Page 33

THIRTY-TWO

SARAH MORGAN

The knife slices through the meat like butter, blood pooling from the middle of it. I stab my fork into the severed hunk and bring the piece of steak to my mouth, chewing it slowly to savor the flavor.

Bob sits across from me, sawing his steak into several smaller bites. He spikes his fork into a piece of meat and dunks it into his mashed potatoes before shoving it into his gullet. A heaping bowl of mac and cheese is positioned in front of Summer, who sits to my left. I made it especially for her because it’s her favorite. Steak and mashed potatoes are Bob’s favorite. And the Paso Robles Cabernet heavily poured in my and Bob’s glasses is my favorite. I figured since the topic of conversation wouldn’t be enjoyable for any of us, at least the food and drink would be. It’s a last supper of sorts for our family because Bob and I are finally going to tell Summer about our divorce—before things get any worse than they already are.

“How was your day at school, sweetie?” I ask.

“Good... but not as good as this mac and cheese,” she says with a mouth full of food. I’d tell her to mind her manners but now isn’t the time.

I smile and look at Bob. “And how was your day at work?”

He lifts his head and forces a smile back, his lips quivering in every direction. “Just dandy, and how was yours, sweetheart?” His tone is nothing short of sarcastic.

“Wonderful as always,” I say, picking up my glass of wine and bringing it to my lips.

I gulp it, readying myself to tell Summer because I just can’t put it off any longer. I wasn’t much older than her when my mother had to sit me down for a similar conversation. The only difference is I’m telling Summer that her dad and I are separating, whereas my mom told me my dad was dead. The news I received was far worse, and I got through it, and so will she.

I set my glass down and dab the corners of my mouth with a napkin. “Summer,” I say. “Your dad and I have something we want to talk to you about.”

Her eyes veer to him and then back to me. Bob drops his silverware on his plate and places his elbows on the table, clasping his hands in front of his face. Red creeps up his neck like a curtain of anger is being drawn. I didn’t tell him that this conversation was happening tonight—because I knew if I did, he’d either argue against it or just not show up. And I felt it was important for him to be here for Summer’s sake.

My daughter crinkles her brow but doesn’t say anything.

“Your father and I are getting a divorce. Do you know what that means?”

Her eyes instantly develop a sheen and her lip trembles.

“Summer?” I ask.

“Yeah.” She pushes the word out. “Courtney’s parents are divorced, and she says it sucks.”

“It does, and it’s not going to be easy at first, sweetheart, but eventually, it’ll be the norm, and you won’t think anything of it.”

“I don’t want you to get divorced,” she says, tears streaming down her face.

“I know. But it’s best for all of us.”

“No, it’s not,” Summer yells. “Why are you doing this?”

Bob remains silent, his chin still resting on his clasped hands. It’s clear I’m not going to get any help from him, even though he’s the one responsible for the separation. But somehow, he made himself the victim in all this. I’m not surprised though. A narcissist can be either right or wronged. There is no in-between.

“Sometimes marriages don’t work out, Summer, and I want you to know our decision to separate doesn’t have anything to do with you. You did nothing wrong.” I extend my hand to take hers, but she jerks it away, hiding it beneath the table.

“Why can’t you just make it work?” she cries.

“We tried, but we couldn’t.”

I catch Bob rolling his eyes from my peripheral view. I glare at him and then return my attention to my weepy daughter. “I’m sorry this is hard for you, sweetie. It’s hard for us too.”

Summer shoots up from her chair. “It’s not hard for you. If it were, you’d stay together. I hate you,” she screams at me. “And I hate you too,” she says to her dad before sprinting out of the room. “I wish I could divorce both of you,” Summer yells before her bedroom door slams closed. A moment later, a Taylor Swift song blares.

I take a long sip of red wine, briefly holding it in my mouth to feel the sharp tannins and taste the rich notes of ripe black cherry and smoky cacao.

“Are you happy now?” Bob asks as he stabs his fork into a piece of steak. A smug look is plastered across his face.

“No, I’m not, but we had to tell her sooner or later.”

“Oh, and it had to be now? You know, before you frame me for Stacy’s disappearance?” His eyes flash with anger as he stuffs the food into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously. He might be chewing normally, but I find everything about him obnoxious.

I give him a pointed look and sip my wine, refusing to acknowledge his question. It doesn’t matter what I say anyway because he won’t believe me—just like I won’t believe him. Once you lose someone’s trust, you never really get it back. Even if you think you do, there will always be that little niggling thought lodged in your mind, forever wondering, Are they lying to me ... again?

When I don’t respond, he says, “I would have appreciated a heads-up that you were telling her tonight.”

“And I would have appreciated you not cheating on me. We all can’t get what we want, now can we, Bob?”

See? The resentment I feel toward him and that little niggling thought are permanent fixtures in my brain now.

“I’ve already apologized countless times, but it doesn’t matter what I say because you’ll never forgive me. That’s just who you are.”

“You’re wrong about that. I have forgiven you; I’ve just chosen to forget you too.” I peer at him over the rim of my glass as I slowly sip, my dinner forgotten.

He sits stone-faced and motionless. “I think you’re going to have a hard time forgetting me, Sarah.”

I stifle a laugh. “Oh yeah. Why’s that? What makes you so unforgettable?”

Bob’s always had a God complex. Most narcissists do. He thinks he’s more important, more memorable, more charming, more interesting, more of everything than he actually is.

“Did Adam ever forget about you?” he says, cocking his head. “He didn’t, did he? He thought about you every single day for eleven years while he was locked up in a six-by-nine cell, a cell, unbeknownst to him, you put him in. And he thought about you in his final moments when the little bit of life he had left was ripped out of him, one decompressed needle at a time. So, yeah, Sarah, I think you’re going to have a very hard time forgetting about me.” He seals his thinly veiled threat with a small menacing smile.

“I’m not your Adam, Bob, and you’re definitely not my Sarah.”

“You sure about that? Do you think I didn’t know back then that I needed to have an insurance policy with you? Something to guarantee you couldn’t do to me what you did to Adam.”

I squint, taking in every inch of his face, searching for a tell, something to tip off that he’s lying. But he’s stoic. “You’re bluffing,” I say.

My fists become balls beneath the table, and my heart hammers in my chest so fast and frenzied, it feels like it could smash through my rib cage and leap right onto my plate. I’m sure if it did, Bob wouldn’t hesitate to eat it. I take several short, deep breaths—trying to keep my cool. I don’t know what he has on me. My brain acts like a Rolodex now, going over our memories together, moments when I may have left myself vulnerable. But nothing stands out. I’ve always been careful, but maybe I wasn’t careful enough.

“Then call my bluff,” Bob says. “I’ve been patient with you, Sarah, and I’ve been beyond nice. But we’re past that now. If Stacy Howard doesn’t make a sudden reappearance, my insurance policy goes straight to the police.” He raises his chin, deepening the fire in his eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I drain the rest of my wine.

“Sure, you don’t.” He grins, chewing slowly on a piece of steak. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I fiddle with the stem of the glass, rotating it, while my eyes remain on Bob. He shovels the food I bought, prepared, and cooked into his gluttonous mouth—and all I can think now is, I should have killed him when I had the chance.