by E. K. Blair
“Hey, babe,” I say as casually as possible, as if it is simply any other day, but he doesn’t respond. “Did you already put the girls down?”
“Yes.”
“You okay?” I question as he closes the lid to the computer.
He then stands and walks into our bedroom, my stomach flipping with each step he takes.
What if he suspects something?
Paranoia claims me as her bitch as I follow to find him pacing across the room, so I do what I can to act normal, to act as if I haven’t been crying over another man, to act as if I’m not the asshole I’m proving myself to be. I walk over to him and run my hands along his chest to insinuate I’m in the mood for sex, but he grabs my wrists and pushes me away.
My conscience taunts me, and I grow even more worried.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
His eyes are dead, stopping all my blood flow, and I panic.
“Landon?”
“I know everything.” His voice is ice cold as he looks at me like I’m a disgusting piece of shit, and I don’t even bother trying to lie my way out of this.
“Please,” I say as calmly as I possibly can. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”
“You don’t know what I’m fucking thinking!” he shouts as he swings his arm across the dresser, sending picture frames that hold images of our love and devotion to the floor, shattering the glass against the hard wood.
“I’ll tell you everything, Landon. I love you so much—”
“I read your texts to him,” he seethes. “I needed to use your laptop, and there they were on your iMessages. I guess you forgot that those come through on your computer.”
Oh, my God.
“I read them all, even the ones he just sent.”
“No. Please, I just . . . It isn’t what you’re thinking.” Words tumble out through the stampede of hysteria.
“Shut the fuck up before I really lose my shit on you,” he yells with clenched fists. I’ve never seen this side of Landon in my life and it’s terrifying. “I then wondered if you told Brooke, and when I checked your texts to her, I find out the lying whore you are.”
“I can explain—”
“What? That you weren’t having phone sex with that motherfucker? Fuck you!” He then rips the comforter off the bed. “Your cum is all over the goddamn sheets. You weren’t thinking about me, were you, Tor?”
His voice is pure acid dripping into my splintering heart as I stand here completely helpless.
“Don’t even try to lie because I saw that you had a two-hour video chat with him right before I came home this afternoon. So what was that, you felt guilty so you fucked me? On top of the cum from—”
“Please,” I sob. “It wasn’t real. I never even met the guy.”
“No?” He grabs my shoulders and pushes me back against the wall. His eyes slay me with the fury in them. “I want to know everything.”
“Okay,” I tremble out.
“Did he watch you?”
“Yes.”
His jaw ticks. “Did he talk dirty to you?”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
“A little.”
“Did you watch him?”
“Yes.”
He squeezes my shoulders tighter, painfully bruising me as tears fall freely down my face. With clenched teeth, he goes on, asking, “Did you cum?”
“Yes,” I confess, each one breaking his heart along with my own.
“Did he see your naked body?”
“Only my breasts.”
His eyes pinch shut, and when they open again, his words drip utter heart-fracturing agony when he asks, “Did he see your face when you came?”
“Landon, don’t—”
“Tell me!” he grits through his teeth, shaking my shoulders in his death grip.
My eyes fall shut, pushing out more tears, and I can’t bear to look at him when I tell him the truth. “Yes.”
“That was mine!” He slams my body against the wall before letting go of me as if I’m poisonous. Maybe I am. “I fucking hate you!”
“No,” I wail. “You’re mad, but you don’t hate me.”
He leans forward, getting in my face, and spews his words, “Fuck you, whore!”
And no sooner is he walking away from me and into the closet. When I see him pull out a suitcase, I panic.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m leaving. I can’t even fucking look at you right now.”
“Don’t leave. Please. We can talk, I can explain—”
“I don’t want to hear your voice,” he says as he starts opening and closing drawers, filling the luggage with his belongings. “I should’ve known this would happen. You’re always living in fucking la-la land with those fucking books you read and write. You’re so fucking pathetic. All you authors do is sit around and write your fucking porn that you get off to. It’s always bothered me, but you were happy and successful, so I kept my mouth shut. But you go to these book signings with all those cover models and loser housewives wetting their panties over them. It’s a fucking joke! You’re a fucking joke, you know that?” I sit on the edge of the bed and watch him as he yells his hate at me. I can’t even fight him on his words because I deserve anything he wants to say to me at this point. I’ve broken him. I’ve broken the one man who trusted me not to break him. “The life you live in as an author is nothing but lies. The men you create, the men you read, it’s all bullshit. I never understood your need for it when you have me. I guess I was never good enough, was I?”
“You are. It had nothing to do with you.”
“All you authors are just self-centered pieces of shit that hold no value on the true relationships you have, so you create your versions of perfection that no man can ever live up to. It’s embarrassing that my friends can see on your social media these signings you go to with half-naked men. It’s disgusting and so fucking desperate.” He throws his words at me, hoping each of them stabs me in my heart. “Turn the tables,” he continues. “How would you feel if I went to a work convention and there were half-naked women in bikinis flaunting around? They have nothing to do with my job as a chef, just like those guys have nothing to do with your job as a writer. It’s just a cheap ploy those women use to sell books, and it’s so futile. This whole world of yours is just a pitiful cry for attention.”
“I made a huge mistake, Landon. I’m so sorry, but I ended it—”
“Then why were you texting him in our driveway just now? I watched them pop up on your computer while I was watching you through the window!”
“I swear to you, it’s over. Please. Don’t leave.”
He goes into the bathroom, grabs his toiletries, and tosses them into the bag before zipping it up.
“I always told you that if you ever cheated on me that I would divorce you.”
“No!” I cry, falling to my knees at his feet. “I never met him, I swear. I love you! You can’t leave me. You can’t walk out on the girls!”
“Don’t you dare throw my daughters in my face. You made this choice when you spread your legs for that fucker, so why don’t you shove your face in your cum-covered sheets and cry your fake ass to sleep.”
My chest heaves as I struggle to breathe through my sobs. I can’t move while I watch my love walk out on me.
“You want to know the sad part?” he says before he leaves. “You didn’t even care enough about me to say goodbye before you found someone else.”
The slamming of the door obliterates every one of my hopes and dreams. Everything I know is ripped away, and all I can do is lie on the floor and cry through the torturous agony I brought upon myself, along with the realization that I just royally destroyed my marriage—my whole life.
My husband just left me.
What have I done?
Time is a villain—my villain. Every second passes by painfully, granting me no reprieve as they multiply into minutes—hours—days. I beg and beg through text because he refuses to ca
ll me.
Me: I’m so sorry.
No response.
Me: Please, come home.
No response.
Me: I swear I’ll love you harder—better.
No response.
Me: I never meant to hurt you. You’re every part of me and I can’t lose you.
No response.
There’s no saving myself in this; he holds the power; he holds the future of us.
The waiting is the worst.
I cry and cry and then hold myself together as best as I can when the girls are around, fighting back the burning heartache that scorches every ventricle—every nerve ending, only to break down in heaving sobs the moment I’m alone again.
I’ve never known a pain like this. I never knew such pain existed, but it does, and I did it to myself. You would think a torture like this would come with a warning, instead it disguised itself and lurked in the stygian corners, waiting for its chance to attack.
It’s been six days since Landon left me. He refuses to tell me where he’s staying, refuses to hear my voice, refuses to come home. I told the girls he had to go away unexpectedly for business, and they accepted the lie without question. It kills me to think of what their reaction would be if they knew the truth. They’d hate me for tearing up this family—a family that had no reason for being torn apart.
Landon says I cheated. He uses the word “affair.” Outwardly I own it, but internally, what I did doesn’t feel like an affair. Did I lie? Yes. Did I do something I wasn’t supposed to do? Yes. Did I have an affair? I don’t know.
I wish he would just come home. Call me. Let me know if I ruined us or if we have a chance. He’s only sent one text since he left: I don’t know if I can ever trust you again.
And then there’s Alec. He emailed me yesterday, the first communication since my world crumbled beneath me. I didn’t respond, but a part of me wanted to—still wants to.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Headlights pierce through the windows when Brooke pulls into the driveway. She’s been the sturdy rope I cling to. She calls me every morning, encouraging me to get out of bed, to shower, to eat, but I can’t because every movement reminds me that I’m alone, and that it’s all my fault.
“You look like shit,” she says gently with a smile, and I wonder if I’ll ever smile again.
Before I can speak, my eyes well up and tears spill over. Brooke hugs me, and the touch punctures the wound within.
“I’m such an idiot,” I weep.
“Stop.” Her voice is scolding. We walk into my bedroom so we don’t wake the girls, and when we take a seat on the bed, she reminds me, as she does every day, “You’re not an idiot. You made a bad choice, but that doesn’t make you a bad person.”
“What I did was horrible and I—”
“You’re right. It was. But you’re a good person. We all make stupid, horrible choices, but that doesn’t make us horrible people.”
“I don’t think he’s coming back, Brooke.”
She crosses her legs in front of her, knee to knee with me. “He’s not going to leave you.”
“You don’t know that,” I rebut. “He’s so mad. He hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you. He’s mad. You gotta give him time to calm down. But I don’t see him walking away from his kids. You talked to some guy for a week. A week. You never met him, never touched him. This could be much worse.”
We have this same conversation every day: me scared he won’t come back, Brooke saying whatever she can to give me hope.
“I need to ask you something though,” she adds, her eyes pinned to mine, marking her seriousness. “And I want you to be honest with yourself.”
I nod.
“We all move through our actions for a reason. I don’t believe they can be deduced to happenstance. I know that you got swept away and everything spun out of control before you knew it, but I want you to think about the why. Why did it happen? Why didn’t you feel it was wrong? Why was it so easy for you to get lost?”
I drop my head as guilt festers.
“I know you feel like shit, but I wouldn’t be a good friend if I didn’t ask. I think it’s something you should spend some time reflecting on.”
“What are you trying to say?”
She pauses, takes hold of my hands, and responds, “Maybe you were looking for a way out.”
“Out of my marriage? I love my family.”
“You’re feeling distraught and scared. The thought of your marriage ending, no matter what the reason, is devastating. But if you can step away from those emotions, then maybe you can dissect why this happened.”
Buried feelings do have a way of manifesting themselves through our actions; I’m smart enough to know that, but surely I would be aware if I wanted out of my marriage. Surely I would be aware if I was falling out of love with my love. Surely I would know all this, right?
“Tell me honestly, what was it that attracted you to Alec?” Brooke questions.
“I don’t know . . . everything, I guess.”
“Be specific.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I suggest. “Maybe I was so drawn to him because my tastes have changed. That can happen, right? I mean, people can change. Maybe I changed and didn’t know it because I’m in my comfort zone with Landon. He’s my life, and maybe I lost sight that there’s life beyond our own together.” I surprise myself as I talk, saying things I never thought I’d say, because I never knew they were even there. “My life has become routine and predictable. I married Landon in my twenties. I was so young to be making such a huge life choice. And now I’m older and . . .” More tears slip out as I feel the truth crawling her way out of me. And I’m scared. I’m so scared to let her free because what if truth takes away all the years I’ve spent building this life for myself.
“We all change, but the question is, have you and Landon been changing together?”
I shake my head, my gut ripping itself into shreds. “No.” Realization hits hard. “I do my job, and he does his. I don’t really include him in my writing world, but I know I’ve changed because of it. I spent so many years being a wife and a mom, but my success has taken me away from that. I’m more confident. I’m more independent.”
“You’ve always clung to Landon for guidance and stability,” she says.
“I don’t feel like that anymore.”
“Maybe it was Alec’s freedom that drew you in. He’s single with nothing tying him down.”
I’ve always been tied down. I met Landon at such a young age, settled down, and made a family with him. I never had what Alec has—ultimate freedom to do and be whomever and whatever he wants. It’s always been defined for me—wife and mother. Those are my two roles. But what if there’s more for me out there? What if what makes me happy has changed through the years? And what if . . . what if Landon can’t be what I’m wanting him to be?
“I’m not trying to put any ideas into your head,” she tells me. “I just think it’s time for you to start questioning this situation you’re in right now. If you can identify the issue, then maybe you and Landon have a better shot at working this out, or maybe not. I don’t know. But I love you and I love Landon. I will always stand for your marriage and support that, but no matter what happens, I have your back.”
After Brooke left last night, I couldn’t sleep. I spent the whole night questioning myself, Landon, our marriage. Brooke was right. There’s a reason why all this is happening. Perhaps this newfound career of mine has birthed a need for freedom within me. A freedom I never had the opportunity to indulge in when I was younger because I was always tied down.
As I was getting the girls ready for school this morning, I thought about what my life would look like as a single mother of two. I went through the motions as if I were that woman.
It’s not to say that I don’t love my life—I do. I love my little girls more than anything, and the thought of them not having their father in their lives every single day tears me apa
rt. It kills me. They don’t deserve that, and Landon doesn’t deserve that. But the urge to seek self-gratification is powerful.
Ever since I got back from dropping Emily and Jill off at school, I’ve been staring at my phone.
Contemplating.
Second-guessing.
Fantasizing about what my life could be.
“Victoria,” he says after I dial his number. His voice rich with concern. “Are you okay?”
“No.”
He releases a sigh, and I immediately cry.
“My husband left me. He knows about you. He found our texts and read them all.”
“I figured,” he says. “He called me the other night.”
“What?” I panic.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything when I answered and heard a man’s voice. I assumed it was him.”
“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I would never tell that man anything about us. I’m not some twenty-year-old, trying to prove something, so I don’t want you worrying about that.”
Silence spans between us as my tears continue to fall, but I don’t know if they’re falling for Alec or for Landon, and that alone makes me feel like the biggest piece of shit alive.
“I’ve missed you,” he finally says.
“I’m so sorry I lied to you.”
“Tell me why you’re calling me.”
Leaning back on the couch, I run my hand through my hair, and close my eyes. “I don’t know. I couldn’t stop thinking about you, but at the same time, I’m so confused.”
“Do you love your husband?”
“I thought I did, but maybe not if I’m sitting here thinking about you.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Eight years.”
“Don’t cry,” he whispers, and I feel like a fool. “Look, I’m no expert or anything, but I do know that I’ve come to like you and care about you. With that said, I think what you’re going through is common. I think most marriages go through these things.”
“I just don’t know what to do because I still want to talk to you.”
