In Twenty Years: A Novel Read Free Page B

ninth hole at Shinnecock, and as they were driving home from the funeral, Baxter announced that he was making changes. That his life was passing him by! and that he wasn’t getting any younger, for God’s sake! It is all about family, and you are my family, and by God, I am going to be HERE now.
    Annie exhaled, the wind from her open window whipping against her blush-covered cheeks, and reached her left hand over to the nape of his neck, letting it rest there until she felt self-conscious. And knew it had been worth it: her silence, her nonconfrontational manner, how she buried his secrets until they became her own secrets too.
    Baxter cut down on his office hours at Morgan Stanley, pawning off work to his underlings, then took up yoga, bought himself a Porsche, and for a very brief period, went on an ill-fated raw-food diet, which seemed to wreak more havoc on his digestive system than it was worth. He went from a passing ship in their household to an anchored liner in their port, and though they aren’t perfect, now, together, Annie believes they are happy. They started having sex again—usually twice a week after a few years of every now and again. (Annie refuses to even imagine him having sex with the other woman, whoever she was.) They go out to dinner, and he holds her chair, then scoots it in. He asks her if she likes the Porsche, and she doesn’t even tut, even though she’s terrified to ask how much it must have cost. She knows she should be used to niceties like a new Porsche by now, but every time she sinks into the supple leather seats and inhales the musky scent that just screams “filthy rich,” she feels a little sick, like the gods might smite them for their ostentatious display of new money.
    She would never breathe a word of any of this to Baxter, though.
    Today she picks up a dead sunflower leaf that’s fallen on the counter next to the crystal vase. She bought the flowers at the farmer’s market just yesterday, and here they are, already dying on her.
    Annie’s phone buzzes. She swipes her screen, hoping for at least five or six “likes” to her Instagram shot in the past minute. But there is only a solitary text. She squints at it because she doesn’t recognize the number. It’s a Los Angeles area code, and she can’t recall anyone she knows who lives in LA. Well, there was that family from preschool who moved because the dad was a bigwig at Sony, but surely that mom, whose name she can’t recall—maybe Cynthia?—but whose child once bit Gus on the arm (and was a bit of a sociopath, Annie thought), wasn’t texting her now.
     
Did you get this shit in the mail today?
     
    Annie rereads the message three times. She never checks the mail—her housekeeper usually does it for her—but even if she had, what sort of shit is to be expected? She fishes around in her kitchen drawer—the messy one where she allows Gus and Baxter to throw all their crap—for the spare mailbox key. But she can’t find it, and then her phone buzzes again.
     
Seriously, this is fucking weird. I mean, WTF?
 
    Well, she can’t not reply to that.
    Annie doesn’t get many WTF-type texts. She gets texts about sales at Bed Bath & Beyond and reminders for Gus’s dental appointments. Very rarely, nay, never, is there a WTF-type text.
    She thinks of a million things to say, like:
     
If this is Cynthia Burton, then I hope you can apologize for when Henry bit Gus. He required three stitches! And I considered a rabies shot!
 
    Or:
     
Perhaps you have the wrong number?
 
    She taps her fingers along the perfect white Carrera counters. She wishes those sunflowers weren’t already dying. She really thinks they’re a pick-me-up for the kitchen.
    Finally, she types:
     
Oh, I didn’t think it was weird at all!
     
    She opens her Sub-Zero to pour the lemonade she made last night, satisfied that she’s covered her cluelessness well.
    Before she can add ice to her highball, there’s a reply.
     
Annie, cut the shit.