The Undoing. Averil Dean
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stood side by side in the bathroom mirror, or when he pulled out his wallet and paid the tab in cash, always in cash, his long fingers beautifully manicured with nails like polished rock. His age was one of the things that made him interesting. His age, and his name.
After all, this was Julian Moss, who’d brought home the bronze on what turned out to be a fractured tibia, only five-hundredths of a second out of the lead. Julian Moss, whose calf swelled so badly afterward that he wasn’t able to put on a boot and had to sit out the rest of the Games from the broadcast booth, the start of a new career.
Julian was wonderful. Everybody thought so. He’d put his fingers to his temple and lean in confidentially, as if the conversation you were having was the most important one he’d had in years. He gave you a full-on spotlight of attention, dark brows furrowed, his eyes moving slowly over your face as if memorizing it as part of some crucial inventory.
In return, he expected to be listened to. Early on he had told her, with that slow, half-pleading smile of his, “I like my own way, you know, Katie.”
Well, that was all right. She always tried to give in, agreeing automatically and without complaint. And for a while that seemed to work.
Sweet little Katie, he called her. That’s what she tried to be.
But lately he seemed to feel they had enough goodwill to last them. He began to spend it on cheap shots, unguarded glances, eye rolls that stopped just shy of full circle so that she could never be sure whether he meant them in anger or loving impatience. His lips had taken on a permanent sneer of amusement—or disdain, it was hard to tell. He said cryptic things that he refused to explain, as if it didn’t matter what Kate read into them, only what he meant to himself. His moves in the bedroom were less playful, and he seemed constantly distracted, like Kate was in the way. Yet he used to be a considerate lover. Even the first time, hushed and hurried in a frigid stairwell, he had taken the time to make her come. He was experienced, patient, dominant. He’d bought her lingerie and sex toys, said it was all a game he wanted to play with her, that some women took it too seriously but he was glad to see that Kate was not one of them.
Now nothing she did was right. Last night was awful. Awful! The things he wanted her to do...
Tears of self-pity sprang to her eyes. She wiped them away with the heel of her hand.
It could be nothing. Could even be the start of something good. Maybe this was a last line of defense in what Kate’s mother called “terminal bachelorhood.” Maybe Julian just needed a little push, something from Kate to let him know that she would agree to whatever he had in mind. She told him, offhandedly, in the course of conversation, that she loved to travel, though she was perfectly content here in Telluride. She thought marriage was great but was also up for cohabitation. She didn’t mind his age. She liked children, though she didn’t think her life would be incomplete without them. Loved sex but was happy to give an unrequited blow job. She laughed at his jokes; she sang his praises.
Really, thinking about it, she was perfect for Julian Moss. Why, then, did she get the feeling he was slipping away?
As she got to the back of the drawer and the last handful of clothing, she stopped, staring at what she’d found.
She stood that way for several seconds, her pulse pounding in her throat. Then stiffly, methodically, she began to put his clothes back into the drawer, exactly as she’d found them. She let herself out of the room and closed the door behind her.
* * *
The lights kept flickering on and off.
Celia lifted her face and let the hot water stream down her neck, rinsing away the soap and shampoo. She screwed her eyes tight shut. She didn’t want to think about what new problem might have arisen with the wiring in the past thirty minutes, what new task she’d have to lay on Rory and Eric. She laid her hands against the walls as if the Blackbird might be soothed and stop its twitching.
The lights flickered again, and the room fell into darkness.
“Really?” she said.
She’d been looking forward to a few extra minutes to work out the strain in her shoulders and legs, the knotted bruise-like ache in her thumb that flared at the end of any long day spent with a paintbrush in her hand. But the old claw-foot tub was oddly shaped, treacherous even with the lights on, and the steam felt dense and pressurized in a darkness as complete as this.
She turned the faucets and pushed back the shower curtain. Water streamed with a metallic patter around her feet as she reached blindly for a towel.
The lights came back. Celia flinched in surprise and nearly fell, grabbing at the towel rack to steady herself.
Eric had come into the bathroom. He was leaning against the chipped tile counter, one hand in his pocket and the other on the light switch.
“Jesus,” she said. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.”
She stepped over the edge of the tub, wrapped the towel around her body and tucked it under her arm. Eric took a second towel from the rack and started to dry her hair, gathering it in one hand to squeeze the water to the tip. His face in the mirror was thin and haggard, a specter moving through patches of fog. Over his fingers, the four tattooed letters he’d gotten years before:
A moment later his reflection was swallowed completely by the steam.
She turned to face him.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” she said.
His eyes shifted to meet hers—wide, beautiful black eyes, the whites as pure and smooth as milk. He opened his mouth and closed it again, deciding what to say. There were harsh lines like cuts running down between his eyebrows.
“Eric—”
“Tell me something. I want you to tell me something and be honest.”
She nodded. The steam burned at the back of her throat.
“I want to know if you’re happy here,” he said. “With...with all of this.”
“Of course I am. This is what I always wanted.”
“What you always wanted. I thought you promised me an honest answer.”
“Maybe it’s a little more—”
“A lot more. What I’m asking is whether you’re happy.”
“I am.”
The steam had gathered along his eyebrows and beaded at the tips of his lashes. He tilted his head.
“I can’t tell,” he said. “I just never can tell whether you’re telling me the truth.”
“Do you want that to be a lie?”
“Maybe.”
“It isn’t.”
“Whatever you say.” He plucked a strand of wet hair from her face. “I notice you don’t wonder why I’m asking. Don’t you want to know whether I’m happy?”
A suffocating weight pushed at her chest. She wished they could go outside, where the air was thin and light.
“I...I thought...”
Eric ducked his head to get closer to hers.
“You thought what? That if you’re happy, everyone else is, too?”
“No, no—”
“Yes, yes. I think it hurts your tender little heart to imagine anything else. Easier not to look too close. That’s what I think.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No. Maybe not.” He laid the towel aside and reached