The Other Women

by Erin Zak

  Yep, it was a dig. “Well, my promotion to CEO wouldn’t have happened if I’d left. You know that.” I blurt out the information. I’m feeling very inferior, and that is so not like me. Especially around her.

  She nods. “I know. And you can’t leave Luke.”

  “Willow.”

  “Have you decided to leave?”

  I stare at her.

  “Have you?”

  Tell her. Open your mouth and tell her. “I’m…I’m considering it.” What the heck? Why am I lying? Why am I not telling her?

  Her eyebrows rise. “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I actually…” For some reason, my voice abandons me, so I swallow a couple times before I stop looking at her and focus on my glass. “I can’t continue to hurt him.” I feel her hand as she lays it on mine.

  “I know.”

  And that’s when it hits me. My heart needs to know what is happening between us before I can tell her I plan on leaving. I’m being selfish, as always, and it makes me mad at myself, but I also need to preserve what dignity I have left. “What are we doing?”

  She sighs. “You’re the one who sort of paused us.”

  “Me?” My voice is very accusatory. She removes her hand. “You’re the one who left without so much as a discussion about it.”

  “And you’re the one who wouldn’t leave,” she says calmly right as the server arrives. They exchange pleasantries, and I feel anger and jealousy flaring inside. Anger for how she is acting and jealousy because how well does she know this girl? Woman? How old is she even? She is way too young for Willow. I watch the server push her shoulder-length dark hair behind her ear, watch how she smiles, lets out a small laugh. Willow places her hand on the girl’s arm, and I feel my face flush. I am not okay. I am so jealous I can barely see straight. What the heck is wrong with me?

  “No, no, that’s fine, Erica. Why don’t you put in the order for a burrata and tomato salad, two filets, both medium? Would you like mashed potatoes?” She finally turns to me, and I blink rapidly to snap myself back to reality from the dimension where I was gearing up to punch the server square in the jaw.

  “Yes, please.”

  “And a side order of the garlic mashed potatoes.” She smiles broadly at Erica, then watches as she walks away. She turns her attention back to me, and if I was ten years younger, I would have allowed my jealous rage to do something really stupid, like flip the table and tell her to shove her holier-than-thou attitude where the sun doesn’t shine. Alas, I am not ten years younger, and I have no real basis for my jealousy other than four months of not seeing her, her touching Erica’s arm, and their intense amount of eye contact. Not enough to go on. I pull myself back from the ledge and take a few deep breaths. Hopefully, it’s not obvious they’re deep, deep, deep breaths.

  “Erica is a wonderful gal. She’s married to the head chef here. They have a two-year-old named Evan.”

  “Oh, that’s so awesome.” Do I sound convincing? Oh, God, please, help me to calm down. While I’m sitting across the table from the woman I have been cheating on my husband with. I am such an idiot.

  Willow swirls her wine and downs the rest before she pours herself more. I wave when she offers to pour more in my glass. I already have enough competition without having purple teeth to set me back even further.

  I can’t handle this awkward air we’re breathing, so I finally gather some courage. “So what’s going on? Do you feel weird? I feel like we’re both acting weird.”

  She breathes out, and it’s almost as if she’s a balloon that’s been deflated, but she also looks relieved. Everything about her. Her shoulders, her jawline, her temples. “Oh, thank God. I thought something was wrong, and I couldn’t put my finger on it.”

  And as if a light switched from off to on, I feel lighter. “Goodness gracious. I was so worried. I thought maybe—”

  “No, don’t say it.” She takes a breath. “Can we just enjoy this evening together? Please?”

  I smile at her as I raise my glass, motioning for more wine. I watch as she pours, the way she handles the bottle, how she twists it at the end to catch the last drops from falling and creating a mess. She is elegant in that moment, and I find myself taken with her all over again.

  The first time Willow had broken every rule, she kissed me late at night in the conference room at Synergy. We were busy going over the new marketing push for Rivers, and I had been a stubborn jerk for most of the evening. There was something super fun about getting under her skin, though. I felt a spark between us, but I knew it was nothing I could ever pursue.

  As I was cleaning the conference room, piling papers and notebooks on top of each other, gathering the whiteboard pens, turning off the monitors and Apple TVs, I turned, and there she was. I’ll never forget those moments. She was wearing baggy, black, pleated pants with a sash tied around the waist and a short-sleeved cream colored dress top. She had flipped her heels off halfway through the evening when the pizza arrived. She still looked fresh, though, and not at all as if we’d been working our brains like crazy for the past six hours.

  She had started to help clean up. She had an empty Pizano’s Pizza box. The one thing we agreed on from the get-go: if we’re getting thin crust, it has to be from Pizano’s. The delivery guy knew me by name. Pizza is my weakness. Always has been, always will be.

  I remember the way she was holding the box, the way it slid out of her hand onto the table when she stepped in front of me. I had a bottle of whiteboard cleaner in one hand and a rag in the other when all of a sudden, the box thudded onto the table, and her lips pressed into mine.

  I pushed her away. Not immediately, of course, because, wow, this is what it feels like to kiss a woman?

  “I’m married,” I shouted after I finally pushed her away. She stood there looking bewildered and regretful. She was twisting her hands, God, her hands, and I had to keep reminding myself I really was married. But when she opened her mouth to speak, I found myself lunging at her, throwing my arms around her neck, and pressing my lips into hers as if the fate of the world rested on our kiss. Kissing her felt incredible, exhilarating, and of course, forbidden. I had never done anything forbidden before. I had never even seen Luke’s penis until we were married. I was a good Christian girl. But Willow awakened something inside me. And it scared the crap out of me. After that evening, I refused to speak to her for a week.

  One week. And it was the longest week of my life.

  When I finally started talking to her again, we didn’t kiss until almost a month later. The absence of her lips and the feeling that accompanied those lips was so hard to handle, almost as if a piece of my soul was dying. When I succumbed to the desire to feel again, the kiss was explosive. And again, it scared the crap out of me.

  Now, four years and four months later, when the door to the suite closes behind us and she spins me around to press me against it, the feelings aren’t what scare me. I am scared, yes, but not for the same old reasons.

  There is something different about her kisses, and the different is what scares me. The way she is holding me, the taste of her saliva, her lipstick, her everything.

  I am insanely disappointed with myself for pinpointing whatever is going on with such accuracy, but I spent four years of my life kissing this woman. When something is off, I can tell. And tonight is no different.

  All I want is to lose myself all over again in all the things about her. But instead, I think maybe she is the one who’s lost. And I’m realizing there’s something wrong with the bigger picture.

  I slide my hands between us and place them at the crook of her elbows. I push her the tiniest of bits, and she must be as uncomfortable as me. She stops instantly. “What’s wrong with you?” My question isn’t accusatory at all. I’m inquiring honestly. This is not the Willow Carmichael who could steal my breath away with one simple kiss.

  Her eyes turn sad.

  Her lips press together.

  Her almost overplucked brows knit together. The wrinkles in
her forehead are very prominent.

  “I started seeing someone when I first got here.”

  I have no voice. None at all. But if I did, I would scream, “cheater!” I know I can’t, though. Not when I was doing the same thing. I know this. I really do.

  But dammit, the feeling that she cheated on me is all I can feel and taste and hear.

  “It’s over.” She places her hands on my arms. “It’s over. It never…” She pauses. “It meant nothing.”

  Right then and there, I know it meant a lot more than nothing. I’m not stupid. I’m a very smart woman, so I get what she’s doing. She’s trying to convince herself that her indiscretion meant nothing. But all of her kisses and touches tell me it meant more.

  “Are you going to say anything?” She pushes my hair behind my ear. I hate when she does that. I hate my ears. And she knows that. “Please, Cecily, baby, say something.”

  “I’m leaving Luke.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Cecily, that is amazing news.” The smile that stretches across her lips makes me want to cry. “When did you decide this? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Are you serious?” I shake my head. “I’m telling you now. After you just told me you cheated on me.”

  “You have got to be kidding me.” She sighs. “That’s rich coming from you.”

  “Wow.”

  Her face softens. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, did that feel good?” I spit the question and adjust my stance. “You were lying to me this entire time.”

  “No.” Her answer is firm. “I mean, we barely spoke when I first got out here.”

  “We were still speaking, though, Willow. I was still with you. You were still everything to me. And you were the one who said you were just very busy. I see exactly what you meant now.”

  “No, that’s not it. I mean, yes.” She takes a breath, removes her hands, and pushes the strands of hair that have fallen from her updo behind her ears. She places her hands back on my arms. “I was busy. Very busy. But—”

  “Oh, I know. Busy with someone else.”

  “Cecily, you can’t be serious.” She releases me, steps backward, then turns to walk through the entryway, which seems a lot bigger now as she moves into the living area. I watch her slip her heels off, one by one, and turn right into the kitchen. There’s something about the way the soles of her feet meet the tiles that causes me to feel disgusted. She seems so comfortable as she breaks my heart. I hear the cork pop on the bottle of Prosecco she came armed with earlier. She knows it is one of my favorites.

  I follow and see her drinking right from the bottle. “Seriously?”

  “I need a drink.”

  “You need a drink?”

  “Yes.

  “You?”

  “Yes, me, Cecily.”

  “I cannot believe you told me you were fine with how things are, with waiting, with everything, and then you leave, barely talk to me, and essentially cheat on me. And the entire time, I was planning my exit strategy. And now…” I’m still in my heels—because I am far from comfortable—so I tap my toe against the tile floor. I refuse to get comfortable during this conversation. I am going to stay armed with all I have at this moment, which is my ability to stay calm during an argument. I have my arms crossed. I’m mad. I’m hurt. I’m sad. But darn it, I’m calm. And I’m prepared to leave as quickly as I can if calm turns into rage.

  “I don’t understand why you can’t just see this isn’t what I wanted to happen. You leaving him is all I have ever wanted.” Her voice is filled with irritation. It makes me want to drop my calm demeanor. Even though she’s right. And honestly, I hate confrontation, but I cannot get past the fact that she couldn’t pick up the phone, end it, and then go sow her wild oats. “You wanted me to hang around and wait for you, but you also said a hundred times you couldn’t leave him.”

  “In the beginning, you said you were okay with that, Willow. You said it. Not me. You said it that first night in the conference room. You said it when we went to dinner for the first time at Quartino. You said it when we went to the Bean in Millennium Park this past winter. You said it the first time you made love to me. You said it the last time. You. Said. It. Not me.”

  Clearly, I’ve stunned her into silence. I don’t blame her for being shocked. After all, what kind of a psychopath would remember every single time she was told that the person she is in love with is willing to wait?

  I’ll tell you what kind.

  This kind.

  Right here.

  I was so conflicted about whether or not I should leave my marriage where I was fulfilled but not completely, where I loved him but wasn’t in love with him, where I had tried so hard to be okay that I actually wasn’t. Should I leave, should I stay, they were the only thoughts rattling around in my head most days. So when Willow showed up and told me she was willing to share me, she was okay with it, she would never leave me, I took the only way out that also allowed me to stay. And she was okay with it. She promised me she was okay with it. She promised me. She promised me in dark corners, clandestine meetings, late at night in her bed, early in the mornings in my office. My heart belongs to you, Cecily. Forever.

  “So the word forever means absolutely nothing to you.”

  “Oh, fuck that, Cecily. Fuck that.”

  “What’s her name?”

  She looks at me as she sets the bottle on the granite countertop. The thunk sends chills up my spine. “Her name doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it does!” I never raise my voice, so the volume causes her eyes to widen. She blinks once, twice, three times before I continue with, “Tell me her name right now.”

  “No.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “She meant nothing.”

  “You’re lying to me.”

  “I am not lying. She meant nothing, so her name does not matter.”

  “Then tell me the details.” I lean against the wall. “Now.”

  She sighs and takes a drink. The sound of her swallowing is so loud. I wish Samantha was still playing music. “We met—”

  “Where?”

  She sighs. “Here.” She is very uncomfortable, and it’s obvious. “Look, we met and hit it off. So we started talking, and one thing led to another. That’s it.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long did it go on?” I can read her like a book, and her being so flippant about this means this woman meant more to her than she’s willing to tell me. She probably still means something. And while I may have absolutely no right to have a say, I am so hurt and upset, I can barely see straight. “How long?”

  “Does it really matter?”

  “Willow, I swear…”

  And that’s when her stoic attitude falters. “Three months.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I take a couple steps. “You’ve only been gone four months, Willow.”

  “How can you be angry at me? I didn’t want to be with anyone else. As soon as we started communicating like normal again, I stopped it. You are all I want.” She closes the distance between us. She’s still holding the bottle as she places a hand on my arm.

  I’m not sure why I can’t stop focusing on that darn bottle. Maybe I’m upset she decided to open it and not offer me a drop. Maybe I’m furious about everything, and the only constant right now is the La Marca. Or maybe I know I’m wrong for being upset…I really do not know.

  “You’re the one who said you were never leaving him. Why wouldn’t I trust that?”

  “You said—”

  “I know what I said.”

  I shrug her hand from my arm. “So, what do you want?”

  “I want you.”

  “It’s not that simple, Willow.”

  “Yes. Yes, it is. I want you to move here. Share my life with me. I want you all to myself. I don’t want to share you any longer.”

&nbs
p; “And if I say I don’t know if I can do that? If I say I’m not moving? Are you going to come back to Chicago?” The questions come out fiercely, and I know what her answers are going to be, but I have to ask. I am finally the CEO of the company I love working for. I absolutely adore my job and what I do. I do not want to move, especially to Las Vegas. And now I’m not even sure if I want to be with Willow. Twelve hours earlier, I was so excited to see her, and now this? I wish so much that I wasn’t hurt. I wish I could say I understand, that of course she had to figure out if I was who she wanted, that any sane person couldn’t have gone through what she did without straying. I’m standing here looking at her, though and the only thought going through my brain is I think I made a mistake. Willow looks absolutely devastated, and she’s the one who made the mistake. I need to rethink things.

  “Then we’re over,” she says.

  Well, crap.

  “I cannot keep doing this. I cannot keep loving you but not having you. Even if you are really leaving Luke, if you’re not moving here for me then…” She stops and shrugs. She shrugs. A freaking shrug!

  “Wow.” My lungs are screaming at me to breathe. To pull oxygen into them now before I pass out. But breathing means smelling her, and her vanilla perfume is too much for me. I am positive I’m going to vomit if I don’t leave this conversation. I turn away, and almost without my permission, my feet start carrying me toward the door. I’m leaving. And I have no idea why. I shouldn’t have to leave my own hotel room when she’s the one who is basically breaking it off with me, but it’s happening whether I want it to or not.

  Chapter Five

  Francesca

  This night is motherfuckin’ crawling for some reason. I’m ready to poke my eyeballs out. The bar has been packed all evening, yet all I can think is, “When the fuck do I get to clock out?” Nights like these are infuriating. It doesn’t matter how many drinks I make, how many tips I get, how many indecent proposals I get, time feels as if it’s standing still.

  Max and I have been making bank tonight, though. We’re already close to a thousand in tips. I check my phone, praying it’s close to eleven, but it’s only ten till ten. One hour, ten minutes and I can either go find my new straight friend, Annabelle, or I can head home and go to bed.