I Don't Forgive You

a split second has me pressed up against the sink, the cold porcelain jabbing my hip bone.
I freeze as his hands travel up and down my body, the air trapped in my lungs. Then the adrenaline kicks in. I try to shove him away. It’s like pushing against a brick wall.
“Jesus, you make me so fucking hot.” His hands plunge up my skirt, warm fingers exploring. I swat at them to no effect. They crawl up my thighs like a dozen spiders. His mouth mashes my lips against my teeth. I slide my head to escape, to breathe. “You want me to fuck you right here?” His raspy cheek abrades mine like sandpaper.
There’s no room to escape. He wedges one knee between my legs and pries them open. His fingers slip beneath my panties, delve inside me. “You’re so wet.”
Shame floods me as my back arches in response to his touch. My brain screams no. I wrangle one arm free and manage enough leverage to jam my elbow into him. He staggers back, hand to his chest.
We both stand still, stunned. “What the fuck was that?” he asks. “You could have hurt me.”
I want to tell him I could hurt him a hell of a lot more. Instead, I yank open the bathroom door and stumble into the hall, pulling my skirt down and cursing myself again for wearing it.
I look up and see Mark halfway up the staircase. His eyes light up when he sees me.
“Hello. There you are.” The singsong tone of his voice tells me he’s drunk a bit too much. He glances past me, and his smile fades. I turn to see Rob emerging from the bathroom.
Rob shoves past me, knocking my shoulder, and then pauses at the top of the staircase. He turns, his face red with anger, and leans in to my ear so close I can smell his sweat. “Stay the fuck off Tinder, you cock tease.”
I open my mouth. No sound comes out. Rob continues down the stairs, and Mark grabs him.
“What the hell did you just say to my wife?” Mark asks.
Rob shakes his arm free. “Why don’t you ask Lexi?”

 4
The foyer is empty when I retrieve our jackets from the coat closet.
Mark is on my heels. “Allie, what was that about? Who was that guy?”
“Shhh,” I hiss. “I’ll tell you later.” I shove his jacket at him, ignoring the perplexed look on his face, and pull on my own coat. I just want to get out of here.
“Are you all right?” Mark’s loud attempt at a whisper would be funny in other circumstances. He smells like beer.
“Can we just go?” My eyes dart from the living room to the dining room. No one pays us any mind. But Rob is in there somewhere, saying God knows what to people.
Moments later, we are picking our way across the flagstones to the car. The fresh night air fills my lungs, and I finally feel like I can breathe. Mark stops. “I’m not sure I should drive.”
I nod. If he’s saying that, he really is too drunk. And there’s no way I want to get behind the wheel. My whole body is jangly.
“Fine. Let’s walk.” I turn away, not waiting for a response. We only live across Massachusetts Avenue, a fifteen-minute walk, tops.
“We could call an Uber,” Mark calls after me.
I stop and pivot. “Can we please just go? By the time an Uber comes, we’ll be home.” I glance up at Daisy’s house, the stone façade strategically lit by spotlights nestled among the azalea bushes. My eye lands on a figure in the front window, the large one in the dining room, backlit and unidentifiable. Is someone watching us? I shudder.
He jogs up to me and puts his arm on my shoulder as we hurry toward Mass Ave. At the curb, we wait for a chance to cross onto our side of the neighborhood. The distinction between the two sides is one of degrees. Both are upper-middle-class areas with single-family homes, but Daisy’s side boasts sprawling houses with landscaped yards and accent lights, while our side is filled with more modest brick houses jammed onto small lots and front yards littered with kids’ toys and worn Adirondack chairs.
“Allie, are you okay?” Mark asks. “What happened back there?”
“That guy was an asshole, that’s what happened. A drunk ass-hole.” My anger surprises both of us.
“What did he say to you?”
“Something about staying off Tinder.”
“Tinder? The dating app?”
“I guess.” After a car speeds by, I step into the four-lane road, pulling Mark after me.
“Why would he say that?” Mark asks, slightly out of breath, once we are on the other side.
“I don’t know.” I stop to face him. “Can we please just go home?”
He looks wounded.
“I just want to take a hot shower. Is that okay? Can we talk about it after that?”
He nods and we walk side by side through the empty suburban streets, Halloween decorations in almost every yard. It’s mid-October and in the mid-sixties. Growing up in Connecticut, fall meant digging out your wool sweaters, and in Chicago, it meant winter coats. But my first autumn in D.C. has been one long extension of summer—blue skies and temperatures more appropriate for pool parties than apple-picking.
Relief fills me as our little house, illuminated in the moonlight, comes into view. The white paint peeling off the red brick could be interpreted as shabby chic, or simply shabby, but for me, it is home. More than that, it’s tangible proof of success. It’s the first house I have ever lived in, and my name is on the deed, alongside Mark’s.
Mark glances up at Leah’s house across the street, looking for the silhouette in the window.
“The Watcher’s watching,” Mark says with forced cheer. I look up and see a dark figure behind a curtain on the second floor. I think of the figure at Daisy’s party. It’s a part of the suburbs I am having trouble adjusting to, the total lack of anonymity.
The Watcher is Mark’s