I Don't Forgive You

or allow women priests.
The fact that his family made a point of staying in this particular congregation after many left for more liberal Episcopal churches was something I laughed off in Chicago. But what was fodder for amusement from afar has become a source of tension up close.
Mark’s family expects us to attend this church, and I flatly refuse. I don’t go, and I do nothing church-related. Cole goes for now. When he decides he’s had enough, as I’m sure he will, we’re going to respect that. I know I am kicking the can down the road, but I can’t take on his entire family. Besides, I need these mornings to visit my mother.
I tell her I’ll go find Mark. I locate him in the family room, remote control in hand, setting a recording for the Nats game.
“Your sister’s waiting. She made a comment about Cole’s shirt. Apparently, you were all supposed to wear navy.”
Mark grunts. He didn’t hear me, not really. I grab a tote bag I’ve filled with goodies that Sharon likes. Or at least used to like. Fire & Ice nail polish. Copies of the latest gossip magazines. A huge box of Dots candy.
Mark clicks the power off and tosses the remote into a wicker basket next to the sofa. He turns to me.
“You look very handsome,” I say. And he does, in his chinos and blue-and-white checkered shirt. His temples have gone gray, but I think it only makes him more attractive. He could easily play the president in some B-movie, with his square jaw and easy smile. But it wasn’t really his looks that drew me to him. It was his unflappable confidence. The café I worked at in San Francisco was a magnet for the homeless, crazies, and anarchists, and I used to watch how Mark navigated the sometimes-tricky terrain like a diplomat, treating everyone with respect and dignity. He used to come in every Saturday morning, lugging his laptop and files on whatever case he was working on, and park himself at a table near the window. He’d spend all day nursing one scone but drinking coffee after coffee, tapping away. Turned out he had wandered in one day randomly and had been returning every Saturday since to work up the nerve to ask me out, even though it meant taking a twenty-minute Muni ride from his apartment.
“And you look lovely in my old shirt.” He kisses the top of my head.
“Yeah, I need to change.” We’re halfway through the dining room when he stops and pivots. “Allie, is there anything you want to tell me?”
“Uh, no. Like what?”
“I don’t know. About this whole Rob Avery thing. About last night.”
“No. Why?”
“I just, well, I noticed that he follows—or followed, I should say—you on Instagram.”
“Wait, you noticed that?” I am taken aback. Mark is not on Instagram, or any social media. “What do you mean?”
“You left your Instagram page up on the computer.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.” He sounds so confident that I start to question myself.
“Fine, maybe I did. But that guy Rob, he just started following me. Like last night. I told him my Instagram info at the party.”
“Then how did he like pictures of you from August?”
I inhale through my nose and smile. Mark knows nothing about social media. “You can do that, silly. You can go back and like people’s posts from months ago.”
A dark cloud crosses his face. “I’m not being silly, Allie. I have to be honest, I think it’s a little odd.”
“Mark, are you serious? It means nothing.” A swell of panic surges in my chest.
“Nothing? The guy you say attacked you last night, who is now dead, has been following you on Instagram. That’s not nothing, Allie. That’s weird.”
A creak of a floorboard grabs my attention. I look past Mark to see my sister-in-law standing half-hidden in the shadows of the foyer. I didn’t hear her open the screen door, and I have no idea how long she has been standing there.

 9
I notice that Mark’s car, which we had left at Daisy’s last night, is now parked behind Caitlin’s.
“When did you get that?” I ask, craning my neck.
“This morning.”
“This morning? When? I got up just after five, and you were still sleeping.”
“I woke up around three, hungover, you know the drill. Couldn’t sleep.”
I nod, trying to work it out in my head. “So you went over to Daisy’s and got the car?”
“Yeah, then I went back to bed.”
“I can’t believe I slept through all that.” But Mark is not listening. He’s shepherding Cole into the back seat of Caitlin’s enormous Ford Explorer. I’ve noticed an inverse correlation between the size of the woman and her SUV in D.C., and birdlike Caitlin is no exception.
I get into my own car and watch them drive away, a fluttering panic in my rib cage. Everything feels off, and my anxiety is spiking. I miss Cole already, and the thought that Caitlin is taking Mark and my son away from me for good hits me. Irrational. I turn on the engine. The news of Rob Avery’s death has thrown me for a loop, that’s all. And I’m never in a good mood after seeing Caitlin. I try to see her through Mark’s eyes. He knows she’s difficult, but he loves her loyalty and intelligence. He’s told me all these stories about her taking on school bullies on his behalf and of how she stood up to their overbearing father, who thought it was a waste of time for a pretty girl to go to law school. According to Mark, Caitlin also struggled to get pregnant, and her husband refused to do IVF or to adopt. I almost wish I didn’t know these intimate details about her, because then I feel like a jerk.
But then I remember the things she’s said over the years. During my first visit to D.C. with Mark for Thanksgiving, when I was seven months pregnant, I overheard Caitlin asking her mother in the kitchen, How do