No Hiding in Boise Read online

  I’d do those circles on his back for however long it took. Even when I was sure he was asleep, when I saw his little clenched fists release and his eyelids flutter, I would wait until I made a hundred circles with my hand on his back before leaving his room.

  I start counting now.

  One. Two. Three.

  Sometime before one hundred, I fall asleep.

  ANGIE

  I NEVER WOULD HAVE guessed Cale would be pursuing another woman, let alone a woman in her twenties. He’s not the type to be obsessed with someone; I don’t think he was ever obsessed with me. We got along well. We had fun, but I wouldn’t say there were fireworks. I assumed mature romance was less about fireworks, more about friendship. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he wanted fireworks.

  The list in his phone—it’s just weird. Why was he so into this woman? I met her. She was pretty, sweet. But obsession-worthy? I don’t get it. Maybe he was just desperate for distraction from his life, our life. Maybe he craved freedom. A twenty-something bartender is the epitome of freedom.

  BEFORE I GOT pregnant, we’d talked vaguely about having kids. I’d said I wasn’t sure about them. This wasn’t an attempt to be the cool girl, the girl who promises her guy a future in which he is her sole focus; at the time, I really wasn’t sure. I was old enough to have several friends who had kids, and I’d seen how their lives had diverted drastically from what they had been before. I liked what Cale and I had. I liked that we could hike Hulls Gulch on a whim, visit breweries whenever we wanted, take the canoe to the river on weekends. I still felt like I had selfishness and hedonism to indulge. And I was aware that meant I wasn’t ready to be a mother.

  Condoms work about 90 percent of the time. When you hear that, you assume the 10 percent is reserved for idiots who use them incorrectly or say they used them and didn’t. You don’t think you could be in the 10 percent until your period is a week late, your boobs feel strangely tender, and there’s a weird metallic taste in your mouth, like you’ve been sucking on pennies. That was what I googled—metallic taste in mouth. One of the common causes: pregnancy. Something to do with hormones. My first thought was, No, it couldn’t be. But when I considered the lateness of my period and my tender breasts, I knew it could be. I went to Walgreens on my lunch break, bought three different pregnancy tests, and took each of them to the Walgreens bathroom. My fingers trembled as I set the alarm on my phone for three minutes. I closed my eyes for those three minutes. When the alarm beeped, I looked. Two of the tests were the kind with lines—one showed two lines side by side, the other showed two lines crossing each other. The third test said “Pregnant” in a little window. There was no denying it.

  Sahana was the first person I told. I had to tell her first because I needed her guidance on how to tell Cale. He would be shocked, as I was. A small part of me was excited by the unknown, by how this unexpected thing would change our lives. We hadn’t talked much about the future, though moving in together suggested we had one. Now there was something growing inside me that would start making decisions for us.

  Sahana was shocked too. I’m not the type to have unexpected things happen to me. I’m a planner, by nature.

  “I know this sounds lame,” she said, “but I feel like any sperm that got past a latex barrier deserves to become a kid.”

  I laughed. I was giddy.

  “I kind of agree,” I say. “I’m oddly proud of my child’s resolve.”

  “Well, it’s the sperm’s resolve. Your egg was just hanging out. Women are always waiting on men, remember?”

  I laughed again. “I don’t know how to tell Cale.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t post it on Instagram.”

  “Oh god no,” I say.

  I knew, right then, that even if I did take a video of the moment, Cale’s reaction would not be Instagram-worthy. I knew he wouldn’t be the guy breaking into the biggest smile of his life, the guy hugging his wife gleefully, the guy jumping up and down. I didn’t expect him to be excited.

  That night, after scooping pasta into bowls for us, I said, “I have something to tell you.” I couldn’t help but smile as I said it. He smiled in response. I think he was expecting me to say I got a promotion.

  “I know this is crazy, but I’m pregnant,” I said.

  He was stunned. That much I’d predicted. But there was something else too—fear, I think. It was on his face for just a split second before he smiled. At the time, I thought it was genuine. In retrospect, I think he smiled because he knew that was what he was supposed to do.

  “I hope it’s mine,” he joked.

  AT EIGHT WEEKS, I had my first doctor’s appointment. I went by myself, told Cale not to worry about it (he had a busy day with work, I remember). In this instance, I was trying to be the cool girl, not one of those annoying pregnant women demanding her husband’s presence at every ultrasound. Once I was there, though, I wished he was too. I got tears in my eyes hearing the heartbeat. I was that woman. Maybe it was better I was alone; if he’d been there, I would have been a little embarrassed by my reaction.

  He proposed shortly after that first appointment. He got down on one knee at our house, on a not-otherwise-special Friday night. I told him he didn’t have to do this just because we were having a baby. He said, “You’re ruining the moment.” I laughed, let him put the ring on my finger. It was beautiful— two carats, round cut, classic. I didn’t think I was someone who cared about diamonds until one was presented to me.

  “We’re really doing this?” I asked him. Tears were threatening. There I was, being that woman again.

  He shrugged. He was still down on his knee. “I don’t know. You haven’t said yes yet.”

  I knelt on the floor so I could look in his eyes and said, “Yes. Duh.”

  THIS IS WHAT I’m thinking about as I sit in this annoyingly charming coffee shop, waiting for my husband’s apparent love interest to walk through the door. It’s 11:00 a.m. I told work I had an appointment. Nobody asked questions. Before the sentence even got out of my mouth (“I have to leave for an appoint—”), they were saying, “Yes, of course. Go ahead.” They seem uncomfortable with me there, going about life. I’m sure they’re all thinking, If that happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to function. My functioning is perplexing to them. They don’t know the whole story. I’m not just a grieving, worried wife; I am a betrayed, confused wife. “Of course you’re angry,” Sahana said yesterday. She is the only one who knows, who understands. I haven’t told Aria the whole truth yet, the truth that my husband wasn’t just at a bar randomly. He was at a bar in pursuit of a twenty-something-year-old girl.

  And that twenty-something-year-old girl has just walked in.

  I stand from my chair, as if I’m an audience member at a wedding and she is the bride. When she spots me, she quickens her pace and sits in the seat immediately next to mine, instead of the one across from me, which would be more socially appropriate.

  “Sorry,” she says. “Since the shooting, I can’t have my back to doors.”

  She seems embarrassed of this, though it makes total sense. In this moment, I feel sorry for her; the hatred I’d developed for her since discovering the note in Cale’s phone suddenly dissipates.

  I shift to the seat across from the one she has chosen, settle into this more comfortable position.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say to her, straightening in my chair, giving myself the posture of a powerful woman. I need her to know that I am in control of this situation, whatever it is. I need her to know I won’t tolerate bullshit—Cale’s or hers.

  She finger-combs a strand of sandy-blonde hair behind her ear. She has beautiful hair, Pantene commercial hair. I can see the appeal of her, to a man, to Cale. She seems innocent, simple; but then there’s that tattoo on her arm, black silhouettes of birds flying, the one Cale mentioned in his note about her. Something about her seems complex, deep. An old soul, as they say.

  “Is this about Cale?” she says.

  I look at her, stunned. Is sh
e going to just come out with it?

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  She furrows her brows. “I assumed you wanted to give me an update. Is he okay or …”

  “Oh,” I say. “They say he’s stable. I’m going to the hospital after I meet with you.”

  She nods solemnly.

  “You seem awfully curious about his condition,” I say, trying to lead the conversation where I want it to go.

  She cocks her head to one side, like a dog questioning a sound off in the distance.

  “I just mean … he’s basically a stranger to you, right?”

  “Not a stranger,” she says.

  I wait for more. She looks down.

  “Like I said, I feel like he may have saved my life.”

  Not this again.

  I sigh.

  “So that’s all there is to it?”

  “To what?” she asks.

  “To your interest in him?”

  She looks confused again.

  “Look,” I say, “I have reason to believe that Cale had a … thing for you.”

  Her already-large blue eyes become bigger.

  “A thing for me?” she asks.

  I try to find deceit on her face, but her surprise seems genuine.

  “A crush or something,” I say, because “crush” seems like something that someone her age would understand. And “obsession” might scare her.

  “Really?” she says. She shakes her head in apparent disbelief.

  “You didn’t know?”

  She keeps shaking her head. “I didn’t see it,” she says.

  “So this is news to you.”

  She holds up one hand, like a Girl Scout taking an oath.

  “I swear,” she says.

  She seems so young. I half expect her to stick out a pinky, ask to link it with mine.

  I believe her.

  I believe she didn’t know.

  In a way, I’d prefer they had a thing together. I’d prefer a mutual crush. As it is, Cale just seems like a creep, a forty-five-year-old man inappropriately invested in a younger woman.

  I touch the home button of my phone, look at the time. I suppose I’ve gotten what I came for, though it’s only raised more questions.

  “I should get going,” I tell her.

  She looks surprised, maybe a little disappointed, like she thought we were going to hang out or something.

  “To the hospital,” she says. “Right, of course, yeah.”

  We both stand.

  “Can I just ask,” she says, “what makes you think he had a … thing … for me?”

  Her voice is timid, unsure. She stands with one foot crossed over the other, teetering slightly to one side.

  I wonder if I should tell her. Considering her fragile emotional state, her paranoia, her inability to sit with her back to doors, I decide she doesn’t need to know about the note in his phone. She doesn’t need to also worry about older men stalking her.

  “Just wife’s intuition, I guess.”

  She looks doubtful but doesn’t press further.

  We walk out together, turn to face each other when we get to the sidewalk.

  “Thank you, again, for meeting me,” I tell her. “Sorry I have to run.”

  She nods once. “Of course.”

  I take my keys out of my purse, signaling that I’m on my way.

  “Well, have a good day,” I say, bringing this awkward meeting to an appropriately awkward conclusion.

  “You too.”

  I give her a wave and make my way to my car a block away. When I turn around, she’s still just standing there outside the coffee shop, looking in my direction.

  TESSA

  THE FIRST NIGHT HE came in was a Friday. It was busy. We had a Rolling Stones cover band playing, which always drew a large crowd. They called themselves Wild Horses. I’ve always loved that song—“Wild Horses Couldn’t Drag Me Away.” My mom was always playing the Rolling Stones when I was little. And Bob Dylan, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Van Morrison. Our favorite song was “Wild Night.” We’d dance around the kitchen to that, using wooden spoons as microphones. By the end of the song, we were sweaty, hair sticking to the backs of our necks. It always took us a minute to catch our breath. Just thinking of it now makes me want to cry with missing her. I need to call her, tell her. Soon.

  He was wearing a button-down flannel shirt. It wasn’t buttoned correctly—one button in the wrong hole and the whole thing went awry. His hair was wet, like he’d just gone to the bathroom, wet his hands, and ran them through his hair. It was close to one o’clock, an hour from closing. The band had finished at midnight, but there were still about fifty people or so lingering, laughing, drinking. It was loud. Drunkenness at 1:00 a.m. is always loud.

  He sat at a stool right in front of me as I was pouring vodka into four glasses for some regulars—one of them was Bob, who was killed in the shooting.

  I squeezed a lime in each glass, and he said, “I think you got me.”

  He meant with the lime.

  I looked up. “Oh, sorry,” I said.

  To be honest, I was irritated with him for calling my attention to this. I didn’t have time to apologize to some guy for a squirt of lime juice. I was dealing with a pack of rowdy drunkards and I was the only one tending bar; Heather had quit, and we hadn’t hired Dan yet. Monica was outside smoking, per usual.

  “Can I bother you for a beer?” he asked. He had to shout at me, because of the noise.

  “Sure, yeah,” I said. “One minute.”

  I held up a finger, telling him to wait, then gathered up the glasses of vodka and delivered them to Bob and his trio of buddies. One of them made a comment about my shirt being sized for a toddler; it was a crop top, baring my belly. I snapped, “Maybe you should tip more so I can buy new clothes.”

  The regulars liked when I gave them a hard time. One of Bob’s buddies, Randy, used to call me Testy Tessa.

  “So, what can I get you?” I asked when I came back to take his order.

  “What do you recommend?”

  Most men do not ask me this. They have a drink of choice. They take pride in it.

  “For beer?” I asked.

  He nodded. He had this dopey smile on his face.

  “IPAs are my favorite. Hoppy, if you like that.”

  “Sure,” he said with a shrug.

  I turned around, pulled the tap for the White Dog Hazy IPA we had that night.

  When I set the pint glass down next to him, some foam sloshed out.

  “How long have you been doing this?” he asked.

  I took it as criticism.

  “Long enough,” I said, defensively. If he didn’t want to deal with a little beer foam and squirt of lime, what was he doing in a shitty bar like Ray’s?

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “Sorry.”

  He shook his head at himself and took a sip.

  “It’s good.”

  I grabbed a towel from under the bar, ran it across the bar top.

  “I’ve been doing this for a year,” I told him. “And it’s just to pay the bills. I’m going to school.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “That’s great,” he said. “What school?”

  I thought it was weird that he was asking, that he was interested. Any woman who has lived in the world for any length of time has a radar for creepy men. That’s when I looked at his ring finger, saw he was married.

  “Boise State,” I said. He probably thought I was going to the local community college. I relished the opportunity to shock him.

  He didn’t look shocked though. He just said, “What are you studying?”

  I stared at the ring finger long enough for him to see me staring. I wanted him to know that I knew he was married.

  “Just general stuff now. I want to be a nurse,” I told him.

  “That’s great,” he said.

  He took a long sip.

  That’s when I asked, “So you meeting someone?”

  And
he said, “Something like that.”

  It seemed strange—coming to a bar an hour before closing to meet someone. But I didn’t know much about clandestine affairs.

  Just before two o’clock, Monica turned the lights on in the bar and said, “Alright, bedtime, folks.”

  There were the usual groans. At that point, only a handful of people were left—all men.

  He stood up from his stool and downed the rest of his beer—his second pint of the Hazy IPA. Whoever he was supposed to meet hadn’t shown up, but he didn’t seem to care.

  That’s when he said, “It was nice chatting. Thanks for the beer.”

  He pulled two twenties out of his pocket, set them on the bar top. I thought he’d made a mistake—pulled an extra bill. I handed one back to him.

  “Oh no, that’s for you. To buy new clothes or whatever,” he said with a wink. I usually associate winks with creepy men, but his seemed friendly. I couldn’t help but smile.

  “Uh, thanks,” I said.

  His two beers were $12 total, so he’d tipped me $28, which made no sense.

  “My name’s Cale, by the way,” he said.

  “Cale?”

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. My hearing’s always kind of shot by the end of the night when we have live music.

  “Yeah, like the trendy lettuce stuff.”

  Again, I couldn’t help but smile.

  Now, in retrospect, I guess I have to wonder if he was flirting with me.

  “Well, I’m Tessa,” I told him. Then I said what I always say when someone I serve at the bar is leaving: “See you around.”

  Monica said she was going to lock up, so I grabbed my purse from where I’d stashed it under the sink, then made my way to the parking lot. I had an eerie feeling, like I wasn’t alone. I thought of Ryan’s ongoing fear of me being attacked on the way to my car after work. I was less scared of the attack than I was of having to admit to him that he was right.

  I picked up my pace until I was jogging. When I got inside my car, I exhaled. I turned the key in the ignition, and all the locks engaged. I was fine. Then I looked up and saw the reason I’d felt like I wasn’t alone.