Page 48 of Breathing Under Water

“Come inside, darling.” Backing away from the door, she motions me into the foyer. “Let me just text Shiri and tell her I’ll meet her at the pier.” Yvonne starts typing, and I walk past her, toward the kitchen. I open her fridge, grabbing some sort of artisanal bread and a tub of cream cheese. I’m shocked I have any appetite given the circumstances, but I was already starving before the argument with Phil.

“Okay,” Yvonne says, moving to the kitchen table and pulling out one of the rattan chairs. “Start at the beginning.”

I spread a hefty schmear of cream cheese onto the bread and do exactly as she’s ordered, recounting everything that’s been going on. In between bites of bread, I describe the mysterious phone calls, the “traveling for work,” the frequent absences from home, the way he seems to be avoiding me, jumping down my throat, resisting any new interventions I suggest forLeo—all as if I’ve suddenly become an idiot. The longer I go on, the more I ache inside my chest.

“I just...” I trail off, feeling so lost. We weren’t dealt the easiest hand in life, Phil and I, but compared to what other people face, we’ve had it pretty good. I thought for a while we were moving in the right direction, maybe even living our best lives. And now I’m stuck trying to figure out where everything went wrong, how to fix it, whether I even want to.

But Yvonne’s looking at me like she’s got other ideas.

“I don’t know, hon,” she says. “Maybe the firm’s not doing well. You’ve always said Phil cares too much about whether people perceive him as successful. It’s entirely possible the travel has some relation to that, and he’s too embarrassed to come clean.”

“Even to me?”

She nods emphatically. “Especially to you. Perhaps he feels he’s not held up his end of the bargain.”

I consider her theory because it’s not the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. Phil did grow up in a very image-conscious home, his parents always buying fancy cars because they believed it “sent a message” to others. Having been raised in vastly different circumstances, I never thought to judge people based on what they had. Most of my friends just didn’t have much at all. I thought by now Phil would have outgrown the attitude he learned from his parents, their perspective that a man is only as good as his career success or lack thereof. Then I have another thought.

“But what about the perfume? The dress clothes? What could that be about if not another woman?”

Yvonne purses her lips and looks off to the side, clearly trying to come up with a plausible explanation.

“Are you still having sex?” she asks.

“Yvonne!” Call me a prude, but I’ve always felt awkward talking about my sex life with anyone other than my partner.

“What?” She’s nonplussed. “It’s a valid question.”

I know she’s right, so I try to remember the last time Phil and I were intimate. There was a night just recently where it seemed like we might. We’d both climbed into bed near the same time, a rarity of late. Phil reached for me under the covers, and I turned toward him, thinking maybe we could get back to a better place. I mentioned something about what a long day I’d had, meaning his advances were welcome and I was ready to relax. But all Phil heard was a complaint. We started arguing again, and the sex never happened. It must have been the day I’d argued with stupid Neil Rumson. And also the day McKenna called to tell us about Hollyhock canceling the swim lessons. Maybe I could have chosen my words to Phil more carefully that night. Then again, maybe he could have been a little more patient.

The wordpatientjogs my memory, and I’m reminded of something else. “He had a pharmacy bag, and he wouldn’t let me see what was inside.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Yvonne says, covering her mouth with her hand, a gesture of horror.

“So you agree? Condoms?” I demand.

“Maybe he’s sick,” she says. “Something’s wrong, and he doesn’t want to tell you. It tracks with what you’ve said. The moodiness, pinching pennies, losing weight.”

I think of the dark circles I noticed this morning. The idea of there being something physically wrong, of him being in some sort of danger that he’s too macho to share with me, breaks my heart all over again.

“But why the dress clothes? No, that’s not it.”

“What if he was meeting with an attorney? Getting his affairs in order? Trust and estate lawyers often see clients on the weekend.”

“Oh, god.” I look at Yvonne with dread. “You think so? Like it’s something really, really bad? Yvonne. What am I going to do?”

She stands and walks out of the kitchen. I watch from the counter stool as she heads to the cluttered console table by the door, where she keeps mail, shopping bags, and magazines. She rifles through a pile and pulls out her car keys.

“Come on,” she says, beckoning me, the delicate silver bangles on her wrist clinking like exclamation points as she motions toward the door. “You’re going home to talk to your husband and find out what’s going on. No more speculation and secrets. I’ll follow you in my car.” She grabs a couple of the magazines from the table too. “I’ve been wanting to read the July issues of these anyway. I’ll wait in the car. You come out if you need me, or text me if you want me to leave.”

Looking at my kid sister so ready to take care of me, I’m overcome with gratitude. There are plenty of times when she emphasizes all the things I do wrong, like being too overbearing with Leo or not assertive enough with anyone else. But right now it feels like she’s the source of all my strength, and I suddenly don’t know what I’d do without her.

“Okay,” I say as I climb down from my stool. “Okay, yeah, let’s do this.”

Except when we get back to the house, Phil has left again. And I don’t have any idea where he’s gone.

24

McKenna