That sentence carried more truth than she probably realized.
“You make it look easy.”
“It isn’t.”
She turned her head.
“What isn’t?”
Marcus almost answered.
Being careful.
Being Black in rooms where calmness was interpreted as competence until it became confidence, and confidence sometimes became arrogance faster than it did for anyone else.
Being a single father who could never afford the office joke that he was unreliable because parenting came first.
Being a manager who understood that if he closed his office door with a white female employee for too long, somebody might notice in ways they did not notice when Todd Baxter did exactly the same thing.
Instead Marcus said, “Nothing.”
At the next red light, Eleanor suddenly sat upright.
“Stop.”
Marcus looked over.
“Stop the car.”
He pulled into a pharmacy parking lot.
Eleanor barely opened the door before vomiting onto the pavement.
Marcus waited.
When she finally stopped, he handed her water and a package of tissues he kept in the glove compartment because Zoe constantly needed tissues.
Eleanor rinsed her mouth.
“I’m disgusting.”
“No.”
“I am.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Same difference.”
“No.”
She looked at him.
Marcus said, “One is temporary.”
For the first time that evening, Eleanor looked as if she might cry.
She returned to the car.
At 7:32, Marcus pulled into the driveway of his modest two-story home in Matthews.
The lights were off.
Loretta had already taken Zoe to school.
Marcus stayed behind the steering wheel for several seconds.
Somewhere across town, his daughter was probably lined up backstage wearing silver cardboard stars.
Eleanor slept beside him.
He had chosen this.
That mattered.
It did not make it hurt less.
Marcus helped Eleanor from the car.
He kept one hand beneath her elbow, never around her waist.
When they entered the house, he switched on every light between the front door and living room.
He set her handbag on the coffee table.
Then he stopped.
Her dress was stained from when she had been sick.
She looked uncomfortable.
“You can sleep here.”
Eleanor looked toward the couch.
“Where are you going?”
“My daughter’s room.”
“You have a daughter.”
Marcus almost laughed.
“Yes.”
“Right.”
She seemed to remember the earlier phone call.
“I ruined something.”
Marcus did not answer.
He brought a clean blanket.
Then an old Charlotte Hornets T-shirt and loose gray sweatpants still folded from laundry.
“I’m leaving these here.”
Eleanor stared at the clothing.
“Why?”
“If you want to change.”
She nodded.
Marcus pointed toward the bathroom.
“It’s there.”
Then he stepped into the kitchen and stayed there until he heard the bathroom door close.
When Eleanor returned, she wore the T-shirt and sweatpants.
Her dress was folded badly over one arm.
She looked smaller somehow.
Less like the executive who controlled an entire division.
More like a tired woman who had spent months pretending she was not falling apart.
Marcus placed her dress across a dining chair.
“Water?”
“Yes.”
He gave her a glass.
“Aspirin?”
She shook her head.
Marcus did not offer more.
Alcohol and medication were not a combination he wanted responsibility for.
Eleanor lay down.
Within minutes, she was asleep.
Marcus stood in the living room and looked at her.
Then at his phone.
7:54.
The performance had started nine minutes earlier.
He opened the school-parent app.
A photograph had already appeared.