Chapter Two
Simon
I roll over in our bed and look at my wife. Abbey has a beauty that could easily be overlooked. A beauty you had to search for for a moment, just below the surface. She looks peaceful sleeping with the streetlight from outside softly illuminating her face. I’ve loved her for ten years. I snake my arm around her side and hold her. Closing my eyes, I think about the moment we met. She sat in front of me in our sophomore year cognitive psych class at Illinois State.
“Do you always look so sad when you’re about to take a test on behaviorism?”
I’d seen her around, but those were the first words she’d spoken to me. My father had shot himself in the head a few months before. She couldn’t have known. Abbey was the polar opposite from any other girl I’d been with. She was the only person who even noticed how depressed I was, and she was the only reason I smiled. It wasn’t long before my soul attached itself to hers and made itself a home in her heart.
We’ve had our ups and downs over the years, but our love for each other has never wavered. I do sometimes wish she’d put more effort into the way she looks, but I could never tell her that. I appreciate her for everything she is and everything she lacks. Besides, she’s busy. Her psychology practice is decently established, something she’s worked tirelessly for. She doesn’t need to look hot for those lunatics. Harsh, I know, but I switched my major after the semester we met. Abbey helped me realize I wasn’t cut out for helping people in that manner. Now, I’m a successful investment banker. I was successful straight out of school, actually, because I knew the right people. I always know the right people. Growing up the way I did was at least helpful in that way. Money talks and I learned its language quickly.
It’s Tuesday. I work from home three days a week, and today is one of them. Abbey’s already left to the city for work, and I remember I told her I’d go grocery shopping for us since she hardly has the time. I take my coffee to the front porch to sit for a while before I leave. It’s a rare, perfect spring morning. The rain we had for a week straight has finally let up; the sun is streaming through the oak trees, casting its rays ready to soak up the moisture from the earth.
A car pulling into the driveway across the street drags me from my thoughts. If I were a dog, my ears would be perked up. The house on the other side of the street has sat empty and for sale for nearly a year. I’ve never even noticed anyone doing a walk-through. A woman steps out of the driver’s seat, walks to the center of the front yard, and stands there for a moment with her hands on her hips, taking in the view of the expansive home. She’s wearing cutoff jean shorts, and I can’t help but notice they’re about an inch away from exposing her ass cheeks. She has jet black hair that hangs down her back and dances at her waistline. She doesn’t even need to turn around for me to know that she’s exactly my type.
Fuck.
I take my unfinished coffee and walk to my car as an excuse to get a better look. I drive past slowly, even though the grocery store is in the opposite direction, and the woman turns at the sound of my car on the street. She’s breathtaking. I’m practically stopped in the middle of the road when I notice a man get out of the car. She flashes me a smile and a small wave before he comes to her, picks her up, and spins her around. They seem happy.
I’m preoccupied while I shop. I find myself tossing random food items into my cart. Fettuccine? Sure. I’m thinking about those jean shorts and how Abbey would never wear anything like that. She’d say things to me when we saw women dressed like that in public, and I like to jab back playfully and remind her that she’s supposed to be a feminist.
They’re still outside when I get back home. I sit in my car for a moment before deciding to walk across and greet them. I’m sure if it’s more awkward to introduce myself or ignore them, but I have to get a better look. My nosiness sometimes gets the best of me.
They’re taking a break from hauling boxes inside from the moving truck that now sits in their driveway. The husband seems very animated as he sits telling her a story, one hand on her bare thigh, the other gesturing almost wildly. They stand when they notice me walking over, and I see they’re practically the same height. Confidence boost for me. I’m mentally giving myself a high five when the wife calls out, “Hey, neighbor!”
She’s so hot. I find it hard to peel my gaze from her face as I shake the husband’s hand. “I’m Simon Paulson. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
“James and Mara Taylor. Nice to meet you,” he responds. He’s smiling at me, but his eyes look confused as they shift from me back to Mara. I’ve got to knock my shit off. He knows. He’s got to know how lucky he is.
I suddenly feel like I’ve made the wrong decision. I should have waited for Abbey to get home so we could come over here together, a united front. Oh, Abbey. The guilt starts in my chest, and my fight or flight response is screaming at me to abort mission. I know most men have these dirty, nasty thoughts when someone like Mara is in their presence. Thoughts are harmless, but I can feel myself losing hold and wanting to dip a toe in the water. I’m married, I’m devoted, and I’m not willing to do anything to risk sabotaging everything Abbey and I have built together. Still, as I head back to our house, I can’t stop thinking about the way Mara was looking at me right there in front of her husband. Like I was a steak and she wanted to devour me whole.
Chapter Three
Abbey
“And how does that make you feel?”
Such a disgustingly stereotypical phrase for psychiatrist to use, but I have to ask it.. Getting deep inside the intricate, absurdly intelligent minds of my patients can prove to be quite challenging. There are only so many ways to ask if a patient is close to going off of the deep end or if I still have time to reel them back in. The analogy may seem jarring but once someone has been analyzing other humans’ behavior for a while, there is a certain numbing factor that comes to surface and lingers around. This allows those in the mental health field to be a bit desensitized. It can be a good thing. It protects people like us from getting too close to patients or from feeling too much for them; this is a line many psychiatrists find themselves teetering on the border of.
He peels his eyes from the floor, glancing at me and back down again, shrugging carelessly. "It makes me feel like I'd like to be a fly on the wall in their homes, Doc. I want to see them up close and personal. I want to touch their clothing and smell their sheets. I need to see what shampoo they use and if they eat white bread, wheat bread, or something else. It makes me feel like I need to be inside of them, to experience their desires and know what they know, and what they won’t admit."
He’s talking about the women that he borderline stalks. My patient is highly and morbidly obsessed with three different women. He rattles on about each one every single time I see him. It’s an unhealthy, bizarre need he has. He consumes himself with the thoughts and lives of women he has never formally met but knows more deeply than some mothers know their own children. He has not given me even one reason to believe he would cause harm to these ladies, which is why I have yet to report him, but he has come close to crossing major lines. It is extremely questionable, the acts that the justice system finds merely intrusive and those it finds to be punishable, so I always bide my time before bringing any concerns to the authorities.
He starts in again, a wild sneer forming on his greasy face. "It makes me feel, Doctor, like I am so close to perfection I can almost touch it. Almost. I need to wait a bit longer though, I know that. Learning more about them but knowing I can't do anything about the desire to have them makes me feel angry. I long to put my hands on them, to feel the warmth of their skin, the pulse beating away just beneath the surface. I know it’ll be enough to send me over the edge, that’s why I can’t get too close."
Patient X is oddly astute enough to reason with himself. This is something typical patients cannot do, leading them to me. I’m normally their voice of reason, however, this man plays both patient and doctor. I’m just someone to throw words
at while he plays devil’s advocate with himself. I allow him to feel the weight of both the pros and cons he delivers out loud, and I’m here only if he needs a third opinion on his actions. He seldom requests one.
Our session comes to an end; sixty minutes always seems like a lifetime with him because he is such a strange case. Patient X has such a "normal" upbringing. He has a mother and father and they are still married to this day. He went to a middle-class neighborhood school, was always in church on Sundays, and he made good grades. His obsessions have just completely taken over his will to lead a normal life. He’s still quite a mystery to me. I have only been working with him a little over a month but I’m typically quick to understand the root cause of my patients’ illnesses. Not with him, though. There is something he has failed to tell me—better yet, something I have failed to uncover. Time will tell with this one. He stands up and grabs his canteen, a staple he carries everywhere with him. He’s visibly uncomfortable in his large frame, hunching over as he walks away from me. His medium length, wispy black hair slicked back with either gel or man-made grease, tiny white flakes of dandruff showering the entirety of his head.
I’m relieved to see the clock show 6:00 pm, the time I always pack up my things and leave my practice. Being on such a tight schedule allows me to consistently depart on time, which is something I enjoy. Simon and I have a routine we’ve settled into, a familiar system that works for both of us.
I’m so grateful for Simon. Sweet, laid back, and gentle Simon. I really don't know how I got so lucky with him. When I met him one afternoon in our college class, I would have never fathomed that he would end up being my person. Simon has always been such a breath of fresh air. He was so incredibly focused on his goals back then that I actually ended up being his tutor so he could play football. He was a damn good football player too. He was benched due to his less than satisfactory grades, but after working with me, he was able to get back out on the field and start like he was meant to. Those years were such a fun time in our lives; we were so young, carefree, and full of hope and dreams.
Simon and I still are that same adventurous couple to an extent, but we have definitely conformed to the lives of a married couple in our early thirties. We both have full-time jobs. We routinely come home, sit and eat dinner in the living room and go to bed. We seldom stray from our groove. The two of us rarely converse about our jobs, mainly because mine is a confidential matter. I’m able to tell him certain pieces of my work life intermittently, but never all of the challenges and woes I face daily. I don't exactly feel right discussing my patients, plus it's a law.
On the other hand, his banking work scarcely makes sense to me, which is why he rarely speaks of his days either. I never excelled in mathematics and his work is truly beyond me. I was able to tutor him years ago but he quickly surpassed my abilities in that department. Once I taught him the basics, he was able to exceed me.
To say our marriage is dull would be wrong. I do think, however, that it is definitely different than when we first started dating. We don't exactly have time for intimacy and when we do, it is very mediocre. I'm okay with this; I've never been a person who craves sexual contact. I don't have to have it. I don't live for that type of love. Simon, however, is more of a sexual touch type of man, so I do give it to him, but it's always the exact same way—him on top and me on bottom. I keep my eyes closed and I always fake an orgasm. I don’t think I have ever come with him. That doesn’t make me love him any less and he always finishes so I can live with how things are. I just love that he is my partner in life. Simon is perpetually there if I do need him, almost to a default.
When I pull my black Honda into the driveway of our two-story home, I notice a moving truck parked directly across the street. I’m surprised and a bit taken aback because the home has been for sale for months and I have never even saw a single showing. The pricing was too high at first, only recently finally dropping to more of a comparable price for the neighborhood.
I think about how great it is to get new neighbors while flipping the visor down and looking at my reflection in the mirror. I look tired. My skin is fair, tiny frown lines decorate my forehead, and my light brown hair is up in a high bun, loose strands of hair peeking out from all over. I’m not unattractive. I’m just a normal, every day woman. If I were a model, I would be in catalogs, something like JCPenney or Sears. I narrow my green eyes at myself and curse under my breath at my glass-half-empty thoughts about myself.
Simon and I are close with the people next door, the Longfords. They’ve become like family to us, like an extra set of parents that you don’t know you need but definitely do. It’s always nice to have people in close proximity that you can count on.
I wonder if the new neighbors have children. Simon and I have been trying but it’s taken longer than either of us ever thought it would. It’s strange—I went my entire life trying not to get pregnant, thinking all it takes is one microscopic drop of semen to impregnate a woman, but in reality it is much harder than any sex education course ever told me it would be. I’ll admit this has caused some tension in our otherwise typical marriage. He would be—will be—a good father. They say timing is everything, we just haven’t gotten it right yet.
I glance across the street as I make my way up the cobblestone pathway to the front door but don’t see anyone outside as I head inside my own comfortable home. Simon is here to greet me, which is typical, especially on the days he works from home. He looks so good. He always does, but today there’s something different that I can’t quite pinpoint. His happiness shows on his face and in the way he stands so relaxed, leaning back on his heels. Simon sports dark wash jeans with a small, man-made hole that allows his knee to peek from under the denim. A plain white cotton t-shirt completes his informal ensemble. His attire is so simple but devastatingly sexy at the same time.
I draw him into me, wrapping my arms around his neck as he gives me a quick kiss on the cheek while exclaiming, “We got new neighbors!” Simon’s face flushes, slightly pinker than his normal skin tone. A half smile stretches across his face and the wrinkles around his mouth show. He appears even more excited than I am. Simon has always enjoyed the Longfords, but he does mock some of their quirky habits when the two of us are in the privacy of our own home.
“I noticed the truck out there when I pulled in, have you seen anyone yet?” I ask. Before I even finish my question, he starts in with his answer, happily going on to tell me about how he saw a couple, a man and woman, earlier today while leaving to get groceries. There’s a slight sparkle in his dark eyes that catches my attention. He’s brought up in conversation that he sometimes gets lonely working from home. He has a lot of time on his hands to think about the past, things he doesn’t want to remember but can’t seem to forget.
“Their names are Mara and James Taylor,” Simon says. The name Mara immediately catapults my heart back to high school. Mara isn’t a common name, at least around here. She was the only one I ever knew with it.
“That’s strange. I knew a Mara once,” I say to Simon, cautiously. “There was a huge scandal back in high school with Mara Leach. She and an English teacher were caught together in his classroom. Some stories said she was on top of him, others said he was forcing himself into her. No one ever knew for certain which was the truth. There was a long drawn out court case, too. It was a really big deal. It changed the way our entire community looked at the people they trusted their children with.”
“Damn.” He looks at me with eyes bursting with intrigue. “Sounds like quite a mess.” He wraps a comforting arm around my waist and nuzzles the top of my head with his own. I relax into him and easily remember why I fell for him so many years ago.
I knew there were other women named Mara in the world but this quickly had me feeling uneasy. Mara and I never really knew each other. Our school was large. But while she didn’t exactly know me, everyone knew about her after what happened. Could this be the same Mara? Surely not, I assume. If it is though, do I hav
e anything to worry about? Simon and I love each other but she tempted a married man before and who knows if she has a track record of it. I have to find out if it was her. My insecurities are creeping up, slowly slithering their way around the chambers of my heart. A feeling I know all too well, sadly enough.
I quickly feel irritated at myself for even thinking of Simon cheating on me. What a convoluted thought. I’m getting way too far ahead of myself. My husband loves me.
“Should we go over and properly introduce ourselves?” I ask, needing to tame the wild thoughts in my head. Simon nods eagerly and we decide to bake a loaf of banana bread to bring over as a welcome to the neighborhood gift.
“They seemed really cool earlier. James is a car guy, they have a ’67 Corvette in the garage. I’ve always wanted to dive a bit deeper into cars, you know my dad loved them.” Simon seems excited. I’m secretly a bit grateful he was talking more about James than Mara, again having a fleeting feeling of nervousness growing in my stomach. Simon’s father had an award winning ’72 Camaro that he brought to car shows all over the country. That was his hobby and the car went to Simon’s older brother after their father fatally shot himself so many years ago. Simon has a hard time talking about the ordeal that changed his life forever. He struggles with the leftover consequences that molded his entire family, or those left in it. I never bring his father up unless he does first. I vowed this to myself after the psychiatrist in me tried coaxing him to talk about his feelings one too many times, resulting in an all-out blow up a few years ago. It was the first time he slept on the couch. Not quite the last though.
“That’s great, love. Maybe the two of you will become fast friends.” I flash him a tight-lipped smile, my mind spinning. I hate how her name feels like a huge step backward into a life I don’t want to relive.
Those We Trust Page 2
