Tracy Flick Can't Win (Tracy Flick #2) (16)

I’m suffocating, he said. I need a new adventure.

Me too, she told him. Let’s do it together.

Diane, he said with a weary sigh. That would defeat the purpose.



* * *



Jack got a lot more attentive after her divorce. He started taking her out to lunch, and then they graduated to drinks after work. He let her cry on his shoulder, gave a lot of emotional support at a time when she really needed it.

Lance made a big mistake, he told her one night. What the hell was he thinking?

That I’m boring. He says I’ve never done an interesting thing in my life.

Jack was indignant on her behalf, and she loved him for that.

You are not boring, he assured her. And Lance is a jackass, if you ask me.

He could’ve kissed her that night—could’ve fucked her in the back seat of his car if he’d wanted to—but he didn’t even try. He took his time, made her work. She started dressing for him, choosing outfits that were a little sexier than before, that would make him pay attention. She’d present herself to him in the mornings, standing silently in his doorway, letting him drink her in.

What am I gonna do with you? he’d ask. How am I supposed to concentrate?

He only disapproved once, the day she showed up in a leather skirt and stilettos, a bold statement for the main office. The skirt was a little slutty—really tight across the hips and ass—and he didn’t even try to hide his disappointment.

This is a school, he told her. Not a night club.

She was embarrassed and apologetic; the whole day felt like an endless walk of shame. The next morning she toned it way down, loose gray pants and a baggy maroon sweater. Flat shoes. That was the day he called to her as she was heading out for lunch.

Excuse me, Diane. Do you have a minute?

She went to his doorway, feeling suddenly shy.

Why don’t you come in. His voice was soft, almost melancholy. You can lock the door if you want.



* * *



Sometimes he came to her apartment, but most of their relationship happened in his office. He liked fucking her in there, bending her over the armrest of the couch, pulling her panties to one side, or spicing up a dull workday with an under-the-desk blowjob (he never complained about her teeth). Usually they waited until late afternoon, when the main office had emptied out—Attendance Lady Diane left at three back then so she could be home with her kids after school, and Larry Holleran, the Assistant Principal at the time, was still coaching football and wrestling, a ridiculous arrangement—but every so often they risked it in the middle of the day. It made her feel cheap sometimes, and a little paranoid—she was sure everyone knew what they were up to, that they could smell it on her—but she loved having a secret, something that only belonged to her and Jack. She wished Lance could see her in the Principal’s office—he was living in Alaska by then, working on a fishing boat—and understand just how badly he’d misjudged her.

This is me, she’d think, imagining her ex-husband’s shock as she straddled her boss on his Aeron chair. This is my adventure.

They managed it for two years without getting caught, though there were a few close calls. And then one day—it felt like a lifetime ago—Jack got to school three hours late, looking dazed and ashen, unsteady on his feet.

Diane, he said. I need a word with you.

He said that sometimes when he wanted to fuck her—I need a word with you—but this wasn’t that. She followed him into his office and sat down beside him on the couch. He ran his hand slowly through his hair, pushing upward.

Alice has cancer, he said. It’s bad. Really bad.

Then he burst into tears, which was something she’d never seen before. She held him and shushed him and kissed the top of his head, and those were the last kisses she ever gave him.



* * *



The Weedes lived in the hilltop section of Poplar Ridge, in a solid-looking colonial with a portico, a sunporch, and a sloping front lawn. Diane parked in her usual spot across the street, in the shadowy no-man’s-land between two McMansions that hadn’t been there nine years ago, the last time she visited this neighborhood at night, in that strange uncertain period after Alice got sick. Jack couldn’t have been too happy about the new neighbors, whose houses were so much bigger and more ostentatious than his own. That was the kind of thing that drove him crazy, people flaunting their wealth, five bedrooms and seven baths, three luxury SUVs in the cobblestone driveway.

There were two lights on inside his house, one upstairs and one down, the usual configuration. She imagined Alice up in bed, reading under the covers—apparently she was a big reader—and Jack down in the living room, dozing off in front of Rachel Maddow. She wondered if they even slept in the same bedroom anymore. So many older couples didn’t, usually because the man snored too much, though she had no idea if Jack was a snorer. She’d never spent a night with him, and that was something she regretted. It was such a simple pleasure, rolling over and opening your eyes, finding someone there who was happy to see you.

A car went by, moving slowly. She resisted the urge to duck down in her seat, to pretend she wasn’t there. There was nothing illegal about parking on a public road, staring out the window at your ex-lover’s house, at the life that could’ve been your own.

Because it really had felt that way, at least in the beginning. Terminal, Jack had told her. Six months to a year. He didn’t say a word about the future, about what might be possible in a world without Alice, but Diane couldn’t help filling in the blanks. Of course they put their affair on hold; the poor woman was dying.