Between Us and Ashes

The Truth Has A Smell

Dana said, "You slept with him."

It was not a question. Dana Kim had been my best friend since sophomore year of college, and she had a talent for identifying my bad decisions the way other people identified weather patterns: before I even felt the rain.

"I did," I said.

She wrapped both hands around her coffee cup. We were at our usual table at the corner bakery on West 74th. The tables were far enough apart that you could say things you would not say anywhere else.

"How was it?" she asked.

"Incredible and horrible," I said. "In that order."

"Classic Marcus." She sipped her coffee. "What happened after?"

"His phone buzzed. He said it was nothing. I knew it was her."

Dana set down her cup with a precision that meant she was managing her reaction. "Naomi."

"I know."

"You need to tell him about the baby."

"I know."

"And you need to talk to Elena."

Elena was the attorney whose number Dana had given me. Specializing in matrimonial law was what her website said. What it meant was divorce.

"I'm not ready for that step," I said.

"You don't have to be ready. You just need to have information. There's a difference."

She was right. Dana was always right. It was both her best quality and her most aggravating one.

I picked at my croissant and told her about the rooftop, about Devin, about standing in the cold with someone who looked at me like I was worth looking at.

She listened without interrupting, which meant it was serious. Dana always interrupted.

"He didn't try anything?" she asked when I finished.

"No. He was just kind."

"That's dangerous," she said.

"I know."

"More dangerous than if he'd tried something, actually. Anyone can resist a pass. It's the genuine ones that get under your skin."

"Tell me what to do," I said, which was not something I said often.

"Tell Marcus tonight," Dana said. "About the baby. Not because he deserves to know right now, because he doesn't, but because you need to stop carrying it alone. It's too heavy."

She reached across the table and put her hand over mine.

"Whatever happens after, you don't do it alone. You have me." She paused. "And you have that baby. So get it together, Clarke. You are not your mother and this is not her story."

My mother had stayed, twenty-three years with a man who made her feel invisible. She had stayed because of me, or so she said, and I had spent my entire adult life trying not to replicate her choices.

I drove to Marcus's office that afternoon with the intention of telling him. He was not there. Priya said he had gone to a site visit in Jersey with Vivienne. I sat in the lobby of his building for ten minutes. Then I called the number Dana had given me: Elena Marsh, Matrimonial Law.

"I'd like to schedule a consultation," I said.

Elena Marsh was a woman in her fifties with the kind of face that did not waste expressions on things that were not useful.

She said, "Tell me what's happening."

I told her. All of it, the anniversary, Vivienne, the guest room, the texts, the rooftop, the s*x that should not have made things more complicated but absolutely had.

She took notes. She did not react.

When I finished she looked at me and said, "Are you here because you want out, or because you want to know your options?"

"Both," I said. "I think."

"Fair enough." She leaned back. "In New York State, you can file for divorce on grounds of irretrievable breakdown of the marriage. You do not need proof of infidelity, though if you have it, it can affect asset division. You've been married five years. Do you have joint assets? Property?"

"A condo in Midtown. We own it together. And his business, I contributed to the early operating costs, a significant amount."

"That matters," she said. "Are you employed?"

"Self-employed. Freelance interior design. I've been building my business back up for the past two years."

"And you mentioned a pregnancy."

"Thirteen weeks."

She nodded. "That changes the picture significantly. It adds layers: child support, custody arrangements, his rights as the biological father." She paused. "Have you told him?"

"Not yet."

"Tell him before you file anything," she said. "Whatever you decide, he needs to know."

I left her office with a folder of information and the strange sensation of having taken a step I could not untake.

I stood on the sidewalk and called Marcus. He answered on the third ring.

"Hey. Everything okay?"

"I need to tell you something," I said. "Tonight. I need you home by seven and I need an hour of your uninterrupted time."

A beat. "Okay. Is something wrong?"

"Seven o'clock, Marcus," I said. "Don't be late."

I hung up and thought: after tonight, nothing will be the same. I was right about that. But not in the way I expected.