Page 67 of Count My Lies

I take my suitcase across the hall into Sloane’s room. Sloane’s barely unpacked either, clothes spilling out from her oversized suitcase in the corner. I stuff them all back inside and wheel it into the master.

Then I go into the closet and find Jay’s empty duffel bag, start grabbing his things from the dresser drawers, tossing them inside, trying to fit in as much as I can in the short time I have. I keep an eye on the window, checking for Sloane.

In the bathroom, I grab his toothbrush, his electric razor. When I come out, I glance again out the window. My heart skips a beat. Sloane is starting down Anne-Marie’s walkway, back to the road leading to our house.

Here it goes.

“Jay!” I yell. “Jay!” When I don’t hear him, I yell a third time. “Jay!”

Finally, “What?” he answers, his voice faint from the laundry room office. I don’t respond.

Then, I hear a door opening down the hall, and a moment later he appears in the doorframe. “What—?” he asks, then stops short. He looks around the room, sees his half-packed bag, the open drawers, the piles of his clothes. “What are you doing?” he asks, looking up at me in confusion.

“I changed my mind,” I say. I shove a pair of his board shorts into the bag, not bothering to keep them folded, then a stack of his shirts. “I want you gone.”

“Are you kidding?” he asks. His face darkens. “You begged me to come here.”

“Well, now I don’t want you here anymore.” I stop for a moment, folding my arms across my chest. “Take your things and go.”

“Why? What the fuck did I do?”

“I saw you with Caitlin,” I say.

Jay shakes his head, raises his hands defensively. “Violet,” he says, lowering his voice, “she was coming on to me, and I—”

I almost laugh. He’s used this line before.

The first time I heard it was after his company Christmas party, back when we lived in San Francisco. I was a month or two into my pregnancy with Harper, not showing, but naueous all the time, puking most mornings. But Jay had just gotten the job, and I wanted to support him, so I put on a dress and a smile and accompanied him to the restaurant.

Halfway through the evening, I realized a woman was staring at him, a young sales associate he worked with, caramel-colored curls, pretty. Jay pretended not to notice, but I watched as his eyes kept darting toward her, as he bit his lip to keep himself from smiling at her.

When he excused himself, my eyes followed as he went to the bar, where she was standing with a glass of wine. Then they were both gone. Not for long, five minutes at the most, but it was something. Maybe a blow job, maybe just his hand up her skirt, the other on her breast. Something quick. I knew it in my gut. He was twitchy when he came back, his arm slipping back around my waist, fidgeting by my side.

When I confronted him at home, he told me I was being paranoid. That it was the pregnancy hormones. “I saw how she was looking at you,” I insisted. “Look,” he said, holding his hands up. “You’re right, she was flirting with me, but I—”

But I—alwaysbut I—never at fault, never to blame. I believed him then. Because I loved him, because I wanted it to be true. Because I was hormonal. Because I was stupid. I’m not anymore.

Now, I hold up a hand to quiet him. “I don’t give a shit. In fact, I’m happy for you two. It’s exactly what I hoped for.”

Jay glares at me, eyes flashing. “You’re fucking crazy,” he says. “You know that?”

I stare back at him. He’s so handsome. I loved that face once. Now I hate it.

“Maybe I am,” I say. He’s probably right. But aren’t all mothers when it comes to their children? There’s nothing we won’t do. “Now get the fuck out.” I zip up his bag and shove it at him.

For a minute he doesn’t move, then takes it from me roughly. “You’re such a bitch.” He gives me a long once-over, his lip curled with disdain. “Who could blame me?” he says.

There it is: his other favorite excuse. If I looked different,better, put out more, he wouldn’t have done what he did. It’s pathetic.

“Getout.”

His jaw twitches. “Where’s Harper?”

“A sleepover next door. She won’t forgive you if you make her leave early. Just go back to the city. I’ll bring her home on Sunday.”

“I’ll see you in court,” he says. He slams the door on the way out. It rattles in its frame.

No, you won’t, I think.

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