“This isn’t about me, Donald. This is about you. What you’re really trying to say is that Adrienne is making you crazy. Because Adrienne is incredibly alluring. Because she’s a temptress. You’re having a hard time resisting her charms and this is your way of telling me that you’re conflicted, that we’re in trouble.”

And with that final declaration I grabbed my bag, my car keys, my phone, and fled the house.

Chapter 22

22

I had no idea where I was going when I slammed the door behind me and jumped in my car, but I did know this much:

I was melting down.

Stopping first at the coffeehouse of Politics and Prose for a giant “Changes in Latte-Tude” (how portentously appropriate now), I then got back in the car and tore out of the parking lot, unsure of what to do next. But the Evil Twins weren’t unsure. They knew exactly what I would do:

I would proceed directly to Adrienne’s house for a quick middle-of-the-day Sunday drive-by.

Seconds later, there I was, slumping down in the driver’s seat behind the wheel; lowering the visor and angling it against the window to obscure half of my face; whizzing past her house. Sweating, my heart beating wildly, I got to the end of her block and tried to figure out what I’d seen:

Nothing.

Perhaps I’d driven by too quickly.

I took a right, another right, then another right, making a little box and ending up right where I’d started: driving down her street, whizzing past her house, staring out the window. This time, though, I slowed down just enough to take in the scene, process it once I’d passed:

Again, nothing.

No newspapers on the lawn or steps. No lights on (it was just after noon, and fairly sunny). Her car out front. Nothing of any interest whatsoever.

Though the Evil Twins were not convinced (they were certain all was not as innocent as it seemed at 2921 Morrison Street), I breathed a short sigh of relief: at least I knew where she was and where Donald wasn’t. I then made a right, then another right, then a left this time onto Connecticut and headed back toward home. Only I didn’t stop when I got to our street. Instead, I kept going, veered left, got onto Rock Creek Parkway, and headed for Georgetown.

Luckily, Gayle’s car (an ancient maroon Volvo wagon) was there when I pulled up in front of her town house. I screeched to a halt; ran up the front stairs; knocked loudly. She came to the door looking somewhat ridiculous in a stiff short-sleeved wildly patterned men’s button-down shirt. I couldn’t help staring at her sinewy slender arms as I walked into the foyer.

“What?” she said, squirming under the glare of my disapproving gaze.