The Standout (6 page)

He had turned away again, but once more he circles back, this time stepping dangerously into my personal bubble. His voice is a fierce whisper. “You pretended like you didn’t know about Clara the entire time we screwed around. You played the innocent very well, but it was always just a game.”

I shake my head, stuttering. “No. No! I wasn’t playing any games.”

“You were BFFs with my wife! The signs were everywhere.” Robert starts walking away, backwards down the street, and big guy that he is, people step to the side and make room for him. “So good luck, Robin! If you want to stay married, you’ll need to work on the honesty thing. You can start by being honest with yourself.”

I call my cell phone company and they tell me to call the FCC. The FCC says they’ll look into it, but I should contact whoever is getting spoofed calls from my number, and have them report it too. I know that Robert will be the opposite of helpful, so I send a text to all my contacts:
Hey, I have reason to believe that someone is spoofing my phone. If you get any weird, out of character texts that look like they’re from my number, please let me know ASAP!

I get a gleefully sarcastic response from my brother Ian, a concerned response from my dad, and confusion from my friends. That’s it.

The more I think about it, the more I know that Nick was right to be annoyed last night. I never should have ripped up that note and destroyed the evidence. What compelled me to be so impetuous and self-destructive in that moment? Probably whatever compels me to be impetuous and self-destructive in every other moment, but enough. As soon as I get home I head directly to the basement. I plan to find that ripped up note, tape it back together, and show it to the police. I can report the texting and the email too, and maybe they’ll actually help.

But the wastebasket is empty.

Anxiety attacks aren’t really my thing, but I’m pacing around my living room, wringing my hands and breathing shallowly.

Calm down
, I tell myself.
Redirect your energy. Things will be okay. You just need something to do.

I know. I’ll get a head start on my packing.

Soon I’m sorting through my dresser and I find all sorts of mismatched socks and worn-out pairs of underwear. I guess it’s been too long since my last drawer-cleanse. No wonder I feel dirty.

I convince myself that this urge to clean is all about frayed undergarments and not about my lying-by-withholding the truth to Nick. But when I imagine telling him about Robert, all I can do is picture an avalanche, where I’m trying to catch one rock but get pummeled by a million more.  I shove a mateless green knee sock into a garbage bag that’s already almost filled and try to decide what I should take with me to New York.

Nick gets home, strolls into our bedroom, and takes it all in: the pulled-out dresser drawers, the pieces of clothing strewn everywhere, the large trash bag of irredeemable items, and an open suitcase with nothing in it.

“What’s going on? And what was with that text you sent earlier?”

I spin towards him. “Did you empty the trash downstairs?”

He steps over a pair of woolen black tights that I haven’t worn in years. “No. Why?”

“I was going to tape that note back together, but I went to look for it and it’s gone. Do you think maybe Andrea took it?”

Nick laughs. “Andrea doesn’t even empty the trash in her own room.”

I rub my forehead, trying to massage away the tension that’s pressing against my skull. “I need to get this cyber stalker thing settled before I leave town. Once I’m there I won’t be allowed to use my phone or the internet and then I’ll really be helpless.”

“I’ll help,” Nick states simply. “Seriously, let me help you so you can just worry about doing the show.”

I sigh in response, surveying the clothes strewn haphazardly around our bedroom and I’m more overwhelmed than ever.

“Have you even bought your ticket yet?” Nick asks. His raised eyebrows are his only comment on my mess.

“No. I still can’t find a flight to New York that’s not outrageously expensive.” I pull out some lacy black panties that I bought from Victoria’s Secret last month. Looking at them shouldn’t make me feel guilty but I curl them up into a ball, which I shove to back of my drawer.

“You should fly into Philadelphia.” Nick leans against the bed post. “I bet Philadelphia’s cheaper. Plus, that way you could see Ted.”

“Ted wasn’t even planning on coming to our wedding. He and I couldn’t be less close.”

Nick comes over, places his hands on my tense shoulders and begins to knead. “All the more reason for you two to spend some time together.”

“Easy for you to say,” I grumble, but later I look into ticket prices for Philadelphia, and discover that of course, Nick is right.

The evening before I leave I’m packing my suitcase again, this time more productively, and I can’t find my favorite long-sleeved black T-shirt. I look in the laundry room but there’s only a fuzzy brown sweater that was flattened, left to dry, and forgotten about. On a hunch I go into Andrea’s room, because she’s picked through my closet before. As usual she’s not home and the intrusion feels slightly criminal. Still, I switch on the light, and after searching through her laundry basket, under her bed, and finally in her dresser, I find my shirt.

I also find something else.

In between the folds of one of her blouses is an envelope with my name on it and it’s just like the other one: same handwriting, same stationary, but no postmark or return address. It’s already open so I slide out the sheet of paper and read:

Robin:

I’ve never known anyone more entitled than you. Women like you don’t deserve nice guys, so leave Nick. If you don’t, I’ll make sure that he leaves you. Get ready.

“What are you doing in here?”

I’m startled by Andrea’s voice and I whip my head around, not quite ready to face her but forced to do so, nonetheless.

“I was looking for my shirt,” I hold it up, “and I also found this.” I wave the letter with my other hand. “
Why
do you have this? And where is the other one?”

Andrea shrugs and slides onto her bed, taking out her phone in the process. “I dunno,” she mumbles, and then makes herself comfortable and starts texting.

“Answer me, Andrea! Have you been writing these letters?”

She smirks and glances up, but barely for a moment. “Don’t be mental. Why would I write you letters? We live in the same house.”

“Maybe you don’t want me to know they’re from you.”

She keeps texting, ignoring my presence. “Look at me!” I’m shaking with anger.

Andrea does as ordered and I’m shocked by the contempt in her eyes. “I found the letter on the front porch the other night when I came home,” she says. “I was curious so I opened it, which I shouldn’t have done, so sorry. But I decided it would be better not to show it to you. I figured you’d be too upset.”

Umm, yeah. “That seems awfully, convenient, Andrea.”

“Meaning?” she spits out.

“Meaning, this is the second letter you’ve found. What’s with that?”

We hear the front door open and Andrea bolts toward our entryway. Nick doesn’t even have a chance to take off his jacket before his sister flies at him. “Robin just accused me of stalking her!”

I follow close behind, and Nick throws his shoulders back, clearly feeling cornered, clearly wishing he could bolt. I’m practically pressed up against the piano and Andrea’s directly in front of the coat rack. Nick struggles out of his jacket but he can’t move enough to hang it up.

“I did not accuse her of stalking me!” I declare. “But she had another one of those letters in her room, opened and with my name on it.”

Andrea spins toward me, her cheeks bright red. “Why would I open it if I had written it? Have you asked yourself that? And have you asked yourself why I would write something so awful in the first place? God! I was trying to protect you!”

I refuse to cave. “You should have let me see it! It’s not your place to protect me!”

“Fine! Next time I won’t!” Then Andrea bursts into tears, runs off, and slams the door to her bedroom shut.

Meanwhile, Nick looks like someone sucker punched him. “What the hell was that?” He finally hangs up his jacket, but with pained, migraine-like movements.

I hand him the note. “I found it in her dresser when I was looking for my shirt. She walked in, and yes, I asked her if she wrote it, but I wasn’t trying to upset her.”

“Well, you did upset her.” Nick’s voice is tight like a rubber band. “She obviously feels accused. I mean, how could you think, even for a minute, that Andrea would write something like this?”

I snatch the letter back. “Fine, take her side, Nick.”

I head briskly towards our bedroom. Once there I fling open the lid to my suitcase and resume packing, though I’m too angry to do more than squish up pairs of underwear to make room for more shirts.

When Nick comes in he doesn’t seem ready to apologize. He says nothing, crosses his arms over his chest and stares.

“I’m not sorry,” I say. “Somebody has to be behind all this. Why not Andrea? It would make sense. If we get married she has the most to lose.”

Nick’s tone is soft when he answers, but it’s a scary soft, a petting a ferret kind of soft. “Andrea’s not capable of that sort of duplicity.”

“Okay. If it’s not her, then who is it?”

“Maybe the same person as who did this.” Nick hands me his phone, and it’s on Facebook. “Dave texted me earlier, to make sure I saw this.” There’s a photo, supposedly posted by me. It shows Robert and me together, it’s time-stamped from the other day, and it captures the moment when Robert was looming over me and whispering insults. But the looks on our faces could be misinterpreted as desire. Underneath the photo is an update: “A lunchtime rendezvous with my married ex-lover. I love to be naughty!”

I sink to the edge of the bed, letting my shoulders slump in shock. “I didn’t post this. Someone must have hacked into my Facebook account.”

“That doesn’t explain the photo.”

My stomach rolls. “I met with him because I got this weird text and it turned out someone was spoofing my number, texting him with lewd messages. . .” I let my words trail as I take in the stoniness of Nick’s face. He’s not buying it. “Someone must have followed me, snapped the photo, and posted it. But who?”

“I don’t know,” Nick answers, “but it’s not my sister.”

I drop the phone so it’s next to me on the bed. “Well good. I guess there’s nothing else to worry about.”

“I didn’t say that.” Nick ignores my sarcasm, picks up his phone, and puts it in my face, compelling me to look at that photo of Robert and me again. “Why didn’t you tell me you met with him?” I bite my lip, trying to form an answer through my bottled up guilt. But Nick is impatient for a response. “It is him, right? That’s Robert, the married guy?”

I look down at our worn shag carpet that was once sea green. If I was weaker I’d release a torrent of tears and they’d fall onto the now faded, now brownish clumps of yarn in a wet, salty mess. I want to grab Nick by the collar of his Oxford shirt and pull him close enough to feel his body heat seep through the fabric; I want to tell him that I need him to believe in me as much as I need his help.

But all I say is, “I just wanted to find out what happened to Clara. He said she was in a bus accident overseas and her body was never found. He didn’t mention suicide.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me any of this?”

“I couldn’t. I didn’t know how.”

Nick nods yes even though his face is screaming no. “I thought we were done with secrets.”

“That’s what you’re worried about? It’s okay if some wacko sends me threatening notes, follows me, takes photos and hacks into my Facebook account, but how dare I go behind your back or implicate your sister?”

A subtle shade of scarlet spreads across Nick’s cheeks. “No, it’s not okay, but at least I always gave you the benefit of the doubt! I never thought for a second that it was actually you who posted this on Facebook, but here you are, jumping to conclusions and being judgmental!”

“That’s not fair!”

“You’re not being fair when you keep things from me!” I think Nick is going to say more but he clamps his mouth shut, and then he runs his hand through his hair so that it’s sticking straight up. “I should go talk to Andrea,” he says. “See if she’s calmed down.”

“Fine. I should finish packing.”

Nick opens his mouth again but no words come out. He just leaves our bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

In the empty bed with a laptop that’s hell-bent on betraying me, I feel like a blank space, a vacancy. I don't know much about this sort of thing, but I contact Facebook, reset my password yet again, do a Google search on my name, and look at my settings. Nothing seems amiss, but I know that can't be true.

I call the police station and explain the situation to an officer. “You can certainly come in and make a statement,” he says, yawning as he speaks. “But unless you know who’s behind it there’s not much we can do. There are too many people in real danger for us to worry about pranks.”

“Thanks,” I tell him, and then I hang up.

Our window is open and the curtains billow from a breeze, which brings a delicate scent of springtime. It makes me think about that feeling as a child, when school is about to get out for the summer. It promises swim lessons, sleep-overs, or if you’re me, spending time alone.

I have always valued my independence, maybe a little too much, because months ago I had to learn to trust Nick or face losing him. But have I gone too far in the other direction? Do I rely on him so much that I've fallen into that needy-girl trap? I think of all my previous relationships, of all my superficial couplings after I lost my first true love. How, whenever a new guy was in danger of loving me, I’d find a way to sour things, self-destructing my way through serial monogamy. Then I met Nick. No more pushing him away. No more heart-wrenching loneliness in the fading light of a cold Sunday afternoon.

Unless I’m destined to always screw things up.

After spending over an hour in Andrea’s room, their voices a low murmur, Nick comes back to our bedroom and sits down next to me on our mattress. I’m scouring my laptop, looking for some visible indication that it’s been hacked. “Have you found anything new?” Nick asks.