I Don't Forgive You

other boys were binge-drinking and raising hell, he was building a handicapped ramp for the Chevy Chase library. In his world, there is right and wrong, black and white, truth and lies.
I stand up, and he does, too. I am so ready for this to be over. At least for now. “This kind of stuff happens to women all the time.” I perch on my tiptoes and kiss him on his cheek. “All. The. Time. If women went to the cops every time some jerk came on to them at a party, the police wouldn’t have time to do anything else.”
I wrap my arms around him and hold him tight. I know I’m not being brave. If I were a superhero in the Marvel Universe, I would spring into action with righteous anger. I would be the one calling the police. But I know how things work in the real world and that this is a bell that can’t be unrung. Slowly, he puts his arms around me, as well. I can feel the energy around him settle down. A few moments later, we disentangle, and it’s as if a storm has passed.
“Let me lock up downstairs,” Mark says. “And then I’ll come to bed.”
I head to the bathroom, where I dab cream made from Japanese mushrooms under my eyes and smooth a gelatinous firming serum that smells like bleach on my cheeks. These little potions cost more money than I used to spend on a week’s worth of groceries when I was single.
I am lucky. I have a loving husband. A good job. A beautiful house and a healthy child. I don’t want trouble.
Back in the bedroom, I wait for Mark under the duvet and watch the opening monologue of Saturday Night Live by myself. The host is a middle-aged actor promoting a new action movie. I remember when he almost killed his career about fifteen years ago after being found nude and stoned, wandering around someone’s backyard. But in the years since, he’s made a comeback. No one ever mentions his past.
Lucky guy.
Finally, Mark arrives, apologizing for taking so long. “I forgot to set my fantasy football lineup,” he says as he changes into his pajamas.
I snuggle beside him. During a commercial, he mutes the TV and turns to me.
“So what do you think that guy meant when he said stay off Tinder?” I look away from the television and directly at him. He looks like a huge version of Cole, right down to the shock of black hair falling across his forehead.
I tense up. “I have no idea, Mark.”
“I mean, you’re not on Tinder, are you?” I can tell he’s trying to sound lighthearted, as if the question is a joke. I think of my sister and the horror stories she’s told me about online dating sites—the married men looking for side action, the ubiquitous dick pics.
“That guy was drunk, Mark. He wasn’t making any sense. Anyway, I don’t even have time to hang curtains, much less trawl Tinder.” I give his ribs a gentle nudge. “Now can we please watch SNL? You can tell me how much funnier it used to be in the old days.”
“It was funnier,” he says, turning the volume back up.
“I know. Everything was better in the eighties.”
He settles back against the pillows, and I tuck myself up against his broad shoulder. He’s put on at least ten pounds since we moved to D.C. and he started working at the law firm. Long hours mean takeout for dinner at work many nights, and he has no time for the gym. I don’t mind the weight. I like him solid.
And solid is what I need. Sometimes I think of Mark as my lighthouse in a raging sea, and I am a tiny boat keeping my eyes on him. It’s true that lighthouses aren’t warm and fuzzy, but I don’t need warm and fuzzy. I need strength, stability. I need to know he is always there, my light in the dark.
Tension seeps from my body and sleep beckons, a delicious riptide dragging me under. The laughter from the TV ebbs and flows like the waves of the ocean. But then moments before I surrender to sleep, I hear that voice again. I feel that finger pressing against my collarbone.
Me Rob, the voice says. You Lexi.
Then another memory, unbidden, drifts across my consciousness. One that’s been buried for years. A hand parting the curtain of hair that always hid my face. You don’t even know how sexy you are. Sexy Lexi, that’s what I’m going to call you.

 6
I awake with a start at five fifteen, thoughts struggling to break the surface of my consciousness. My eyes are heavy in a familiar way. I am wide awake, yet still tired.
Stay the fuck off Tinder, you cock tease.
I roll over, and in the pale moonlight shining through our bare window, I make out the outline of the pile of books on my bedside table. I know the top one is a novel I am supposed to be reading for Leah’s book club, but it seems a Herculean task. Somewhere beneath that is The Friendship Crisis: Finding, Making, and Keeping Friends When You’re Not a Kid Anymore. Chapter 3 suggests that lonely grown-ups like me join a book club.
Sauvignon blanc.
John Wick.
Cardi B.
Lexi.
My heart begins to gallop in my chest. I sit up. There’s no way I am falling back to sleep. I pull back the covers as quietly as I can, but nonetheless Mark stirs.
“Huh?” he asks, jerking his head a few inches from the pillow. “What’s going on?”
“Shhh,” I whisper. “Go back to sleep.” He lies back down, throwing his forearm over his eyes, his mouth open, and within seconds, he is snoring gently.
After donning a robe and slippers, I pad downstairs and put the kettle on for a cup of tea. We keep the family computer in a little nook in the kitchen-slash-family-room, where the three of us spend about eighty percent of our waking hours.