All Fall Down(32)
Author: Jennifer Weiner

“Allison?” Janet’s voice was worried. “Tell me you’re okay or I’m going to get a manager and have them unlock the door.”

“I’m fine. I’m okay,” I rasped. I’m fine, I told myself, even as a voice inside whispered, softly but firmly, that I was a world away from fine, that I was not okay at all.

FIVE

I splashed water on my face, freshened my lipstick, and crammed my feet back into my shoes. With Janet’s help, I found the waiters, gave them instructions, and led the crowd in “Happy Birthday” after the cake I’d ordered from Isgro’s, with buttercream icing and a flaming crown of candles, was brought to the table. I clapped when Dave blew out all the candles, without letting myself wonder what he might have wished for, and used my fork to push bits of cake and frosting around my plate. I laughed at the jokes, raised my glass in a toast, and discreetly managed the payment of the check. I kissed Dan and Marie goodbye, let Barry hug me, and whispered, “I’m okay. I promise,” after Janet pulled me into a hug and said, “You know I’m here if you want to talk about anything.”

The ride home was silent, as if we’d both tacitly agreed not to fight until we were back at the house. I paid Katrina, Dave drove to her dorm, and I crept past Ellie’s bedroom and into my own, shucking off my dress and my painful undergarments, then pulling on a T-shirt that dated back to the 1990s and was where sexy went to die. I had planned on feigning sleep by the time Dave returned from the drop-off, but he turned on the lights and waited at the door until I sat up.

“Happy birthday,” I said, blinking at him. In my dreams I’d been in the bathtub, with Dave kneeling beside me, rubbing a warm washcloth against my shoulders, telling me that he loved me.

“What was that about?” he demanded.

I could have been coy, asking what he was talking about. Instead, I said, “Why don’t you tell me?”

He stared in my direction, hands jammed in the pockets of his suit pants, jaw jutting.

“Come on,” I sighed. “L. McIntyre? Lindsay? Linds? The one you e-mail with all day long?”

I watched as one of his hands went to his cheek and started rubbing. When he finally managed to speak, his voice was strangled. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh? Then what’s it like?”

“We talk,” he said, sounding indignant. Somehow, I didn’t think he was lying. I knew how he looked when he lied, how he’d rock from his heels to his toes, how his voice would rise. There was no shifting and no squeaking. Just Dave, looking wretched. “She’s a friend.”

I didn’t reply, or let my face show my relief.

“This hasn’t been easy for me.” Dave’s eyes were wide, his face arranged in his little-boy-wants-a-cookie expression, the one that usually made me feel sympathetic.

“Which part?” I asked, hearing the edge in my voice.

“Living here,” Dave said.

“What do you mean?” I was honestly bewildered. “You were the one who wanted to move. You were the one who complained all the time about us being in a starter house, and how you didn’t want to raise Ellie in the city.” I would have been happy to stay. I loved our little house, with its spiral staircase, the fireplace in the kitchen that contractors had uncovered when they’d installed our new dishwasher, the French doors that opened onto a narrow brick walkway, and a niche that was the perfect size for a grill and a hanging basket of impatiens that I’d set on the ground when we cooked.

Without a word, Dave turned, walked into the bathroom, and shut the door. I could hear water running, could picture him squeezing more toothpaste than he needed from the center of the tube, then leaving the tube uncapped and spit and toothpaste drips inside the sink, because buying the toothpaste and cleaning the sink were my jobs. That was the deal we’d made, the terms we’d both agreed on, before everything had changed.

Not fair, I thought, and was suddenly so angry that I jumped out of bed and knocked—pounded—on the door. “Do you think I’m happy like this? Doing everything?” I asked. “I’m the one who’s paying the mortgage. I’m the one who takes care of Ellie. I’m the one who’s in charge of her schedule, and our social life, and keeping the house clean and making sure the car gets inspected. Don’t you think I get tired? That maybe I’d like someone to talk to? Someone to take me to lunch?”

His voice came through the door, maddeningly calm. “You seem to be doing just fine by yourself.”

My fingers curled into fists. “So, what? I should complain more, so you know that I’m unhappy? Well, consider this an official update: I’m unhappy.”