Free Fitting Ends by Dan Chaon

her door. Why did she seem to draw this type of man? I had never been a person who could follow that kind of love, with its hidden agendas and uncertainty, its mazes of fear and desire. I hadn’t been in love very many times. As far as I knew, my wife was the only woman who’d ever been in love with me. What did I know about any of it? “You could quit,” I suggested hesitantly.
    â€œWhy should I have to quit?” she said sharply. I shrugged. She was right—I hadn’t been thinking. “I didn’t do anything wrong. If anything, I should file harassment charges,” she said.
    I nodded. “You could.” But then she just pursed her lips. It seemed a distant possibility; and as we looked at one another, I had the feeling that she wasn’t completely unhappy with the situation. We ate for a moment in silence.
    I was trying to think of some other subject to bring up when the front desk buzzer rang. I scooted my chair back, and Joan stood up as I did.
    â€œI’ve got to get going anyway,” Joan said. “I’ve got some errands to run.”
    But when we walked out to the office, both of us stopped cold. Rhonda was standing at the desk, and when she saw Joan, her eyes narrowed. She glanced from Joan to me, holding herself stiffly, formally, like a messenger. She was wearing one of those coats that looked like it was made of red vinyl, the kind a rock singer might wear. But her face looked tired and drawn. She stared at me, and I felt myself blushing, for a moment imagining she had come to accuse me of spying on her.
    â€œI wanted to leave this for Kent,” she said, and held out an envelope. She set it on the desk, on top of the guest register. “I heard he was working here.”
    â€œHe’s not here now,” I said, and she brushed her eyes over me, a quick once-over. She kept her face expressionless.
    â€œI know,” she said. “Could you just see that Kent gets it?”
    â€œSure,” I said, and she turned, without looking at me again, and went out the door. I was almost as surprised by the abruptness of her exit as I had been to see her standing there. I guess I had imagined some little conversation between us, some slight acknowledgment. I watched her car pull through the motel’s cul-de-sac and back onto the street.
    â€œWell, well,” Joan said. She breathed, a sigh that seemed somewhere between puzzled and gratified. “This should be interesting. I can hardly wait for Susan to hear about this.” She looked at me sidelong, and I watched her gently lift the envelope. For a moment, I thought she was going to open it, and it sent an odd, possessive jolt through me. I wanted to snatch it from her. But she just examined it, front and back: blank. Then she put it down. “I’ll drop by the house after work,” she said.
    Susan didn’t say much at first. Miraculously, both babies were asleep, and she was stretched out on the couch, watching music videos. I sat down, and she slid her feet onto my lap. “So you didn’t open this letter, I suppose,” she said at last.
    â€œOf course not,” I said.
    â€œHmmmm,” she said. I ran my thumb along the sole of her bare foot, reproachfully, and she shifted, stretching her leg muscles. “I’d like to know what that bitch is telling him.” She leaned her head back, looking at me thoughtfully.
    â€œYou could ask Kent,” I said.
    â€œYeah, right,” she said. “If my mom hasn’t gotten it out of him, then no one will.” She eyed me for a minute, and when my finger grazed the underside of her foot again, she moved her feet from my lap and tucked them beneath her. “He still loves her, I guess,” she said. “Thinks he loves her.”
    â€œCould be,” I agreed. But I wasn’t sure what the difference was, between loving someone and thinking you do. It made me uncomfortable, puzzling over it, because