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Julia:Is it true?It can’t be true.
Suzette:So you went through with it?Is there anything I can do?
Messages from my friends have been hitting my phone one by one, each of them making it vibrate on the table throughout the day.
It takes everything in me to face them, as if they were really here in person asking me all these questions. I don’t have answers to give them, none that I want to say out loud anyway. I’m not pushing away my husband because I want to. I’m doing it because I have to and I don’t have the resolve to speak that confession.
Even I’m disappointed in myself.
My friends want what’s best for me. They only want to help me and I know that’s the truth, but it doesn’t keep me from being angry at the phone as it goes off again.
Heaving in a deep breath, I wish I wasn’t in the big city. I wish I wasn’t well known. I wish I could hide under the guise of anonymity and just be no one. More importantly, I wish no oneknew. I’d crawl back to him if that were the case. I’d beg him to hold me every time I cried, even if he’s the one who brought out this side of me.
I’d beg him to love me. He would, I know it. And then I’d hate myself.
You deserve better than this.Another message from Suzette comes through next and I can only run the pad of my thumb down the screen over her words. It’s an attempt to make myself believe it.
Just leave me alone. Everyone get out of my life, my marriage. It wasn’t for them to see. It’s not for them to judge like every fucking gossip column in New York City. It’s not the first time our marriage has been mentioned in the papers, but I pray it’ll be the last.
My knuckles turn white as I grip the phone with the intent of throwing it, letting it smack against the wall to silence it, but I don’t. It’s the sound of Evan’s boots rhythmically hitting each step as he walks down the stairs that forces me to compose myself. At the very least I pretend to; he’s always seen through it, though. He knows how much this kills me.
I hit the button to turn off my phone and ignore the texts and calls, squaring my shoulders as I attempt to pull myself together.
I haven’t answered a single message or email since this morning when Page Six came out with an article about our separation. It’s funny how I only uttered the words two nights ago, yet it was already circulating gossip columns before the weekend hit, blasted all over social media. I wonder if he wanted this. If that was Evan’s way of finally pushing his workaholic wife to the brink of divorce.
My gaze morphs into a glare as he comes into view, but it doesn’t stay long. My skin is suddenly feeling hotter, but in a way that’s joined with desire. I can’t help but to imagine how his rough stubble would feel against my palm as I caressed hischeek, how his lips would taste as he leaned down to kiss me. A very large part of me wants to savor it. Our last goodbye kiss. It’s funny how the goodbye kisses are the ones I value most, but I won’t let him kiss me before he leaves this time. Not when the last things that came from his lips were lies.
My deep inhales are silent, although the heavy rise and fall of my chest betrays me. If he notices, he doesn’t let on as he places his luggage by the front door. My own hands turn numb watching his.
Even if he is only wearing a pair of faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt, he’s still devilishly handsome. It’s his muscular physique and tanned, tattooed skin that let you know he’s a classic bad boy regardless of what he’s wearing. My heart beats slower as the seconds pass between us; it’s calming just to look at him. That’s how he got me in the beginning. The desire and attraction are undeniable despite what he’s done.
He’s the first to break our gaze as he runs his fingers through his dark brown hair and lets out an uneasy sigh. In response my lips curl into a sarcastic smile, mocking both me and my thoughts. I’m not the only one to fall for his charm and allure, but I should have learned my lesson by now. My fingers slip down the thin stem of the wineglass as I smile weakly and force back the sting in my eyes, pretending I’m not going to cry, pretending that I’ve made my decision final. Like I don’t already regret it.
“I have to go,” Evan states after a moment of uncomfortable silence, apart from the constant background hum of traffic.
My blood rushes and I try to swallow the lump in my throat. I focus on the wine, the dark red liquid pooling in the base of the glass. I try to swirl it, but it doesn’t move; there’s so little left.
“Is she going to be there?” I ask him, staring straight ahead at a black and white photo of the two of us taken years ago on vacation in Mexico.
Why? Why even bother? Why did I let it slip out? I’d planned to just say goodbye. Just end this suffering already.
As he answers, I continue to stare at the genuine smile on my face and then to where his arm is wrapped possessively around my waist in the photograph.
I hate that I asked. It’s my insecurity, my hate. My envy even.
“No, she’s not. And I already told you it doesn’t matter.” Any trace of a smile or even of disinterest leaves me. I can’t hide what it does to me, what his lie has done to me.
It doesn’t matter. Let it go.They’re all nonanswers. They’re words to hide the truth and we both know it.
My elbow is planted on the table as I rest my chin in my hand and try to cover up how much it hurts. To keep it from him just like he’s keeping the truth from me, even if I sniff a little too loud. I speak low as I stare straight ahead at nothing in particular. “You told me it’s not true, but you didn’t deny it to the press,” I tell him and finally look him in the eye. “You didn’t deny it to anyone but me, and I know you’re lying.” My words crack at the end and I have to tear my gaze away. “It’s been different since you came home.” My last statement is drawn out and practically a whisper. It’s been difficult between us over the past year, but the last two weeks … The tension between us changed the second he came home. I knew something bad had happened. I knew it.
Everyone told me to be careful and warned me about Evan six years ago when I first started seeing him. I knew what I was doing when I first said yes to a date with him, when I gave myself to him and let myself fall for someone like him. I’m a fool.
“I told you, Kat, it’s not what it looks like,” he says and his voice is soft, like he’s afraid to say the words louder.
“Then why not tell them?” I ask, staring into his pleading expression. “Why let the world believe you’ve cheated on me? What could you possibly gain?” Each question gets louder as thewords rush out of my mouth. I’m ashamed of how much passion there is in my voice. How much of my pain is on display.
In stark contrast is how little pain he shows and I don’t miss how he hasn’t budged. He hasn’t made a single move to come to me. So I stay planted in my seat as well.