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"Which one of us do you want to fuck?"
Jesus Christ. That sounded exactly like something Tamara might say.
Suddenly, it seemed potentially possible that Ashley, Tamara and Jim had all been in that bathroom when I had knocked.
Part of me wanted to rationalize it. Perhaps they were in the bathroom smoking a joint. But if so, why wouldn't Ashley simply tell me that, or at least try and account for the rumor? And how would a story like that come out of nowhere? Why was Craig so reluctant to tell me? Why had he seemed to believe it? Was there even more to the story?
I started thinking how Ashley never actually denied it. She referred to it as a rumor, sure, but by definition a rumor means it's not confirmed to be true. It doesn't mean it didn't happen.
One thought quickly led to the next. She seemed to have told me about the rumor only because she had assumed I'd hear it from Craig. Would she have even mentioned it otherwise? The rumor had been going on since the prior Monday, over a week before she told me. Did she not want to trouble me or dignify it? Or was she working potential damage control on the assumption I already knew? Why, I wondered, had she told me not to bother asking Craig about it?
If the incident hadn't happened, and people were spreading lies, Ashley would have stormed into HR that very Monday. Granted it's not some ultra-corporate firm, but that's how she is. Her dad's a lawyer, for Christ's-sake.
I thought back to her demeanor as we were leaving the party. She seemed happy but sober as she said goodnight to her friends, like she always does on any other typical night out.
But I couldn't get past the fact that Tamara was in that bathroom when I knocked. Or how I didn't remember seeing my wife at the time, or Jim for that matter. And Tamara's line, "Which one of us do you want to fuck?"
Heading up Central Park West, I began to wonder … suppose everything Craig had just told me really was true?
All I had to fall back on was, Ashley would never do something like that. She's absolutely not that kind of girl. Letting a co-worker fuck her in a bathroom at a party with her own husband nearby was off-the-charts-crazy.
Yet none of the tea leaves or strange road signs pointed to "this didn't happen." Instead, all the data points were lining up, like weird mental planets in alignment. Impossibility suddenly seemed possible, or maybe probable, or even highly likely.
Holy shit, I thought.
I said the words to myself in my head: Ashley fucked Jim Murta in that bathroom that night. Jim Murta fucked my wife.