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Back Man of the Year Save as PDF
Chapters (52)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. 1.
  5. 2.
  6. Jonah
  7. 3.
  8. 4.
  9. Luna
  10. 5.
  11. 6.
  12. 7.
  13. 8.
  14. Emily
  15. 9.
  16. 10.
  17. 11.
  18. 12.
  19. 13.
  20. 14.
  21. 15.
  22. 16.
  23. 17.
  24. 18.
  25. 19.
  26. 20.
  27. Alexis
  28. 21.
  29. 22.
  30. 23.
  31. 24.
  32. Naomi
  33. 25.
  34. 26.
  35. 27.
  36. 28.
  37. 29.
  38. 30.
  39. Simone
  40. 31.
  41. 32.
  42. 33.
  43. 34.
  44. 35.
  45. ONE MONTH LATER
  46. 36.
  47. Elizabeth
  48. Jonah
  49. Acknowledgments
  50. Readers Group Guide
  51. About the Author
  52. Copyright

Something felt wrong earlier. I couldn’t name it, but my instinct was right. It was here all along. Elizabeth was still sleeping when I left for work, but she would have used it when she woke up, perhaps many times throughout the day, and at some point—before or after her shower, possibly before or after another barefoot visit to Nick, probably before their ride into town and their visit with friends, their cozy day, but definitely after I left this morning—someone visited my bathroom, so also my bedroom, and he left the seat up, that son of a bitch.

11.

Elizabeth and Nick are having an affair.

A complete thought at last. An internal explosion: mushroom cloud of fury.

I’ll mold it into a mantra—Elizabeth and Nick are having an affair—repeated until the words are nothing but sounds, until their fallout settles in my system and goes dormant, inoculating me against emotional catastrophe. Elizabeth and Nick are having an affair. If I can undo it, I will. If it’s too late, at least I’ll be prepared.

I smooth my hair, regain composure, change into casual clothes. Leave the toilet seat up. Descend to my den, fix myself a drink, settle into my oversized leather chair. Count backward. Count breaths. Try to imagine my heart slowing to a peaceful pace.

I envision Elizabeth sitting here with me in this room with this late afternoon light, me asking if anyone else used our bathroom today, her playing dumb, her acting like everything is normal. Me questioning every measure of normal I’ve ever taken for granted.

Or: us sitting in this late afternoon light, me voicing my suspicions, me being right, her confessing, her confession ruining our lives.

Or: us sitting in our favorite chairs, knowing what we know, knowing each other well enough to spare the other details, loving each other well enough to wordlessly and mutually agree upon eliminating the problem, getting on with our lives, reclaiming our lives.

Everyone has trauma, everyone has loss, but sob stories don’t grant impunity, and Nick messed with the wrong family man. I know all about how some men cure grief by attaching to the first woman who happens to smile or walk like the dead one did. Maybe the new woman laughs similarly, maybe her breath smells the same. One detail anchors a fantasy. The fantasy seals an open wound: infatuation fashioned as butterfly tape.