Things Your Husband Told Me

By Michelle Keill

In this candid and stirring collection, five women tell tales of chance encounters that changed their lives forever.

They share stories of love found, forbidden, and forsaken. They speak of abandoning control, of flashes of chemistry, and of losing the irreplaceable. Escaping the past and running headlong into the future, they break hearts, they break free, and ignite sparks of desire and inspiration.

As they embark upon their journeys of self-discovery, and of self-destruction, they bravely explore the furthest reaches of their deepest emotions and boldly reveal the things they learn along the way...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michelle Keill
• Release date: Sep 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781999728540

Book preview

REARVIEW MIRROR

I left while Steven was sleeping. It was the best way. If I’d waited until he’d woken, I would never have gone. He’d have talked me out of it; he’d have promised me everything would be okay, but it would’ve been a lie. It wouldn’t be okay, and I was certain of that now. I had tried my best, but my best couldn’t undo what was done. He had tried too, of course, and if I’d stayed he would’ve kept on trying.

Steven saw the world simply, in clichés he insisted were true. You can change your life, he’d say, you can start over. Just because you’ve had some bad luck—and to him luck was all it amounted to—it shouldn’t determine your whole future. Nothing, he’d tell me, is set in stone.

I’m with you now, he’d say. You’re not alone anymore.

He was wildly idealistic about me—about who I was, and who I could be—but he had it all wrong, and I could never make him understand that while I might have changed my life, I hadn’t changed along with it. I was still right where I’d started, with the same thoughts, and the same feelings. The only thing I’d learned was that I knew nothing, and I was a fool to believe that the damage could ever be repaired. My mistake was to think that the answer was to look forward, to what lay ahead.

No. The only way to see the future clearly was to stare into the past.

I got in the car and drove out of the city. I hadn’t left a note, although I could have. Steven was a heavy sleeper, whereas I slept like a soldier: one eye open, ready for whatever might be about to leap out of the dark. It saddened him, he’d said, that his presence wasn’t enough to blunt my sharp edges, or encourage me to trust. But there was no magic bullet, and so there was no note either. Whatever I’d written, he’d have taken as proof that he’d failed to fix me. I was irreparable, and he’d only realize that when I wasn’t around anymore, and when he looked back too.

Dust blew up from beneath the wheels as I sped along the asphalt. I steered the car east and kept going until I breached the city’s borders. I turned the radio up loud and let the babble from the talk shows wash over me. The hosts were unrelenting. They wailed about how everything was a mess, and pondered whether it would ever be possible to heal the divide. But here’s the thing: you have to want to be healed. You have to want the hurting to stop, and I think Steven believed I enjoyed wallowing in events that, to him, were nothing more than footnotes. He was frustrated that I couldn’t move on.

We can choose what we focus on, he’d say. Some people choose to be unhappy.

I’d know he was talking about me.

Whenever he told me that nothing was insurmountable and that the past was behind me, I’d just nod, or say, Yeah, you’re right. I could have told him again that some obstacles are too big, some shadows too foreboding, and who would choose this if there were a different way? But I didn’t have the energy to protest anymore, and although I hated that I was always disagreeing, always countering in the negative, my pessimism was a product of experiences he’d never comprehend. There were scenes I couldn’t find the courage to describe, sentences I couldn’t bring myself to form, and the hints I dropped every so often were too subtle for him to decode. And I was tired, so tired.

I stopped at a diner. I ordered a coffee and unfolded the map so I could consider the possibilities. So many roads leading to so many places, and yet there was nowhere to go. Wherever I went, those thoughts and feelings would follow and, truth was, I was sick of myself.

I was sitting with my bitter diner coffee, mulling over who I was and who I’d never be, trying to figure it out after all those years, when a man approached my table. He wore a yellow T-shirt stretched tight over his bulk. It clashed with his red hair, but that was probably the point. Guys like him did not adhere to rules.

He tucked his hands into his jean pockets, rocked back on his heels and said, Where are you headed?

That was it: that was his big line. But I’d heard bigger, and I’d gone along with smaller.

Haven’t decided, I said.

The man gave me a knowing smile, as though he’d anticipated my ambiguity. Letting the road guide you, huh?

Something like that.

I sipped my coffee. It was cold, but I drank it anyway. The man didn’t move away.

Are you alone? he said.

It was about the time Steven would be getting home from work. Or, perhaps, when he’d woken and found I wasn’t there, he might’ve skipped work altogether. He would’ve called me, not knowing I’d thrown my phone into the first trash can I’d come across. If I’d gone back and retrieved it, I’d doubtless have found dozens of missed calls and messages that would start off light at first, and then become desperate. In spite of the barren drawers and the naked hangers in the closet Steven might have called the police, who would have confirmed what he already suspected: I wasn’t missing, I was gone.

The man waited for an answer. There were lies I could’ve told him—boyfriend in the restroom, husband expecting me at home, sister on her way to meet me—but he would’ve seen through them. He was a stranger, but I knew his type well enough.

All alone, I said.

He pointed at the seat opposite. The grubby vinyl still bore the imprint of the last set of cheeks that had been planted there.

Mind if I join you, then?

I hesitated only for a moment before I shook my head—there was nothing to lose anymore—and I caught the glimmer of satisfaction on his face as he eased himself into the booth.

He hunched over and planted his palms on the table, like he was about to tell me a secret.

I’m Ford, he said.

Amber.

For a second or two he just watched me, and he had no shame about doing so. Then he grinned and offered me his hand.

Pleased to meet you, Amber. Where you really headed?

Utah.

Ford ran a finger over his mustache. Oh yeah? What in the hell for?

A wedding. An old friend’s wedding.

He grunted. "I hate weddings. Too many people, too many speeches, and I hate those itchy suits … Boring as shit. Heck, I was bored at my own wedding, never mind anyone else’s."

I lifted my cup, which was almost empty. And where is your wife tonight?

"Fuck knows. With her new husband, probably. He’s a whiny dickwad but he loves wearing itchy suits, and he sure likes being married more than I ever did, so I guess he’s okay by her. He let his eyes linger on me. You’re not really going to a wedding, are you?"

I held his gaze. We were equals, him and me. Both of us, going nowhere.

What does it matter? I said. That’s not why you sat at my table.

There wasn’t much more to say after that.

Ford’s pickup truck was parked at the other end of the lot. It was dirty, and had a dent on the side that he seemed proud of.

Other guy came off worse, he said, patting it reverently.

He opened the passenger door for me, and when I didn’t get in, he frowned.

What? he said. If you’re worried I might be some rapist or something …

To Ford, the world was clear-cut: there were bad men—men that women should be afraid of—and then there were men like him. He couldn’t see the gray in between, how it was possible for people to be more than one thing.

I got in. I knew bad men, and they weren’t Ford. He closed the door, and while he jogged around to the driver’s side I thought of Steven. He’d be at home, staring at the television but not watching it. He might’ve called my phone again, hoping I would answer this time. I wouldn’t. Amber was here now. Amber, and Ford.

Going off with Ford was stupid, but I’d done worse.

They won’t tow your car, he said as he noticed me staring out the rear window. I know the woman who owns the diner. He tapped the side of his nose. I had a little word in her ear.

He was bragging, proving he was a master of his territory, but it only underscored how nervous he was.

I’ll drive you back in the morning, he said, and then checked himself. Or later. Whenever. I don’t know …

I twisted around so that I was facing forward again. I wasn’t worried about that.

Ford glanced away from the road. Then what are you worried about?

I studied him—his profile, his eyes, his hair, his mustache. It was tempting to tell him everything, but that wasn’t how it worked. I wasn’t supposed to dump my baggage on him; he wasn’t the guy I went to with my troubles. That guy was across state lines, pacing the apartment we used to share, the TV on in the background, the sound down low as he talked to his parents.

They’ll know what to do, he used to say as he dialed their number. He’d put his hand on my shoulder and rub my skin as he waited for them to pick up. They never failed to provide counsel and comfort; he’d always had someone to rely on. Security and stability were all he’d ever known.

Mom …? Hello, Mom …?

He’d turn away when she answered, and it was hard to be sure whether he was shielding me from her, or vice versa.

Ford’s place was only a short distance from the diner, but the ride felt long. He talked the whole way; he puffed out his chest and tipped up his chin and told me the things he wanted me to know, and kept the rest to himself. But when he got onto home turf his head dropped and his words dried up, as if the sight of me surveying his meager possessions—the faded poster for a long-forgotten movie, the flyers for an obscure metal band, the frayed furniture and the dirty dishes in the sink—had deflated his bravado.

How long have you lived here? I said.

Couple of months. He was mumbling now. Give or take. He swept a pile of clothes from the couch and motioned for me to sit. You want a drink?

What do you have?

The inventory was extensive, but ultimately immaterial.

Bourbon, I said.

Ford poured generous measures into two mismatched glasses. He handed one to me, and by way of an apology he said, I don’t usually have people over.

So I gathered. I raised my glass to him and sank half the contents. It burned my throat and made my eyes water.

Ford downed his drink slowly and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. I wondered if the hair on his face felt rough against his skin—if it would feel rough against mine.

I don’t … He gazed into his glass, ruing its emptiness, and tried again. I don’t usually have women over. You should know that.

I had some more bourbon—only a sip this time. Why not?

Because. Just because. Not since Wendy …

Wendy? I played ignorant, but he’d mentioned her a few times already. Just not by name.

My wife, he said. "Ex-wife. Bitch broke my heart."

It has to happen that way—one of you has to stop loving the other. If not that, then one of you has to draw a line under it. Walk away.

Ford shook his head. I’d never have walked away from her. Ever.

It sounded like something Steven might say in the future, when he was telling a woman he’d just met about me. He’d try to summon the same level of bitterness as Ford, but he’d never pull it off—he could never bring himself to call me a bitch. But he’d be able to say that I broke his heart, and it wouldn’t matter that I didn’t mean to, or that I’d done my best not to. Steven was the exception to the rule, but I wasn’t strong enough for him. I wasn’t brave enough. I was too … me. And he deserved someone else.

What about you? Ford said.

I swirled the liquid around in the glass. I’m just a woman going to a wedding.

Oh, sure. In Utah.

That’s right.

I drained the rest of my bourbon. It didn’t burn my throat anymore, which brought to mind how I could get accustomed to just about anything, even things that hurt and left a bad taste in my mouth.

Afterward, Ford sat on the edge of the bed, and I watched the muscles in his back moving as he poked around in the nightstand for something. There were marks on his shoulder blades, and it took me a moment to realize that those scratches and red crescents were from my fingernails.

I’d never been able to muster anything close to that with Steven. My reticence had confused him at first: he’d assumed it was because of something he was doing, or something he wasn’t doing. It was a long while before I could contemplate explaining, and when I did I was vague and could barely pierce the surface of the story I needed to tell. I was oblique; I said everything but the words that labeled those events. I made it as hard as possible for him to grasp because I still couldn’t grasp it myself.

Ford turned and held out a box of cigars. Want one?

I propped myself up on my elbow. Seriously?

He chuckled. I’ll take that as a no then, lady.

He put one of the cigars into his mouth and lay down beside me. His body was long and large, and he was as strong as his silhouette had suggested. I wondered if, unconsciously, that had been an important factor for me.

I curled into him as he sent circles of smoke drifting toward the ceiling.

Can you stay? he said.

Could I? It was easier with Ford, but it was supposed to be. He touched me and I didn’t mind—I liked it, even. I touched him too; I wanted him, and it was permissible, tolerable, because it was temporary, and illusory. The body that Ford put his hands on belonged to someone else, and when he looked into my eyes it was not me he saw, but a caricature of me.

With Ford, there was no need for explanations. And if someone had told him that story and relayed those basic facts about me, he would likely have assumed they were mistaken.

That’s not her, I could imagine him saying. That’s not Amber.

In my head, I recited the dialog I’d written for him as he rolled onto me again.

That’s not her. That’s not Amber.

Ford offered to drive me back to the lot to get my car. I refused his kindness and called a cab.

Stay a bit longer, he said, but we both knew it wasn’t going to happen.

It had only been a couple of days, and already I was absorbed in the simplicity of it. I kept reminding myself that it would only remain uncomplicated for so long.

I had to keep moving.

Let me give you my number, Ford said.

I don’t want it.

But he was opening drawers and lifting magazines to unearth a scrap of paper. Eventually he found an old grocery store receipt and scrawled on the back of it.

Take it, he said. When I didn’t, he slipped it into the back pocket of my jeans. In case you need someone when you’re in Utah. In Colorado, in Maine—wherever. He looked at me. In case you need me.

As the cab pulled away, I kneeled up on the back seat to get a final look at him. He was standing on the porch in the same yellow T-shirt he’d had on the first time I saw him. He had a whole closet full of them. So I don’t have to think about the small stuff, he’d said as he showed me the rail