Free Best Intentions by Emily Listfield Page A

the kitchen, going over upcoming schedules, phone calls—that create a landing, a distraction. We speak in snippets, but it is mostly flight instructions for the evening—I’ll check on the girls, the cable people said we need a new converter box, do you want some tea? It is really just a prelude until we can be alone.
    When the girls are finally in bed, we sit down in the living room at opposite ends of the shabby chic couch that is now more shabby than chic, its overwashed canvas slipcover sagging and jowly.
    â€œDid you look at those papers on Merdale?” Sam asks.
    â€œYes. It was really helpful, thanks,” I lie. The list of officers in the company, their affiliations and accomplishments provoked a fresh groundswell of anxiety that left me nearly breathless. I put it down before I got to the end.
    â€œHow was breakfast with Deirdre?”
    â€œAll right. Ben was there.”
    â€œBen? I thought she broke up with him months ago.” Sam has always disapproved of Ben in the disgruntled way men have of sniffing out a cad in their midst. There is nothing more galling than an unapologetic show of indiscretion when you are dutifully playing by the rules. On the few occasions when the four of us have gone out to dinner, they treated each other with a heightened politeness and interest in each other’s work—they are both in the media business, after all, and know some of the same people—but I suspect Sam feels like something of a journeyman when faced with Ben’s itinerant glamour.
    â€œMaybe they can work it out this time.” I have always been defensive of Deirdre, her choices.
    â€œI doubt that.”
    I am about to tell Sam about her arm, the bruises that have flashed in and out of my consciousness all day, but I stop myself. Deirdre and I keep each other’s secrets. “So what did you want to talk to me about?” I ask carefully, there is still that.
    Sam looks up from his Brooklyn Lager.
    â€œThis morning,” I remind him. “You said you wanted to talk to me about something.”
    He shakes his head. “It was nothing. Forget it.”
    â€œYou sure?”
    He nods. “Yes.” He reaches over, puts his hand on my knee and we are both aware of it, this act that has gone unnoticed a thousand times before. “I meant what I said. I know this is really hard on you. And it sucks that Carol didn’t give you any warning. She owed you that. But you’ll be okay.”
    â€œWhat if I’m not?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWhat are we going to do if I lose my job? It’s a really tough market out there. More people are getting laid off every day. And we have no cushion.”
    â€œFirst of all, you’re not going to lose your job. Even if you did, we’d be all right.”
    â€œFor how long?”
    â€œYou’ll find another job,” Sam says.
    I shift my legs but cannot find a comfortable position. I know that he is right, but rather than soothe me, it only kindles an amorphous resentment. There is a universe between “You can take care of yourself” and “I’ll take care of you.”
    â€œI’m exhausted,” I say, rising. “I’m going to bed.”
    â€œOkay. I’ll be there in a minute.”
    I am curled in fetal position, three pillows carefully propping up my head, the only way to relieve the permanent pain in my rotator cuff from years of carrying a bag overstuffed with papers, phones, makeup, saliva-stained children’s toys, when Sam climbs in beside me, his weight sinking the mattress until we settle into the familiar valley of our own imprints. He grazes my hip with his fingertips, the pressure light, almost tentative, and kisses me gently on the shoulder. “Lisa, it really will be okay,” he whispers.
    I touch his hand with mine and for a couple of minutes we lie side by side, aware of each other’s breath, the in and out of our lungs