TV. The stations clicked by so quickly Lexie didnât believe Peter could even see what he was zooming past.
PETER SNORED THAT NIGHT. MAYBE IT WAS THE THREE BEERS HEâD had while watching TV; maybe it was fall allergies. But he snored. And it was intolerable. This wasnât the sweet purring of other snorey nights, when Lexie had wanted to roll into him and push against his back like a cat. It was a full-on snore. An old-man snore. A drill-in-her-head snore. A leaf-blower-in-the-bedroom snore. Lexie wanted to take the pillow from beneath her own head and Cuckooâs Nest the life out of Peter.
âWhat the fuck?â Lexie whispered. She had never had such violent thoughts about Peter before and they awoke her like the fizzing vibrations from a forgotten cell phone ringing in a deep back pocket. Soon, Lexie was hit with the familiar crashing of a panic attack.
It was a school night. There was no time to lie awake in bed and breathe through this with the thunderous Snore-Man beside her. No time for cognitive therapy. Lexie got out of bed and padded downstairs. She went to her purse on the kitchen counter, pulledout the bottle of expired Klonopin, tapped one out into her hand, and swallowed it dry.
Back in bed, with her heart roiling and her head crowded with what felt like an electrical fire, Lexie licked her first two fingers, then slipped her hand down her pajama bottoms. As long as Peter snored she knew she was free to move her fingers against herself as forcefully as she wanted. Like a ghost, Daniel Waite tore through the panic and into Lexieâs thoughts, where he stayed until she had rubbed herself into a climax (or three, for thatâs how it worked for her). Immediately afterward, Lexie plunged into a deep and immovable sleep.
4
T HE NEXT MORNING LEXIE FOUND HER FRIEND AMY ALONE IN THE infirmaryâa room so antiquated it reminded Lexie of childrenâs books sheâd discovered in other peopleâs houses when she used to babysit: Madeline, or The Little Princess . Lexie lay back on a tightly made green iron bed that had a crank to raise or lower the top half. Similar beds were on either side of Lexie.
Amy sat in the anachronistically modern rolling chair at her desk and crossed her legs. She had calves that bulged out like a manâs fist. Lexie stared from Amyâs calves to her face: soft, doughy, with wide-set brown eyes and hair that was so light brown it read as blond. Amy had been white-haired as a child, she once told Lexie. She had never colored her hair and probably never would. If you took a strand and held it up to the light, youâd say brown. But damn if you didnât look at Amy and see blond. And not only blond, but a shade of blond Lexie had to buy at a salon an hour away in Boston, where the cost of a cut and color made her gasp each time (even when she knew ahead of time what sheâd be paying).
âYou donât think thatâs funny?â Lexie had just read last nightâs text exchange to Amy.
âNo. I mean itâs not not funny. But itâs not what you think it is.â Amy appeared to be barely interested. Or not excited about it the way Lexie was. Maybe it was because Amy carried on like this with strangers and near-strangers almost every day. She was fully involved in the world of texting and sexting and different phone apps that allowed her to meet people or not meet them.
Lexie looked down at the text and laughed again.
âYou have a crush on him so everything he says seems bigger to you. Better.â
âI donât have a crush on him,â Lexie protested. But yes, she did.
âIf you donât have a crush on him, cancel Frito Friday and have your regular lunch with me instead.â Amy clucked her tongue. She knew she was right.
Amy had married her college boyfriend the year they graduated from âBama. Seven years later sheâd had an affair with his business partner, a man who was married to
PETER SNORED THAT NIGHT. MAYBE IT WAS THE THREE BEERS HEâD had while watching TV; maybe it was fall allergies. But he snored. And it was intolerable. This wasnât the sweet purring of other snorey nights, when Lexie had wanted to roll into him and push against his back like a cat. It was a full-on snore. An old-man snore. A drill-in-her-head snore. A leaf-blower-in-the-bedroom snore. Lexie wanted to take the pillow from beneath her own head and Cuckooâs Nest the life out of Peter.
âWhat the fuck?â Lexie whispered. She had never had such violent thoughts about Peter before and they awoke her like the fizzing vibrations from a forgotten cell phone ringing in a deep back pocket. Soon, Lexie was hit with the familiar crashing of a panic attack.
It was a school night. There was no time to lie awake in bed and breathe through this with the thunderous Snore-Man beside her. No time for cognitive therapy. Lexie got out of bed and padded downstairs. She went to her purse on the kitchen counter, pulledout the bottle of expired Klonopin, tapped one out into her hand, and swallowed it dry.
Back in bed, with her heart roiling and her head crowded with what felt like an electrical fire, Lexie licked her first two fingers, then slipped her hand down her pajama bottoms. As long as Peter snored she knew she was free to move her fingers against herself as forcefully as she wanted. Like a ghost, Daniel Waite tore through the panic and into Lexieâs thoughts, where he stayed until she had rubbed herself into a climax (or three, for thatâs how it worked for her). Immediately afterward, Lexie plunged into a deep and immovable sleep.
4
T HE NEXT MORNING LEXIE FOUND HER FRIEND AMY ALONE IN THE infirmaryâa room so antiquated it reminded Lexie of childrenâs books sheâd discovered in other peopleâs houses when she used to babysit: Madeline, or The Little Princess . Lexie lay back on a tightly made green iron bed that had a crank to raise or lower the top half. Similar beds were on either side of Lexie.
Amy sat in the anachronistically modern rolling chair at her desk and crossed her legs. She had calves that bulged out like a manâs fist. Lexie stared from Amyâs calves to her face: soft, doughy, with wide-set brown eyes and hair that was so light brown it read as blond. Amy had been white-haired as a child, she once told Lexie. She had never colored her hair and probably never would. If you took a strand and held it up to the light, youâd say brown. But damn if you didnât look at Amy and see blond. And not only blond, but a shade of blond Lexie had to buy at a salon an hour away in Boston, where the cost of a cut and color made her gasp each time (even when she knew ahead of time what sheâd be paying).
âYou donât think thatâs funny?â Lexie had just read last nightâs text exchange to Amy.
âNo. I mean itâs not not funny. But itâs not what you think it is.â Amy appeared to be barely interested. Or not excited about it the way Lexie was. Maybe it was because Amy carried on like this with strangers and near-strangers almost every day. She was fully involved in the world of texting and sexting and different phone apps that allowed her to meet people or not meet them.
Lexie looked down at the text and laughed again.
âYou have a crush on him so everything he says seems bigger to you. Better.â
âI donât have a crush on him,â Lexie protested. But yes, she did.
âIf you donât have a crush on him, cancel Frito Friday and have your regular lunch with me instead.â Amy clucked her tongue. She knew she was right.
Amy had married her college boyfriend the year they graduated from âBama. Seven years later sheâd had an affair with his business partner, a man who was married to
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