The Intermission Read online

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2018 by Elyssa Friedland

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  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Friedland, Elyssa, author.

  Title: The intermission / Elyssa Friedland.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Berkley, 2018.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017009974 (print) | LCCN 2017014882 (ebook) | ISBN 9780399586873 (ebook) | ISBN 9780399586866 (print)

  Classification: LCC PS3606.R55522 (ebook) | LCC PS3606.R55522 I58 2018

  (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017009974

  First Edition: July 2018

  Cover design and illustration by Adam Auerbach

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  For William, who is simply the greatest

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The idea for this book came about when I was watching my beloved husband load the dishwasher. It took him nearly twenty minutes, as he was very precise about the placement of each dish and glass, treating the entire chore as though he were competing in a Jenga tournament with a million-dollar prize. I do everything quickly (he would say haphazardly), and so it was nearly unbearable for me to watch this drawn-out process. I am beyond blessed to be married to my best friend, and so I can honestly say this is the worst it gets for us—neither of us can watch the other load dishes. But it got my gears cranking. What if there were a couple with problems, of both the monumental and trivial variety, haunted by secrets they’ve kept from each other, and they put their marriage on pause to reevaluate if they are right for each other? So Cass and Jonathan Coyne were born right in my kitchen. Therefore, my first debt of gratitude is to my amazing, delightful, adorable husband, William. Please keep doing chores slowly and inspiring my books.

  The team at Berkley was enthusiastic and passionate about this book from the start. Kerry Donovan, my talented, patient, perfectionist editor, was always ready and willing to hash out these characters and their issues until both our throats were sore. You totally “got” Cass, and I love you for it. For my gorgeous and striking cover, I have the talented Adam Auerbach to thank. The marketing and publicity departments, specifically Lauren Burnstein, Tara O’Connor and Fareeda Bullert, threw their muscle and passion behind this book. My agent, Stefanie Lieberman—ahh, where would I be without you? I honestly feel like you are more my soul sister than literary agent. You are the best advocate, counselor and friend any writer could possibly ask for. I could discuss novels with you for hours . . . and hours . . . and hours. Molly Steinblatt, thank you for being such a careful reader and thoughtful contributor to my work.

  My mom was a superb lay editrix and an available ear at all times. Love you, Mom! I am so lucky to have incredibly supportive parents and in-laws and siblings-in-law and the coolest batch of nieces and nephews. My children—Charlie, Lila and Sam—make this writer at a loss for words to describe how much I love them . . . but I will try. You are what ice cream, perfect weather, cozy sweatpants, an amazing book and the funniest comedian would be if they were combined. Thank you for being patient with me every time I yelled at you, “Shhhh, I’m working!”

  I’m fortunate to have a fierce girl gang of writers at my side. Cristina Alger, Lauren Smith Brody and Leigh Abramson, I learn so much from you and love how we all support each other. Many thanks to all of my other friends who read early versions of this book and shared their insights and suggestions. Jenna Segal, thank you for explaining the world of Broadway marketing to me. Daniel Goldin, thank you for your medical knowledge—I definitely prefer discussing lung cancer and car crashes with you when the patients are fictional!

  Finally, a genuine thank-you to my readers. In a world that moves too fast, where everyone seems more concerned with likes and follows than genuine dialogue and getting lost in a story, I am so appreciative of those who take the time to read books.

  contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Act One: TogetherPrologue

  1. Cass

  2. Jon(athan)

  3. Cass

  4. Jonathan

  5. Cass

  6. Jonathan

  7. Cass

  8. Jonathan

  9. Cass

  Act Two: Intermission10. Jonathan

  11. Cass

  12. Jonathan

  13. Cass

  14. Jonathan

  15. Cass

  16. Jonathan

  17. Cass

  18. Jonathan

  19. Cass

  20. Jonathan

  21. Cass

  22. Jonathan

  23. Cass

  24. Jonathan

  25. Cass

  26. Jonathan

  27. Cass

  28. Jonathan

  29. Cass

  30. Jonathan

  31. Cass

  32. Jonathan

  33. Cass

  34. Jonathan

  Act Three: After35.

  About the Author

  I fell in love with her courage, her sincerity,

  and her flaming self-respect.

  And it’s these things I’d believe in,

  even if the whole world indulged in wild suspicions that she wasn’t all she should be.

  I love her and it is the beginning of everything.

  —F. SCOTT FITZGERALD

  Thanks again for saving me.

  Someday I’ll save you too.

  —ZELDA FITZGERALD

  When a match has equal partners

  then I fear not.

  —AESCHYLUS

  act one

  TOGETHER

  PROLOGUE

  Five Years Earlier

  JONATHAN AND CASS Coyne watched as the bride opened her mouth to receive the first bite of wedding cake, a four-tiered monstrosity covered in fondant roses and edible pearls. The groom, intoxicated, jammed the fork in too deeply and the bride gasped as the tines probed the back of her throat.

  “Christ,” Cass said, reaching for Jonathan’s elbow. “These two need to work on their coordination. That first dance was nearly an amputation below the knee.”

  Jonathan laughed. “Be nice!”

  Jonathan and Cass had been married for just three months and had already attended four weddings since their own. They were at the age when their peers were coupli
ng at rapid speed, and so the newly married Coynes were often bopping to “Celebrate” and clinking champagne glasses on the weekends. They’d developed a wicked party game (Cass’s invention, though Jonathan happily played along) where they would bet on how many years the bride and groom would last. They would record their bets on one of the monogrammed cocktail napkins and keep them in a locked desk drawer at home. Neither of them had yet to come up with what the prize for a correct prediction would be, other than the obvious satisfaction of accurate fortune-telling.

  “I think these guys have ten years tops. They can’t dance, he’s a drunk and she looks like she wants to murder him for shoving that buttercream flower down her throat.”

  “Disagree,” Cass said, facing her husband. “She used to be really overweight and is still insecure because of it. And he was super awkward when he was younger—I can tell by the high school friends. It’s a perfect match.”

  “That’s quite a calculated analysis, Mrs. Coyne,” Jonathan said. “So you’re going fifty-years-plus?”

  “Correct,” Cass said. “Just like us.”

  “Just like us,” Jonathan said, handing Cass the pen from his inside suit pocket. “Though hopefully we stick for better reasons.”

  “Of course,” she said. Cass sounded certain. But he noticed she didn’t offer any window into what sort of virtues might fuel their marriage for the long haul.

  “You don’t suppose anyone’s ever bet on us, do you?” Jonathan asked. He hated to think of people from his past judging him or judging Cass—or worse, judging what they had together.

  “I hope not.” Just the thought made Cass ill, as though suddenly she was a nude model in art class and everyone around her was sketching her most objectionable flaws, the ones she habitually lied about.

  The Coynes looked at each other for a moment. Separately, they reflected on what would be exposed if their own lives were examined under a microscope, or a walk down memory lane. And then they both shifted their gazes to their place settings, where generous slices of cake had been placed before them.

  Cass took the napkin on which she and Jonathan had scribbled their predictions and crumpled it up.

  “This is mean, isn’t it?” she asked her husband.

  “Agreed,” Jonathan said. “Though we’re still fifty-plus.”

  “Totally.” Cass lifted a forkful of cake and artfully placed it between Jonathan’s waiting lips. “We are totally fifty-plus.”

  1. CASS

  CASS COYNE WAS thinking a lot about her marriage lately. Particularly, she found herself wondering how much joy she should derive from it. Or maybe joy was ambitious, and it was really complacency she should be after. She just didn’t know what was normal to expect to feel on a daily basis. It didn’t seem correct that after five years of marriage she was evaluating her relationship with her husband like it was an item in the grocery store she was considering purchasing. A melon probed for firmness. Sweetness. Or that she sometimes pictured her marriage like a snow globe, the delicate flakes inside representing the past, present and future, and that no matter how it all shook out, it didn’t seem to settle properly.

  These weren’t questions that could easily be raised with her friends, some of whom would give their right arm for a husband like hers. Others would think the mere question was childish—their modus operandi was to get up, go to work, make dinner, have sex, maybe make a baby, rinse and repeat. Besides, “normal” was too relative a term about which to have a meaningful discussion. So was “happiness.” Cass just wanted to know, in the recent days where minutes stretched into hours and weeks blurred into months, if it was normal (there was that word again) that at times (only rarely!) she wished she was single. That she’d never married Jonathan Coyne. That she’d never clinked beers with him at Paragon, where the serious types at Brown went to get wasted. That she hadn’t called out to him on Park Avenue and flung her arms around him six years later. But how could she help it? He was the answer to everything.

  Her husband—before he became that—used to remind her of a nearly ripe farm-stand peach, a project almost completed. He was someone in need of finishing touches, a man who would be so grateful to her for getting him a better haircut and jazzing up his apartment that he’d fail to see that she was truly the one in need of finishing. And that day on Park Avenue? When they finally came face-to-face? Well, he had flashed her the warmest of smiles when the recognition set in, sending a heat coursing through her chilled body. At that fateful moment, she marveled at how a person could literally transmit electricity to another person without even touching. Lately, though, she wondered if her body had just been responding to a spike in temperature after leaving the artic chill of the office tower where she was working. Maybe excessive air-conditioning was to blame for the subsequent trajectory of her life. Of course she didn’t really believe that. She had charged into her marriage with eyes wide open. Back then, Jonathan was a doorway with an inviting threshold, one she had no inclination to sidestep. After all, she’d beaten a path right to it.

  In their king-sized bed (a bed of her own making, she thought wryly), Jonathan snored peacefully. Snoring. It was caused by a narrowing of the upper airway during sleep. Just the thought of it made her feel like she was choking. But every night, Jonathan snored comfortably next to her. He’d always snored, or at least she thought he had. Thinking back over the course of their relationship was surprisingly like gaping at something through foggy glass. It was just that now, the snores were deafening, and still Jonathan managed to look at ease as he sputtered out those throaty chaaaa-shoooos. Sometimes she had to wonder if he was faking it. I’m trying to sleep; don’t talk to me, his pretend snores were conveying. Well, that was fine. She did that too sometimes. He would tap her on the shoulder and whisper, “Cass,” wanting to chat or maybe have sex, and she’d utter something unintelligible in return, while in her head she held back a perfectly logical response. When did that pattern of theirs start? Another thing she couldn’t quite remember.

  She looked up at the blurry red numbers dancing on the ceiling. Jonathan had insisted on buying one of those alarm clocks that project the time upward. He adored gadgets—it went along with his penchant for science, math, numbers—anything with a concrete solution and logic behind it. She argued that the new device would make their room look like a spaceship. Who was too lazy to rotate their head? In truth, she loved it, smiling to herself each time she didn’t have to turn over to make out the time on the night table. Especially now that she wasn’t sleeping well, watching the numbers tick by on her back was almost hypnotic. Not that she ever told Jonathan how much she liked that glowing metronome in the dark, choosing instead to add her tolerance of it to a growing stockpile of bargaining chips she maintained. Was that normal too? That she treated their marriage like an accountant maintaining a ledger of checks and balances? She was hardly in a position to do anything of the sort.

  Relief took hold of her when she saw it was 5:00 a.m., and she anchored the spindly tips of her shoulder blades more deeply into the Tempur-Pedic mattress. What a funny thing, a Tempur-Pedic. A way to share without having to compromise. If only all things in life, in marriage, were that easily reconciled. It was morning enough outside—sharp slivers of light attacked the crevices between the curtains and the window. Five was much better than three, the time she had grown accustomed to waking recently. Why was it that when she had to get to work, the sound of her alarm clock at seven thirty was the most excruciating noise, rousing her from a sleep that felt almost drug-induced it was so deep and so pleasurable? But since she’d stopped working, sleep had evaded her, wakefulness creeping up on her in the still of the night like it never had before. It had to be anxiety, that menacing beast.

  Cass eyed Puddles sleeping in his usual spot, stretched on his back like a hysterical lady on a fainting couch. He was covered partly with the pilled cashmere throw ornamenting the otherwise useless armchair in the corner of the
room. Their snooty decorator, Carmel, had talked them into it. Apparently having a master bedroom with only a king-sized bed and a television did not qualify as a room, so a cozy club chair was purchased. Puddles loved to sleep in their room, even though his crate and toys were set up in the spare bedroom, where he happily watched Animal Planet during the day on an enormous flat-screen TV. It was a bit absurd, she knew, the way they had tricked out the adjacent room with a bone-shaped area rug, canine wall decals and felt baskets overflowing with chew toys. The minute they had a baby, Puddles would be displaced and “his room” would be transformed into a light blue or light pink paradise, but not until someone was hired to clean it with hazmat-level intensity. The poor guy didn’t realize how soon that day was coming.

  “You’re up,” Jonathan said, but it sounded more like a question. She hadn’t noticed his snoring had quieted.

  “Yes, I’m up. Was I stirring too much?”

  “It’s fine. I’ll be able to fall back asleep.”

  Of course you will, she thought. You’ll just press your “sleep” button and drift back into dreamland. Lately, Cass found herself resenting good sleepers the most, even more than loud talkers, slow orderers and unwanted touchers (the ones who plucked your loose threads or a detached eyelash without permission). Now it was those people who could get a reliable eight hours of shut-eye each night who had become the most detestable, even if that included her harmless husband.

  “I’m gonna take a shower now. I’ll be quiet.” She slipped out of bed and drifted toward the bathroom. This morning she chose to stand smack-dab in the center of the shower, letting the rainfall faucet pound her evenly all over. Hot drops rolled down her face like molten tears, minus the saltiness. She licked her lips.

  “We have sex once a week,” she said out loud, but quietly. She liked to speak to an imaginary therapist every now and then. It was cheaper than real therapy, not that she needed to be terribly worried about such an expenditure. The freedom to spend money still managed to surprise her every time she swiped her AmEx for an overpriced latte or a new pair of heels at Bergdorf Goodman. How could it not, when she grew up in a home where the cable and electricity were turned off regularly and Cass, by age six, could recognize and decode the colors of the eviction notices stapled to their front door? A green notice was a threat but still vaguely friendly—as if to say everyone over at the sheriff’s office was rooting for you to get your shit together and pay what you owed. Yellow meant you had thirty days to scrounge up the rent; red—well, red meant Cass should start packing up her room immediately. Red meant she and her mom were closer and closer to ending up in one of those trailer parks near the highway. God, she hated that color. Didn’t have a stitch of red decor in the apartment she and Jonathan shared and she even avoided using it at work when possible. Marketing the revival of The Scarlet Letter had proved especially difficult. Her boss had chewed her out for the first time ever when she presented the poster with the pink A.