the wall again. I’d never seen Matt get in a fight, never seen him get physical with anyone. It wasn’t his style. He was too practical, too levelheaded to act like this.
Even with my heart beating fast and my cheeks burning, knowing I’d just acted in a horrible and stupid way, the scene in front of me was so dramatic, so over the top that I almost laughed. It was absurd. This wasn’t real — things like this didn’t happen to people like us. This was an episode of Jerry Springer, not real life. Certainly not my real life.
Jimmy wasn’t fighting back at all, was just letting Matt push him against the wall, and this seemed more an admission of guilt than anything. Because really, if we hadn’t been doing anything wrong, surely he’d be defending himself.
“No,” Jimmy said. “I wasn’t. Nothing was going to happen.”
“Fuck you,” Matt said, and then Jimmy actually did react, shoved Matt in the chest once with both hands.
“Go ahead and punch me,” Jimmy said. “I know you want to. You’ve wanted to for a long time now, so here’s your chance. Do it.”
Matt shook his head. “You’re such a piece of shit,” he said. “You know that?” And then he turned to me and said, “Let’s go.”
—
It occurred to me that Matt was so angry (on top of having had two glasses of port and drinks at dinner) that he shouldn’t be driving, but I didn’t say anything about it. We climbed into the car — I’d somehow remembered to grab my dress, and I held it in my lap, squeezing the material in my fists. “Matt,” I said. “I’m so sorry. You have to believe me that it was nothing. Jimmy was upset, and—”
“Did you fuck him?” Matt asked. Again, with the word fuck. I felt the urge to laugh, which has always happened to me in inappropriate circumstances (I let out a giggle at my own grandmother’s funeral), but fortunately, it went away.
“No,” I said, trying to make it sound as if that were the most ridiculous thing he could’ve suggested. “We kissed for a second, but it was nothing. Nothing.” Without really meaning to, I left out the details of Jimmy’s hand under my dress, of his fingers inside of me, like I’d already forgotten it had happened. I couldn’t tell him that — it was too confusing, would make the whole thing seem much worse.
“Nothing?” Matt said. He looked over at me.
“Nothing,” I said. “We just got mixed up.”
“You got mixed up?” I wondered if Matt was going to just keep repeating everything I said.
“Yes,” I said. “It was stupid.” And then I started to cry, big heaving sobs, bent over in the seat, not able to catch my breath. It occurred to me that now I was being overdramatic, acting like I’d been wronged, crying like I could make Matt feel sorry for me. But I couldn’t stop. “I’m sorry,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “I love you, Matt. It was just a stupid mistake, that’s all.”
Then I buried my head in my hands and he let me cry, not saying anything, and eventually I noticed that the car had stopped moving. “Beth,” he said, not in a mean way, exactly, but also with no trace of kindness. “Beth, stop. We’re here.”
—
We talked that night until we had nothing left to say. I just kept apologizing and crying, thinking at some point my tears would run out, but they didn’t. I told him how I’d hugged Jimmy when he was upset, how it led to a confusion of body parts — that’s actually what I said: a confusion of body parts. Honestly, it seemed as good an explanation as anything else.
Matt sat in the desk chair and I was on the bed as we talked, my knees pulled up to my chest. “It was just a kiss,” I said over and over. “Just for a second.”
It felt a little like a business meeting, the way we were positioned across from each other. I don’t know how long we stayed there. Hours, I think.
“Has this been going on for a while?” Matt asked.
“No,” I said. “This was the only time. Just this one thing. One kiss, that’s all.”
I was aware of what I was leaving out, of how I edited the story. But even if I’d wanted to tell him everything — which I didn’t — I wouldn’t have known how to phrase it. (Was there any term more disgusting than getting fingered? I hadn’t heard anyone say it since high school, since Kelly Klinger told me in homeroom that’s what her boyfriend had done to her the night before, and I felt as confused now as I did then about what had actually occurred.) I also somehow knew that Jimmy would never tell anyone that detail, that I could get away with this one omission. So, no, I would never fully explain, but I would apologize over and over until Matt believed me.
When we were winding down, Matt asked, “Do you like him?” This was the only time he showed any emotion during this conversation, his voice catching on the word like, making him sound young.
“No,” I said. “It’s not — I don’t want anything with Jimmy. I think I’ve felt lonely lately, like you’re ignoring me or like you don’t care. And I know that’s not an excuse. It’s just — it’s what’s been going on.”
Matt nodded in a businesslike way. “Were you trying to get back at me?”
I shook my head at the same time I said, “No. I wasn’t. I know this might not make sense but it was just an accident. A mistake.”
Matt didn’t say anything then, just looked at me, and I rested my head on my knees and continued to cry.
When we’d first started dating, Matt couldn’t stand to see me cry. Any argument we had would be over as soon as there were tears — he’d comfort me, apologize, do anything to get me to stop. Over the years, it had less of an effect on him, and now he seemed completely immune.
I heard a noise then and looked up from my knees to see Matt standing up. “Are you leaving?” I asked.
“I need to take a walk,” he said.
“Matt,” I said, a new sob in my voice. “I’m so sorry. I really am. I love you, you know that.”
He nodded again. “Okay,” he said. He walked out the door casually, as if he were just going down to the lobby to get something.
When he left, I cried some more, and then after a while I began to feel bored by my own tears, and they slowed and then finally stopped. I could feel a headache behind my eyes and reached for the remote, turned on the TV to drown out my thoughts. I was still on top of the covers, fully dressed, but I was too tired to bother changing. I fell asleep and woke up after a fitful dream to find that the TV was still on and Matt was just returning to the room. “Hey,” I said, as he climbed into bed, and he said, “Hi,” before turning off the light and lying down so that his back was facing me.
The next time I opened my eyes, it was 7:00 a.m. and Matt was getting dressed. I sat up and said, “Hi.”
“Hi,” he said back, looking in the mirror as he knotted his tie.
“Are you okay?” I asked.