Page 83 of Saltwater

“All right,” I say. And I realize there may never be a better time to tell him about Ciro. Afterward, we could start fresh. If that’s what we want. It all feels too far in the future right now to think about what I might want from Freddy, what he might want from me.

“It was just a few times,” he adds. As if that’s supposed to make me feel better. Maybe it should, after all; I’ve only cheated a few times, too. Is it better or worse that I only do it here?

“But you should know,” he says, “I think the baby could be mine.” He unwinds one hand from mine and wraps it around the back of his neck. “The timing—”

“Is it possible she was sleeping with someone else and you didn’t know?”

“It’s always possible. I mean, you know what Lorna was like.”

Had Freddy said that before this week, I would have agreed—I do know what she’s like—but now I don’t know. Lorna was better at keeping secrets than I ever gave her credit for, and it’s not hard to imagine her with someone else. Could it have even been Stan? My father? Someone back home?

“But you’re worried that if you have to give a DNA sample—”

He nods vigorously.

“Helen, look. I fucked up. I’m not going to try to make excuses for that. But I didn’tkillher. I would never kill anyone.”

I know he’s telling the truth. Even without him saying it, I would have known it. Freddy, who gets squeamish when his dinner comes in the shape of the thing it was when it was alive—whole fishes, small birds—isn’t capable of leaving someone he knew to drown. At least I don’t think he is.

“I’ve made a mistake too,” I say. There might not be a better time, so I squeeze his hand. “And maybe after this,” I say, even though I’m not sure I want it, “we can start over. Put this all behind us. Maybe go to Majorca. Or the Seychelles.” I can imagine it, us having that kind of life together. There are so many lives. That’s the hardest part.

“Ciro and I…” I stop. “Ciro and I have been seeing each other on the island.”

“Ciro?”

He doesn’t recognize the name, even though Ciro was sitting with him in this very garden a day ago.

“Yes,” I say.

“Wait,” he says, “you mean the gardener?”

He pulls his hand from mine. The severing is total.

“You slept with the gardener?”

“He’s also a childhood friend,” I add.

“I’m sorry.” He holds up his hands. “I know what I’m about to say is completely irrational, considering what I’ve just told you, but how could you do that to me? Have you been doing it here? This week?”

“I don’t think the details are that important,” I say.

After all, I never pressed for them. I didn’t ask Freddy:How many times? What was she like in bed? Where did you have sex?

“What happened between Lorna and me was a mistake. I was drinking. She picked me up from a party. She wanted me to go to a meeting with her, so I spent the night at her apartment. It was an accident. It only happened a handful of times. You’re telling me that you’ve had an ongoing thing with this guy—”

“Ciro,” I supply.

“With Ciro for, what?”

“Years,” I say.

It feels good, that word. Thick and long and chewy—years.

“Years?”

It comes out like a screech, and even though I know I should apologize, some part of me feels Freddy owes me for how coolly I absorbed the news about Lorna. I allowed the guilt to shift off him so smoothly, he never had to wear the yoke at all.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He stands. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this.”