Page 28 of Summer Skate

JESSICA

A S SOON AS HE LEAVES MY house, I look around with a rising sense of panic.

I have to get the fuck out of here .

I decide to focus on household chores. I empty my dirty laundry into the washer. I get my suitcase. I pull my clothes from the closet and dump them in the suitcase, unfolded.

I go through the house, room by room, and put everything back in its place, as far as my memory serves. Each part of the house brings some moment with Carter back to me. Each part reminds me of a different chapter. I dust. I vacuum. I shift the clothes from washer to dryer.

It takes a surprisingly short amount of time to wipe the whole slate clean.

And I mean clean. I am scrubbing countertops and mopping floors and taking out the garbage.

I don’t want to leave a single sign of myself here.

I’m convinced that the more pristine this environment looks, the less bad that could have taken place.

I eat whatever leftovers are in the fridge for lunch and text Alejandro that I’m going to take the 3:05 P.M . train home.

Today? I thought you were staying until Sunday?

Nope. I’m done. I miss you guys .

We miss you too .

So, if you’re having an affair with the babysitter, now would be a good time to end it , I somehow have the audacity to add.

He writes back: Glad you warned me .

I smile. Okay. This is good. This is me getting back on track. I call my agent to discuss the details of leaving the house.

“I’m supposed to set the alarm, right?” I ask.

“Yes. Do you remember the code?”

“I think so . . . We’ll find out. What about the car?”

“Can’t you drive it into the city?”

“I can if you never want to see me again.”

“Right. Well, just leave it there then, in the garage. Take an Uber to the train station. Or the Jitney?”

“I’ll take the train. This way I don’t have to deal with traffic, and I can work.”

He laughs. “You’re not going to work on the train. You’re going to stare at all the strangers and try to imagine what their lives are like and whether they’re happy.”

“No. No. I’ve been alone in the wilderness for months. I’m no longer interested in other people’s lives.”

“You’ve changed.”

“Sadly, I think I have.”

“Well, I can’t wait to read the book.”

“Yeah! I’m excited to show you. It’s almost done.

Ninety percent. Just haven’t written the ending.

But . . . I think it’ll come to me when I least expect it, like when I’m in the shower or something.

You know what they say about creativity .

. . how you have to sit in one place and work really hard and then release it into the universe and then walk away and then , and only then, will it come back to you . . . or something.”

“Who says that?”

“Don Draper.”

“Ah, yes. The source of all your career wisdom.”

After lunch, I swim my last laps and then throw my wet bathing suit into the dryer. I do one last scan of every room, the area around the pool. Partially hidden in the crevice of a patio chair, I see his sweatshirt. I feel suddenly frozen in place.

Fuck. What am I supposed to do with this? Leave it on his doorstep? Take it with me? Throw it in the garbage? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck . The stress of this decision causes me to cover my face with my hands. All right. Come on, Jessica. You’re not a teenage girl. Just hide all the evidence and move on .

I go to the bathroom to splash some water on my face and then I sit on the floor.

The bathroom floor is where I always go to do my serious thinking.

Something about being on the ground, the cold, hard ground.

I wait for the storm to pass over me. When I leave this house, I am leaving it all behind.

When I leave this house, I am going to be a better person, a more giving wife, a more present mother .

I focus on the lonely moments that I’ve had here, the regretful ones, and then I peel myself off the floor and call an Uber.

As we drive away, I feel like a weight has been lifted.

That house . That house has been the problem all along.

I won’t do anything bad ever again so long as I never step foot in that house.

I look at pictures of my children the whole ride to the train station, watching the videos of them at the playground yesterday.

I just watched the videos last night, but now I watch them more carefully, as if they are a precious commodity, as if they are the only ones I have.

I miss their voices the most. When I talk to my daughter on the phone, she sounds older.

On the platform, I wait with the others.

There are very few people going back to the city now.

It’s the Thursday before Labor Day. Everyone out here is here to stay.

The people that stand with me seem as agitated as I am, and I wonder what situation they are fleeing from.

A husband with an unexpected “meeting” in the city?

A houseguest who slept with somebody’s wife?

The Sunday crowd is different from this.

The Sunday crowd is tanned and calmly getting back to their real lives, beach bags and sun hats resting atop their black suitcases. The Thursday crowd? Fugitives.

Usually, when standing on this platform, I am calmly turning the pages of a book. This time, I am on the run.

It is warm and sunny, but the afternoon has that late August feeling, of the season about to change. I stand on the train platform, wind in my hair, wind blowing at my white skirt and T-shirt, like a woman on the verge.

Then I see Carter jogging up the steps to the platform and I can’t quite believe my eyes. I rub them, as if he might be a mirage.

“What are you doing?” I say, once he gets close.

He is out of breath. “So you’re just going to fucking leave and not say goodbye?”

“We said goodbye!”

“No, we didn’t.”

The train horn sounds in the distance. “How did you even know I was here?”

“I thought you might pull a stunt like this. And then I heard your luggage in the driveway.”

The train comes barreling by us and I hold my skirt down with my hands so that it doesn’t blow in the huge gust of wind.

I plead with him. “ Please , Carter. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

He throws his hands up into the air. “I don’t like your reasoning. I don’t like anything you’re doing.”

The train stops and the doors jolt open. A few people funnel out onto the platform. My fellow fugitives walk on ahead of me.

“Go home!” I yell at him, over the noise, and then march forward, rolling my suitcase onto the train.

“Fine,” he says, following me. “I’ll go home. My home is in the city now.”

I try to push him off the train, but it doesn’t work. He doesn’t budge an inch. I give him a begging look.

“So you’re going to take the train two hours into the city and then two hours back? For no fucking reason?”

“ Challenge me .”

“Fine.” I keep walking down the aisle, rolling my suitcase into the middle of the train car. “Enjoy the ride. I’m not sitting with you.”

“Oh yes, you are.”

“Excuse me,” I say, squeezing past someone.

I hear over the loudspeaker: Train to Jamaica. Next stop: Southampton .

The train begins to move, and I nearly fall over, but manage to keep my balance. I swing open the door to the next car, with my big suitcase clunking around behind me. It is a hard maneuver. Between cars, it’s cacophonous noise. He opens the door behind me.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” he shouts over the sound of the wind, the engine, the wheels gliding against the tracks.

“I’m trying to get away from you!”

“What are you going to do then? Miss me for the rest of your life?”

I turn back and yell: “AT FIRST I WAS AFRAID, I WAS PETRIFIED.”

“You’re mentally ill.”

“Are you looking in the mirror when you say that?”

I make my way into the next car, where it’s quiet. I am unsure of my plan now and keep having to steady myself as the train jerks me from side to side.

“Go ahead,” he says. “Keep going. You don’t think I can follow you? You’re the one with the giant suitcase bumping into everything like a lunatic.”

I stumble to the side and use the top of a seat to steady myself.

“You’re going to have to sit down eventually,” he says. “I’ll wait.” We stand across from each other. I am gripping the handle of my suitcase for balance. He has his arms across his chest, staring at me.

“You can sit with me for two hours,” he says. “We’ve done a lot worse.”

I sigh. “Fine.”

I look around. The train is mostly empty. It is easy to find two spots next to each other. I sit down, next to the window.

This station stop: Southampton. This station stop: Southampton. Next stop: Hampton Bays .

He speaks softly now. “You’re acting like this is all my fault. But this isn’t my fault,” he says. “I got options, babe.”

I laugh, and it breaks the tension between us. We sit in silence for a few minutes.

“All right,” he says. “So the first thing I want to tell you on this train ride confessional is that you’ve taught me something.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Apparently, you can find someone incredibly frustrating but still be in love with them.” He looks at me.

“That’s a good lesson to learn.”

He says: “Tale as old as time. Girl walks into a guy’s house, kicks over his speaker, threatens to call the cops . . . ”

“It’s a classic.”

This station stop: Hampton Bays. This station stop: Hampton Bays. Next stop: Westhampton .

I’m pretending not to care. I’m pretending to be perfectly blasé about this train ride.

But in my head, I’m calculating stops. I think it’s about twelve.

Twelve stops until it’s over, until I have to give up this pleasure pain.

But I’m not getting out of it before twelve, so I let my body relax a little, unclench my jaw.

Eventually, I lean against him. Just twelve stops is all I have.