Nothing prepared her for the grief that took hold, the tears that came so unexpectedly when she was caught up in the mundanities of life, the sobs that wracked her body while she stood in the checkout line at Safeway.
Ethan was gentle and caring. Even Emily gave her a reprieve, after an outburst in which she accused Andi of not being the only one to suffer.
Andi turned to Ethan with tears, to her friends for laughter, for a reminder that life still needed to be lived.
Tess didn’t stand on the doorstep with sympathetic eyes, asking plaintively, “How are you?” She pushed her way in and filled the fridge with food her cook had made for them, a huge box of See’s chocolates, and turned to Andi, stating firmly she needed a drink, before pulling a bottle of tequila and a margarita mix out of her bag.
“I know it’s sugary shit,” she said, pouring margaritas for all of them. “But sometimes in life, you just need some sugary shit.”
Deanna, who ate no sugar, refined flour, or meat, wordlessly stood up from her position on the kitchen stool, pulled open the fridge door, and pulled out the box of chocolates.
She ripped off the cellophane cover, threw the white corrugated paper resting on top of the chocolates on the floor, and grabbed, at random, three chocolates, before stuffing them in her mouth.
“She’s right,” she mumbled, her mouth full. “Sometimes you just need some sugary shit.” And the three of them had sat there and laughed before, much to Ethan’s horror, polishing off the entire box.
Eleven
Andi opens the door, twirling with delight as Drew puts a hand to his chest.
“Wow!” He grins in approval as she grabs a purse and heads to his car. “You really look gorgeous. You should dress up more often.”
They are going to a new salsa club in San Francisco. As a nondrinker, Drew is the designated driver, picking up Tess and Deanna en route. For their salsa lessons in Mill Valley, Andi wears black leggings and sloppy T-shirts, but for a club, she has gone whole hog.
A cherry red wrap dress, with Capezio T-bar shoes. Her hair in a chignon, possible only because she added a fake ponytail from CVS to her own short, sparse ponytail, twisting the thick bunch up and pinning it into a meaty bun. She considered adding a red fabric flower but decided it was too much.
But she couldn’t resist the slick of glossy red lipstick, a color she would never normally wear.
“You know what you need?” Drew says as he opens the car door for her. “A red flower in your hair.”
Commanding him to wait, Andi runs back inside, up to the bathroom, and grabs the flower, pushing it into the bun. Passing Ethan in the kitchen, she gives him a quick kiss as he tells her to have fun, then runs back into the car.
“Perfection.” Drew claps his hands in delight as she turns her head before pulling out of the driveway.
Clubs are not the chosen destination of any of these women, not anymore, and Andi is grateful that growing older means you no longer have to pretend to have the desire, or the energy to go.
But salsa is different. When Deanna persuaded Andi to try out a new class a few months ago, Andi intended to go only once to keep Deanna happy. She never intended to catch the bug, but she felt the magic in that very first class and, toward the end, when she finally got the movements, felt it take hold, the music became a sensual throb that moved through her body and transported her to another place.
In the salsa class, she loved watching herself in the mirror in the studio, the way all of them moved their hips as they rolled from front to back, emulating José in his tight black pants as he encouraged them to be sexy and gorgeous.
“Feeeeel the beat,” he said in his seductive Spanish accent. “Feeeeeeel it in your entire body. Move those hips, think of your looooover…” The first time he said this, Andi immediately pictured Ethan, in his cargo shorts and Reef flip-flops, a faded baseball cap on his head, and almost started laughing.
She caught Tess’s eye, then Deanna’s, and they all burst out laughing, all thinking of their unsexy husbands.
“Okaaaaaay.” José had grinned. “Do not theeenk of your lover. Theeeenk of your dream lover. Theeeeenk of Javier Bardem,” the name sounding exotic and sensual, spoken in his native accent. “Theeeenk of him taking you by the hip, looking deep into your eyes, and spinning you around.”
The women had stopped smiling and started thinking, all of them breathing a sigh of contentment as the music washed through them, and they started to realize what it was all about.
Now proficient, able to be led by a partner, they do occasional trips to salsa clubs—dark, and sweaty, and filled with swarthy good-looking men eyeing the women up and down. They realized quickly that what was missing from these clubs was a threat. The men weren’t eyeing the women seductively, but rather to see who was a good dancer, whom they would choose next, not as a lover, but merely a partner in the sensual beat.
Deanna was the best. She rarely got a chance to leave the dance floor. When one song ended, another suitor would be waiting, smiling and nodding politely as the previous dance partner melted into the background. Deanna had a natural rhythm, and a flexibility that allowed these men to fling her around. She whipped her head back and forth and gazed into their eyes in an act of seduction that was truly an act, ending when the music stopped.
Occasionally, she had met prospective boyfriends at salsa clubs, had gone on dates, but never a relationship. She didn’t mind. One of the things Andi appreciated most about Deanna was how she loved and accepted her life.
Deanna didn’t think it would be better if she were married, or spend her time winking endlessly at people on Match.com. She didn’t ask girlfriends to set her up, then sit over coffee relaying every detail about the night.
When she had dates, she was quiet about them. Tess and Andi had to drag information out of her, teasing her mercilessly about her reticence.
She was friends with her ex-husband, friends even with his long-term girlfriend. The only time she seemed to truly let her hair down, have fun, stun those around her with her sensuality and passion, was dancing salsa.
Tess, on the other hand, was dreadful. She had no rhythm but loved it anyway. She was only ever asked to dance by men who had just entered the club, who hadn’t had a chance to watch her on the floor, and, of course, by Drew, who was brought into the salsa club for precisely that reason.
Andi does not have the confidence of Deanna, but she has the rhythm. She dances in a quieter way, loving the freedom salsa affords her.
She has been dancing with a tall man who does not speak English. Protocol requires they introduce themselves, but the music is too loud; she doesn’t hear his name. The music fades, and they step apart, smile at each other as Andi feels a tap on her shoulder.
Turning, she finds herself face-to-face with Pete. The trainer. Drew’s friend. He holds his hand out to lead her to the center of the floor, and she is grateful for the dark lighting so that he doesn’t see her flush.
“At least I don’t have to ask your name.” He leans in close to her ear so she can hear him as the music starts, their bodies moving in unison.
“What are you doing here?” she says as he spins her away, then pulls her sharply back in.
“Same as you, no?” He laughs. “I’m here with friends. I just saw Drew. But I’ve been watching you. You’re really good.”
“Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”
“I bet you say that to all the boys.” He grins. Andi looks away. Focus on the music, she tells herself. Focus on the dancing. This is just a dance partner. Ignore the tingle of electricity I’m sure I feel.
I’m married, not dead, she thinks. Again. I’m married, not dead.
“Your husband’s a very trusting man,” Pete says, pulling her in again, putting his lips so close to her ear they brush it ever so slightly. She shivers.
“He has good reason to be.” She regrets that it comes out sounding like a schoolmarm, both prim and prissy.
“I’m not sure I would
be so trusting if you were my wife,” Pete says.
“This is just your schtick.” Andi gathers her composure and leans in to say it close to his ear. “Flirting for new clients. Does it work?”
“No,” he says firmly, spinning them both around. “I don’t flirt for new clients. Ever. I only flirt with gorgeous women.”
They dance, Andi struggling for a comeback, unable to think of anything to say.
“You do know I’m married, right?” she says eventually.
“I do. And I think you look unhappy. Relax. We’re just having fun.” And with a small smile, he pulls her close, then pushes her away.
The music stops, and Pete bows his thanks, disappearing without giving Andi a chance to explain herself, to ask what he meant, to put the record straight.
I am not unhappy, she wants to say. I love my husband. My husband loves me. Why do I look unhappy? What is it that makes you say that? But Pete quickly chooses someone else with whom to dance, and Andi heads over to the bar, where Tess is watching her with amusement.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Tess leans over and shouts in her ear. “I could smell the sexual chemistry from here. What the hell was that all about?”
“What do you mean?” Andi looks away, looks for a distraction, tries not to meet her eyes.
“You know what I mean. There was heat coming off the two of you. Who is he?”
“He’s a friend of Drew’s.” Andi attempts nonchalance. “Some trainer, I think.”
“If I didn’t know better…” Tess teases.
“I’m married, not dead.” Andi goes for lightheartedness, but it comes out in a bark.
“Jeez. Excuse me. You like him.”
“Well, he’s cute, right?” Andi finally concedes.
“Is he ever. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do…” Tess winks, unaware that Andi is feeling unsettled. Excited. As if she is on a precipice, deciding whether or not to jump.
Twelve
Andi cannot settle. She dances with other men, drinks her drinks, laughs with her friends, and all the time her eyes are roving, looking to see where Pete is, what he is doing, whether he is still there.
She is hyperaware, her senses heightened, conscious of where he is at any given moment, as if there were an invisible thread connecting them. She watches him say good-bye to Drew and feels a sharp pang of disappointment in her stomach.
“I’m in the gym all week,” he says into her ear as he leaves. “Come see me.” And brushing his lips against her ear, causing a shiver that reaches down to her toes, he steps back, looks at her, a question in his eyes instead of a smile, and leaves.
* * *
He wants me as a client, she tells herself, over and over, seeing the club suddenly as a dark and somewhat seedy place, now that the unexpected light has left.
Stop imagining this is something more, she tells herself, over and over, as she goes to the bathroom to take a break from the noise.
God! she berates herself in the bathroom mirror. Could you be any more predictable? You’re a middle-aged married woman who’s completely discombobulated because a thirtysomething cute man seems to be flirting with you.
Andi stares at herself in the mirror, astonished at how different she looks tonight. It is rare for Andi to examine herself, and when she does, she might describe herself as looking cute. Or neat. Or attractive.
Who is this gorgeous, sexy creature staring back at her with a spark in her eye? Andi feels, suddenly, sexy in a way she hasn’t in years. Alive. And it shows. She loves Ethan, but the toll of marriage, of raising children, the stress of dealing with Emily, the stress of accepting that she cannot have a child, all have led to her putting her sexuality to bed.
They still have sex, of course, but it is hardly the wild, passionate lovemaking that was the signature of their early time together. It is quick, and … pleasant. It fuels their intimacy but could never be described as sexy.
It happens in bed, with Ethan pulling her nightgown up. Or occasionally in the bathroom, as she drops her flesh-colored underwear in the laundry basket before getting into bed, Ethan will walk in and grin. At times she will be thrilled—when she is ovulating, when this presents another possibility for her child. Other times her heart will sink as she eyes her warm, cozy nightgown, but when he moves behind her and wraps his arms around her, leaning down to kiss her neck, she will acquiesce. And it will be quick, and … pleasant.
When did I stop feeling sexy? Andi wonders, unable to tear her eyes away from this new, improved Andi staring back at her in the mirror. When did sex with my husband become so dull?
Perimenopause, Dr. Kurrish had explained, could lead to a loss of sexual desire. Could, Andi remembers thinking. It won’t happen to me.
Her libido, however, had different ideas. In the beginning, when they were first married, she was still attached to the possibility of getting pregnant, still excited by the prospect of creating a new life, still delighting in the prospect of being a wife, having a husband, sharing the intimacy of making love.
There are no babies now. Nor will there be. Andi walks on eggshells in her own house, a house in which chaos and drama reign. The nights when Emily throws tantrums, when Ethan spends hours trying to calm her down, leave Andi empty and cold.
And Dr. Kurrish was right. “Sexual desire”? She can barely remember what those words mean. She no longer thinks of herself as sexual, or desirable.
Until now.
This man is so different from her world. He makes her feel like she did before all of this, before drama and chaos, and the gradual acceptance of her infertility made her feel middle-aged and sad. He made her sexy, and that brings with it possibility.
Does it mean anything that this thirtysomething man is making her feel like this? Is this something more than recreational flirting? If it is merely recreational flirting, why is it making her feel so damn special?
Stop! She turns away, guilty. It’s who he is. It’s what he does. It isn’t about you. He’s no more interested in you than he is in Drew: a potential client, and this, clearly, is what he does. He knows how to get the bored housewives interested by flirting, by looking deep in their eyes, by promising them an excitement their husbands aren’t giving them.
But Ethan … Ethan. Ethan is everything she had never dared hope or dream she’d find. Her relationship with Ethan is the kind of relationship she thought existed only in the movies, in books. It was always loving, warm, companionable, and since their wedding, had settled into something peaceful, comfortable, easy.
She is content, she realizes. She has found contentment. Has loved saying good-bye to the excitement, the drama, the constant ups and downs of the dating world. So why, so suddenly, when she is so happy, is she beset by this craving for excitement that had appeared in the form of a young, flirtatious trainer?
* * *
There are those who say that in order for someone to stray, in order for an affair to take place, there has to be something wrong in the marriage.
But isn’t there something wrong in everyone’s marriage? They may be happy, in love, settled, but isn’t there always the slightest of fissures through which a view of the road not taken can be glimpsed?
I am not the sort of person who would have an affair, Andi tells herself, sipping from an ice-cold margarita and trying to focus her attention on Deanna, who is telling them a story as they sit around a low round table in a corner of the club.
Is anyone the sort of person who would have an affair? Who likes to think of themselves as the sort of person who would commit adultery? Who likes to think of themselves as the sort of person who could, would betray and lie, smash their wedding vows into meaningless pieces?
What if I could be happier with Pe— someone like Pete? Andi drifts off, imagining a life without Emily, a life with no drama, a life in which she and Pete, or someone much like him, hung out, saw friends, threw parties, made love.
She shivers at how cold she is being, brings her thoughts back to Ethan. I love him, sh
e thinks, picturing his sweet smile, his strong, capable hands that can fix anything in the house, that have redesigned the garden, that have brought her hours and hours of pleasure.
But is love enough, she wonders, lost in thought as she stares at Deanna, pretending to listen, smiling and shaking her head in all the right places, copying the others. Is love enough to save us? Will we ever be rid of the chaos of Emily?
It is a constant roller coaster. When Emily is lovely, as she can be, Andi tumbles head over heels in love with her. After their trip to Santa Rosa for the wedding, Emily was so sweet. She apologized—something she has never done before, asking Andi to stay, to look after her. Andi felt, still feels, in those moments, a surge of blinding love for this child, of what might be, of how things still could all work out.
Those moments are fewer than they were. Andi came into this relationship with such high hopes. All Emily needed, she thought, was love and attention. If Andi loved her enough, gave her enough kindnesses, did enough for her, Emily would come around; Emily would love her; all would be well.
Her phone buzzes in her purse. She feels it only because her foot is touching her purse at the time and, leaning down, she pulls it out to find a text from Ethan.
CALL ME NOW.
NEED TO GO TO POLICE STATION. NOW.
SOPHIA ASLEEP.
COME HOME. CALL FIRST.
“What’s going on?”
“Where have you been? I’ve been calling you for hours.” Ethan is furious, his voice a loud attack when Andi gets through.
Andi’s heart jumps. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
“Jesus, Andi. You’d think you might have checked the phone.”
“I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t think to check the phone. It’s loud inside. What is it? What’s going on? Tell me!” Her voice rises with an edge of panic.
Ethan’s voice is shaky when he next speaks. “Emily’s been arrested. She was with other kids. I’m not clear on who was driving, but they were all drunk. I just hope to God Emily was not the driver. Jesus. DUI. Underage. Alcohol in the car. It’s not good.”