A Liar and a Cheat

“I can’t believe he’s here.” My back stiffens and I whisper into my husband’s ear as we walk into the party, onion dip in hand.

“Just relax Mary,” Jim says. His hand slides up my arm and moves over to my back. He rubs in slow circles, pulling me close. I resist his gentle touch, but then try to relax. I need a distraction from the philanderer who is standing on the other side of the room. How dare he come to our neighborhood potluck after what I just learned about him. 

I smile over at Jim, feeling grateful that I’m not married to a liar and a cheat. I wish I could say the same thing about my best friend Josie. “I’ll try,” I say, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek.

“That’s a girl. How about a glass of sangria?”  I nod, and he slides his hand off my back, takes the onion dip that’s clutched in my fingers, and walks over the kitchen island.  A few neighbors nod and smile tensely, but nobody comes over to welcome us. They all seem to be settled into the large open concept living room. I’m not ready to venture over to them, to face this neighborhood controversy. Jim comes back over and hands me a large glass of our neighborhood favorite red sangria. He wraps his hand around me again, somewhat possessively this time.

I take a large sip, feeling the fruity wine make its way down, but nothing can lessen the outrage I’m feeling right now. “I don’t see Josie here. He’s the one who should have stayed away, and she should be here surrounded by her friends.”

I feel Jim flinch beside me. “Please just relax and enjoy the evening.”

“How can I with him here? Why did Gina even invite him?”

Jim lets out a tense breath. “I have no idea, but can we just try to have fun tonight?” 

His hand drops from my back and I sense his frustration. Maybe he’s right. This is always one of my favorite events of the season. I’m not going to let Mark Lewis ruin it for me. Nobody else seems concerned with his presence. In fact, I notice a group of my friends, Josie’s friends, are gathered around him near the floor to ceiling fireplace, as if he’s the victim. “Why are they talking to him?”

“I have no idea, and I don’t care,” Jim says, his voice fraught. What is he so upset about?

“I’m going to ask Gina if she needs any help,” I say leaving my husband standing alone with his beer. 

I head into the kitchen area, where my friend is busy arranging platters of food. “Gina, hi, let me help you? She turns, and I see something odd in her expression, but it is quickly replaced by a smile. “Mary,” she says, her voice surprised. “Yes, please keep me company for a bit. I’m just about done getting all the food out, and then we can sit down and have a good talk.”

I make my way over to the island counter and start moving crostini’s from a Tupperware onto a silver platter. “Where is Josie tonight, and why is Mark here?”

“What do you mean?” she asks. 

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard about Mark’s affair?”

“Mark’s affair,” she says, letting the words sink in. 

“Yes, as in cheating on Josie -- with a woman from his office. And after 20 years of marriage. He shouldn’t be showing his face tonight. Josie should be here with her friends.” I left her multiple messages after I heard the news, but she never called me back. She must be so distraught, but still, I expected to hear from her or see her here tonight. I take a gulp of my sangria, realizing I’m practically down to ice and fruit. 

“Where did you hear about this?” Gina asks, concern etched across her face.

My mind goes blank, until I remember. “Through the neighborhood email chain. I’m sure you must have been part of that.” 

Gina looks at me like I have two heads. “What email chain? Who was on it?”

“All of us, I guess. I’m sure it was the usual people.” I feel the sangria threaten to come back up my throat. “Why haven’t you heard about this?”

“Oh, Mary, we need to…”

“Hey, I’ve been looking for you,” Jim says, appearing out of nowhere. “Hi Gina, thanks so much for hosting again. Isn’t this the third time? We’ve only hosted once. I think we fell behind when we renovated the kitchen last year.”

Gina stares right through my husband. “It’s fine. We’re happy to host.”

“I was just asking Gina why Mark is here instead of Josie. I seem to be the only one who’s seething over what he did.”

“Can you just give it a rest.” Jim’s face turns red, and he looks at his watch, and then down at the floor, as if he wants to be anyplace else but here.

Gina stands still as a statue, clutching a platter of stuffed mushrooms. “I have to go check the drink table,” she says. The platter sounds like it might break as she drops it on the quartz countertop.  Gina rushes out of the kitchen leaving me alone with my husband.

“That was odd,” I say, finishing with the platter of crostinis and placing it absently beside the guacamole and my own onion dip. I look over at the group of people gathered around Mark. “That’s it, I’m going to confront him.”

“Wait, don’t,” Jim says.

I turn to him, feeling an anger I know isn’t justified. But we’re talking Josie, the woman I went through pregnancy and post-partum with. The woman who got me through those first few anxious years as a mother and has been a devoted friend as we’ve watched our children grow up. “I have to do this. I’m sorry.”

I leave the kitchen and march over to where Mark is standing, surrounded by our friends, my friends. “It’s so awful,” I hear someone say. Yes, indeed it’s awful, so why are they fawning over him?

“I need to talk to Mark,” I announce, my voice sounding frenzied. The group turns to look at me and then scutters away. Why is everyone acting so odd tonight?

“Mary, can we…” Mark says, his voice cracking.

“Whatever you have to say, I don’t want to hear it,” I tell him, wishing I had refilled my Sangria before I came over here to confront him. My throat is dry, and I want nothing more than a drink, probably something much stronger this time. 

Mark looks at me, confusion written all over his face. “You don’t know, don’t you?”

“Oh yes, I know alright. I realize everyone is being polite and not talking about it, but I can’t believe you had the nerve to show up. Where is Josie?” 

“Who’s everybody, and what exactly are people not talking about?” Mark’s face is filled with confusion and exasperation. He has some nerve being irritated with me. 

“The affair,” I say, my voice cutting and accusing. 

His expression turns to one of regret. “So you know about it,” he says. “I wanted to tell you, but the party didn’t feel like the right time to talk. I swear I was going to reach out to you.”

 “Reach out to me?” I say. I don’t ever want to talk to this man again.  I feel dizzy all of the sudden, unable to stand there and continue this conversation.

“Let me get you a glass of water, and then let’s go out onto the deck. We shouldn’t be talking about this here.” He walks off, leaving me speechless. I look around and notice everyone is staring. Jim is standing alone in the corner. Why isn’t he with the other guys, who are all gathered around some sports game on the big screen TV?

“I feel a hand on my back, but it’s not my husband. This hand is firmer – somehow more sure of itself.  “Here you go.” Mark thrusts a glass of water into my hands and starts guiding away from my friends. Do I want to be alone with him? I’m not sure, but I follow, something compelling me forward. 

He leads me out to a deck we’ve all spent many summer nights on together, laughing, drinking, enjoying each other's company.  But it’s a cool spring night. The deck is practically empty, with just a few chairs, all still covered from the long winter.  Mark closes the door behind us. We are alone, but I am more curious than angry. What could he possibly say to make this better?  I take a sip of the water, realizing how much I needed it. Mark knew that, but I remind myself he is no longer the good friend who knows me so well, and we’re no longer part of a foursome that felt as solid as any friendship I have ever known. He is my enemy, the man who deceived my best friend. “I’ll give you three minutes,” I say.

He smiles ever so briefly at my declaration, but then his face falls, and it looks like tears might be forming in his eyes. “Why are you mad at me?” 

I stare at him, unable to speak.

He stands up straighter and looks as if he finally understands. “What did Jim tell you?”

“Jim didn’t tell me anything,” I bark at him. “I heard about the affair through the neighborhood email chain. Everyone said we shouldn’t talk about it tonight, but how can we not? How can we pretend this isn’t happening.”

“What neighborhood email chain? he asks, concern filling his eyes.

I take a shaky breath. “Why does it matter. The fact is, you’re a liar and a philanderer.”

“Me!” he says, showing an anger that I know is rare for this man, who has always been kind and gentle. “What are you talking about. Jim and Jose have been sneaking around on us since last fall. I don’t know what Jim told you, but he’s the liar.”

Last fall – that was when everything changed. When Jim started his new position at his firm, when the late meetings and business trips started. But they were always followed by  flowers and romantic dinners out. We were just fine. And what about the emails? They said Mark was the one having an affair. That Josie was the victim here. “That can’t be true. We are heard about your affair with the woman in your office.”

Mark looks at me incredulously. “Can I see this email chain?

“Why?” I ask him, taking another gulp of my water.

“Because I think your husband the computer wiz is trying to deceive you.”

I should throw the glass of water in his face and go back to my husband, my faithful husband, but something stops me. I’m not sure if it’s the realization that so much has  changed in our marriage since last fall, or the fact that everything about tonight has felt like I walked into the wrong party. I pull out my phone and scroll through my emails, finding the discussion chain that started just under 48 hours ago, the one that has dominated my life and my thoughts. “You have one minute,” I say, sounding feeble.

Mark ignores my comment, taking the phone and staring at it, scrolling through the messages. He shakes his head. “The email addresses are altered. This whole conversation is a fake.”

“What are you talking about,” I say, grabbing the phone from him.  I stare at the names, at the responses. GinaMullins928, I know those are the right numbers because that’s her birthday, but now it says GinaMullins0928. Each name on the chain is slightly altered, and as I read the responses again, all accusing Mark and agreeing not to talk about it at tonight’s potluck, they don’t quite sound like my friends. Why wouldn’t we talk about something so monumental? I feel my legs go weak, and I begin to wobble. Mark puts an arm around my shoulder, holding me up. It feels like his secure hand is the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

“Jim and Josie have been having an affair since right after Labor Day,” he says, his voice soft and filled with sympathy.  “I knew something was off, so I hired someone to follow them. I confronted Jim on Thursday, and he threatened me. Told me I’d better not say anything to you or he would ruin my life. I’ve never seen him like that.  but I think he was shocked that I knew. That I had proof.”

I leaned into him, my old friend, my ally turned enemy -- and maybe now turned ally again. “What proof?” I wasn’t sure if I was ready for this, but I needed to know. 

Without moving his arm from me, Mark pulls out his own phone, flips through some photos and hands it to me. There it is, slapping me in the face. Dozens of pictures of my husband and Josie, at the beach, at an airport bar, walking into a hotel holding hands. I drop the phone and it clanks to the floor. Mark doesn't bend to pick it up. He just leans over and put his other arm around me. I put my head against his chest as tears and anger and anguish all hit me at once.

“I’m so sorry. I planned to tell you this weekend. I wasn’t afraid of Jim’s threats, but I knew once I said something your life would fall apart just as mine has. I was trying to figure out the right way to say it – to protect you just a bit longer. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” I whisper into his chest. Then I look into his watery eyes with my own. “I have to get out of here. Please, can we just go.”

“Yes,” he says. “I’ll take you home right now. You need time alone to process this.”

Alone, that sums up what my life feels like right now, despite the group of friends who stand just on the other side of the glass. “Okay, but can we talk tomorrow.”

“Yes, we’ll meet up and talk more tomorrow. We’ll figure this out together - how we’re going to move on, what we’re going to tell our kids.”

Our kids -- who are friends and classmates and teammates. Almost like cousins. It’s all too much to think about. 

I watch as Mark calmly picks up his phone, and then takes off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. I look back into the house, wondering what they are all thinking. 

“Don’t’ worry, they’ll understand,” Mark says, reading my mind. “And I have a feeling Jim will be leaving soon too. We’ll make sure he checks into a hotel. He doesn’t deserve to go home with you.”

“Does everyone know?” I ask, incredulous.

He smiles weakly. “Not everyone, at least not yet.”

I shudder, not wanting to think about the fallout to come. We’ve vacationed together, watered each other’s plants, talked over the low fences separating our yards, shared our lives along this intimate suburban street. It all felt so perfect. But now it all feels so broken.

I pull Mark’s jacket close, feeling the smell of his cologne that is almost as familiar as the one my husband wears. He opens the door leading into the dark backyard, and we walk off together into the night, into our familiar neighborhood and an unknown future.