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Tell me a lie, don’t make it hurt,
The pain in my chest won’t go away.
Don’t tell me the truth, I can’t face what’s to come.
I’ll yell and I’ll kick, I’ll fight it, I’ll run.
Don’t tell me the truth, I don’t want to hear.
Tell me pretty lies with whispers sincere.
The chill on my skin lingers and flows down my shoulders. It’s an odd sensation that travels across my arms and I’d like to blame it on the alcohol, but I’ve felt it all day. From the very start of this morning, before the drinks came easier and easier. For days,really, I’ve been feeling this strange sensation of not quite being in my own body. As if I’m not really here. This isn’t really happening to me.
It’s been going on for more than a few days if I’m honest … maybe even weeks, but I’ve been ignoring the signs and whispers, pretending like they weren’t real.
Now that this sickness won’t leave me, I can’t deny it.
Ever since I let the words slip through my lips.
I hate you.
You’re a fucking liar.
I want a divorce.
An ache in my chest prompts me to take a sip of wine. Letting it slide down my throat, I pretend that it soothes me. It’s numbing, that’s what it is. That’s what I need. Tears prick at my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. Instead a shuddering breath leaves me and I lift up my glass, downing the remaining wine. It’s too sweet for being so dark.
Startled by a sound from the floor above me, the glass nearly tips over as I set it down quickly to wipe under my eyes. I don’t want him to see me cry; I won’t let him. But the creak I heard was a false alarm. I don’t hear the heavy footsteps of him coming down the stairs to our townhouse. I’m still alone in the dining room, waiting for him to leave.
Left only with bittersweet memories and the constant question:How did this happen?
The thick, dark drapes behind me are pulled shut but even they can’t completely drown out the night sounds of busy New York City. There’s always a bit that travels through. It used to bother me when I initially moved here, but now it’s soothing. It calms me as my gaze drifts toward the empty stairwell, where it lingers.
I shouldn’t be drunk, not when I’m supposed to be preparing to meet with a potential client tomorrow. As one of the top literary agents in New York City, I’m damn good at what I do but tonight, I don’t care.
I shouldn’t have closed my laptop and logged off all social media when I have promotions and advertisements running around the clock for these launches.
I shouldn’t be doing a lot of things.
But here I am, sitting at the head of the dining room table, and I refuse to do anything but watch the stairs and wait for him to leave. The very thought of staring at his back as the front door closes forces me to reach for the bottle.
I listen carefully as I pour the last of the wine into my glass. He’s packing at the last minute, like he always does, but this time it’s so much different. He’s traveling for work, but when he leaves from his rendezvous in London, he’s not coming back here. That sudden realization brings a fresh flood of unshed tears to burn my eyes, but I remain very still. As if maybe playing dead will hold back these emotions.
“He better not,” I mutter beneath my breath, holding on to my resolve.
I lift the glass to my lips, the dark cabernet tasting sweeter and sweeter with each sip, lulling me into a lethargy where the memory of yesterday fades.
Where the article doesn’t exist. Where the denial of an affair can fall on deaf ears. The picture itself was innocent. But Evan doesn’t have a single explanation for me. He can’t make clear to me why he’s lying, why he’s stumbling over his words to come up with a justification.
What hurts the most is the look in his eyes when he lies to me. The paparazzi photo is of him with his boss’s wife Samantha, who just so happens to be in the middle of a vicious divorce. He was with her at 3:00 in the morning in her hotel lobby. Three fucking a.m.Nothing good happens past 2:00 a.m.He used to make that joke all the time when we first met. I used to laugh with him when he said it.
There’s only one explanation for that photograph and both of us know it. Even though he can’t come up with a plausible excuse, he still denies it. It’s a slap in my face. I’m done pretending like I can forgive him for this. If he can’t give me his truth, I’m left with my own, which is that my husband is not the man I fell in love with. Or at the very least, his decisions aren’t ones I can live with.
I suck in a long, deep breath, pushing my phone away as it beeps again with a message from a friend and I lean back in my chair. I don’t want to read it. With the palms of my hands, I cover my eyes, suddenly feeling hot. Too hot.
They keep asking me the same things, but with different words.
Maddie:Are you all right?