kind a lot of people wanted. But there was something to be said for working a low-profile account, too. Making sure nothing fell through the cracks, nothing was overlooked. Being able to see the impact I was making.
“You’re the kind of person who always wants to be the best. That’s what I love about you.”
That’s
what he loved about me? The compliment felt like a slap.
“And it’d probably be harder to make that kind of move after we have kids,” he went on. “So maybe you should get to a place you want to be, and
then
we should think about kids.” He stirred his drink with his straw as he said it, still avoiding my eyes.
I drained the remnants of my drink, the sweetness gone, now nothing but bitterness. “Okay,” I said as a chill ran through me.
—
AS SOON AS THE TAILLIGHTS of Matt’s car disappear around the corner, I walk back into the house. I check on Ella, who’s still in front of the TV, then head to the storage area behind the stairs. I need to see what’s on that laptop.
It’s a small space, crowded with stacks of blue plastic bins. I pull the chain to turn on the light and look down at the floor, the narrow section that’s bare. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. I get down on my hands and knees, feel around, finally come across a floorboard that’s raised slightly on one side. I run my hand over it, try to lift it, to no avail.
I glance around the room and spot a screwdriver on top of one of the plastic bins. I use it to pry up the floorboard, then peer inside. Something’s catching the light. I reach in and pull out a small silver laptop.
I sit cross-legged and open the laptop, turn it on. It starts quickly, and I see a black screen with a single white bar, a blinking cursor. There’s no text, but it’s password-protected—that much is clear.
I try Matt’s usual passwords, the ones he uses for everything, various compilations of our kids’ names and birth dates. Then I try the password we use for our joint accounts. Nothing works. But why would it? A different set of words runs through my head.
Alexander Lenkov. Mikhail and Natalia. Volgograd.
I have no way of guessing what might have been on his mind when he came up with a password, if he’s even the one who came up with it. This is futile.
Frustrated, I close the laptop and return the room to the way I found it. Then I head back to the family room to check on Ella. “You doing okay, sweetie?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. Doesn’t take her eyes off the TV.
I linger for a moment, then walk upstairs to the master bedroom, pause in the doorway. I go over to Matt’s nightstand first. Pull open the drawer, dig around. Crumpled receipts, spare change, some pictures Ella drew for him. Nothing remotely suspicious. I look under the bed, pull out a plastic container. It’s full of his summer clothes: swimsuits, shorts, T-shirts. I close it and slide it back underneath.
I open the top drawer of his dresser. Move around the stack of boxers, the pile of socks, looking for anything that doesn’t belong. Then I do the same with the next drawer, and the one after that. Nothing.
I head into the closet. Run a hand over the clothes hanging on his rack. Polos, button-downs, pants. I’m not even sure what I’m trying to find. Something that proves he’s not the person I think he is. Or the absence of it; would that be enough to prove that he is?
There’s an old duffel bag on the shelf above. I reach for it and pull it down to the carpet. I unzip it, rifle through. A collection of ties—he hasn’t used those in years—and some old baseball caps. I check each zippered pocket. Empty.
I put the bag back on the shelf and pull down a stack of shoe boxes, kneel down on the carpet with them. The first is full of old bills. The second, receipts. The third, his dress shoes, shiny and black. I sit back on my heels, the open box in my lap. What am I doing? How has my life come to this?
I’m about to replace the lid of the box when
“You’re the kind of person who always wants to be the best. That’s what I love about you.”
That’s
what he loved about me? The compliment felt like a slap.
“And it’d probably be harder to make that kind of move after we have kids,” he went on. “So maybe you should get to a place you want to be, and
then
we should think about kids.” He stirred his drink with his straw as he said it, still avoiding my eyes.
I drained the remnants of my drink, the sweetness gone, now nothing but bitterness. “Okay,” I said as a chill ran through me.
—
AS SOON AS THE TAILLIGHTS of Matt’s car disappear around the corner, I walk back into the house. I check on Ella, who’s still in front of the TV, then head to the storage area behind the stairs. I need to see what’s on that laptop.
It’s a small space, crowded with stacks of blue plastic bins. I pull the chain to turn on the light and look down at the floor, the narrow section that’s bare. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. I get down on my hands and knees, feel around, finally come across a floorboard that’s raised slightly on one side. I run my hand over it, try to lift it, to no avail.
I glance around the room and spot a screwdriver on top of one of the plastic bins. I use it to pry up the floorboard, then peer inside. Something’s catching the light. I reach in and pull out a small silver laptop.
I sit cross-legged and open the laptop, turn it on. It starts quickly, and I see a black screen with a single white bar, a blinking cursor. There’s no text, but it’s password-protected—that much is clear.
I try Matt’s usual passwords, the ones he uses for everything, various compilations of our kids’ names and birth dates. Then I try the password we use for our joint accounts. Nothing works. But why would it? A different set of words runs through my head.
Alexander Lenkov. Mikhail and Natalia. Volgograd.
I have no way of guessing what might have been on his mind when he came up with a password, if he’s even the one who came up with it. This is futile.
Frustrated, I close the laptop and return the room to the way I found it. Then I head back to the family room to check on Ella. “You doing okay, sweetie?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. Doesn’t take her eyes off the TV.
I linger for a moment, then walk upstairs to the master bedroom, pause in the doorway. I go over to Matt’s nightstand first. Pull open the drawer, dig around. Crumpled receipts, spare change, some pictures Ella drew for him. Nothing remotely suspicious. I look under the bed, pull out a plastic container. It’s full of his summer clothes: swimsuits, shorts, T-shirts. I close it and slide it back underneath.
I open the top drawer of his dresser. Move around the stack of boxers, the pile of socks, looking for anything that doesn’t belong. Then I do the same with the next drawer, and the one after that. Nothing.
I head into the closet. Run a hand over the clothes hanging on his rack. Polos, button-downs, pants. I’m not even sure what I’m trying to find. Something that proves he’s not the person I think he is. Or the absence of it; would that be enough to prove that he is?
There’s an old duffel bag on the shelf above. I reach for it and pull it down to the carpet. I unzip it, rifle through. A collection of ties—he hasn’t used those in years—and some old baseball caps. I check each zippered pocket. Empty.
I put the bag back on the shelf and pull down a stack of shoe boxes, kneel down on the carpet with them. The first is full of old bills. The second, receipts. The third, his dress shoes, shiny and black. I sit back on my heels, the open box in my lap. What am I doing? How has my life come to this?
I’m about to replace the lid of the box when
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