Please

by Hazel Hughes

  Steve continued to look at her, his eyes burning with a strong emotion that Elizabeth couldn’t place. Anger? Hatred?

  When he spoke, Steve’s voice was quiet. He looked down at his hands. “Yeah. I did blame you, at first. I said to myself, ‘She doesn’t appreciate me. She continually rejects me. She constantly criticizes me. We never have sex. And we can’t have a goddamn conversation without it turning into a fight.’”

  “Now wait a minute ...” Elizabeth started.

  “See!” Steve said, raising his voice, his eyes burning into her, accusingly. “You’re actually going to start arguing with me about the fact that we always fight.”

  Elizabeth was silent. He was right.

  Steve held her in his gaze. His eyes started filling with tears again. “But that doesn’t make it right. That doesn’t justify what I did.” He squeezed his eyes tightly, as if to swallow the tears.

  Elizabeth felt an icy hand grab her guts. “Wait. What?”

  Steve opened his eyes and Elizabeth thought she could identify the emotion there now. Guilt, with an ample serving of shame. Steve’s voice was flat when he spoke, as if there was no way to imbue what he had to say with the emotion it deserved.

  “I slept with Carmen.”

  *

  “Steve slept with Carmen?” Emily asked, her mouth hanging open, the glass of chilled Chenin Blanc in her hand, forgotten.

  Elizabeth reached across the rattan coffee table and took it from her, placing it down carefully on the coaster. It was a perfect May afternoon and they were in Nina’s chintz and wicker filled sun-porch. A gentle breeze wafted over them, filling the cozy space with the smell of cut grass and the sun-warmed laundry drying on the clothesline in the back yard. Generally, the three friends met the first Friday evening of every month, just the three of them, but Elizabeth had called an emergency meeting.

  “Did I miss something?” Nina asked, bustling in with a platter of fragrant pastries. Elizabeth detected a liquorice-rich whiff of basil and some pungent cheese.

  “Steve slept with Carmen,” Emily said, her voice flat, her eyes like bowling balls.

  “What?” Nina gasped, putting the platter down, without looking, almost on top of Emily’s glass. “That woman from Arizona? The one with the horrible hair like Amy Winehouse?”

  Elizabeth and Emily nodded simultaneously. Carmen was a sales rep at Dean Industry and Agriculture who had been transferred from the main branch in Tucson to Fairfield two years ago. The unmarried twenty-something had also been a regular at the friends’ Zumba classes, shaking her booty arhythmically in a neon pink thong leotard and black Lycra tights. Elizabeth had even had her over to the house a few times, feeling sorry for a single woman in a town full of young families and retirees. At about the time of Steve’s promotion, she had been called back to Tucson. Elizabeth remembered talking with her about it while they waited for class to start.

  “Thank God!” Carmen had said, her hands clasped theatrically over her heart. “I can have a social life again. Ladies’ night at Tequila José’s here I come! Though there are definitely some things about Fairfield I’m going to miss. I looove working with Steve, for one.”

  Elizabeth hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. Everybody liked working with Steve. He was a good manager, she knew. But in view of recent developments, she saw that exchange in a different light.

  “I don’t believe it!” Nina sat down heavily on the settee beside Elizabeth. “Steve? And that, that woman?” She spat the word out like it was a rancid quiche.

  “I know,” Emily concurred, her voice flat and toneless.

  Both women had the glazed eyes and blank faces commonly associated with victims of shock. Elizabeth shrugged and picked up one of the pastries and bit into it, sighing with pleasure. The buttery crust oozed a filling of cheese and herbs into her mouth. Of course, she understood how her friends felt. She had been the same way when Steve told her about Carmen. Before he’d confessed, she could as easily imagine Steve dancing for the Bolshoi ballet as she could see him having an affair. But she’d had a few days to process her emotions.

  “The car ride home from Cedar Rapids was unreal,” she said, “like I was having an out of body experience.”

  “Steve.” Emily picked up her glass and swirled her wine, watching the tiny whirlpool. “Of all the men, I never would have suspected him. I mean, he’s so ... straight. A good old Midwestern boy.”

  “Weeeelll,” Nina stretched out the word as she poured herself a glass of wine. “Perhaps he was feeling neglected, no?” She arched an eyebrow at Elizabeth. “I mean, you told us that you did not have sex for months? If this happened with Marc and me? Pff!” She made a sound of disbelief. “No. I cannot imagine. He would drag me by my hair like a caveman. Of course we women need sex. But men. They need sex. Like air.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Yeah, well it was a bit more than just sex. Steve said he felt like I didn’t appreciate him. Like I didn’t care about him. Carmen laughed at his jokes, complimented his clothes, his hair. Made him feel like he was someone. So, when he was in Tucson on business, the sales team went out for drinks. She came on to him. Bam.” She smacked her hands together.

  Nina nodded, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Yes, like with you and Sebastian. He made you feel like a desirable woman again. And this Carmen, she made Stevefeel like a man.”

  “Wow.” Emily was still staring at her, mesmerized. “Your life is like an episode of Desperate Housewives. You and Sebastian. Steve and Carmen.”

  Sebastian. Just hearing the name made Elizabeth’s stomach twist.

  “So it was only one time?” Nina asked.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” Elizabeth reached for another pastry.

  “You didn’t ask,” Emily stated flatly. “You were trapped in a car with him for an hour and you didn’t ask. I would have wanted to know details. When did it start? How many times did they do it? Did they do it in my bed? Was she better than me?” Emily fired the questions one after another, growing more animated with each one.

  Elizabeth shrugged. She didn’t want to know.

  The off-handed gesture seemed to make something snap in Emily.

  “Man!” She threw one hand up in the air in a gesture of angry incomprehension and looked at Elizabeth, her eyes filled with fire. “What is wrong with you people? I seem to remember your marriage vows being the same as mine. Or were yours ‘Until I get bored and lonely’ instead of ‘Until death us do part’?”

  Elizabeth stared at her friend. She was right, but ...

  Nina put a gentle hand on Emily’s arm. “Emily. Of course you are upset. But this is not about you, hm? This is about Elizabeth. She is our friend, remember?” She said this with an impish smile. “Let us support her. Listen to her.”

  Emily crossed her arms over her chest and looked out into Nina’s back yard. “Sorry,” she said, grudgingly.

  Nina turned to Elizabeth, her eyes full of sympathy. “Tell us, everything, Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth did. She back-tracked to her London trip, to the ugly scene at the Savoy. She left out the grisly details but made it clear that she and Sebastian were finished. Then she described the car ride home from the airport.

  “After Steve told me, I asked him three questions. I said, ‘Do you love her?’ He said, ‘No.’ I said, ‘Is it over?’ He said, ‘Yes.’ I said, ‘Do you still want to be with me?’ He said, ‘Yes. I think so. Of course, but ...’ And I said, ‘But some things have to change. Agreed?’ He just nodded. Then he started the car and we drove home. We didn’t talk much about what needed to change and how to change it. But I guess we’ll start seeing a marriage counselor. I think at the time, I was just too emotionally drained and physically exhausted to get into it with him. And he seemed to be in shock that I wasn’t angry.”

  Emily narrowed her eyes. “So you didn’t tell him. About Sebastian.”

  Elizabeth shook her head.

  Nina made a tsking sound, looking at Emily as if she were
foolish for even thinking of it. “Why she would do that?” she asked, rhetorically.

  “Uh, maybe it would be honest,” Emily said. “Maybe it would make Steve feel like less of a lying, cheating dirt-bag if he knew his wife was giving it away too.”

  “No. I disagree completely.” Nina sat up straighter with the conviction of her belief. “It would destroy his faith in their marriage. No man wants to know that his wife has had sex with another man. Ever.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Exactly. And I won’t turn into one of those women who holds a man’s affair over his head in perpetuity, using it against him whenever she gets the chance.”

  Emily stared hard at Elizabeth. When she spoke, her voice was soft. “But it’s dishonest. How can you go on with this huge black secret in your heart? And what happens if it gets out?”

  Elizabeth had considered the possibility of Steve finding out, and rejected it. Sebastian would never tell him. That would be like admitting he had lost, something Sebastian could never do. And as for Susan and Naomi, well, Elizabeth was just a bit player in their epic dramas, forgotten about once she exited stage right. That left Emily and Nina.

  “The only way it could get out,” Elizabeth put air quotes around the words, “would be if one of you said something. And I know you would never do that.” She glanced from Emily to Nina before reaching for another pastry.

  “Of course not!” Nina spat, as if even the contemplation of the thought was beneath contempt.

  Emily nibbled her lower lip, her eyes fixed on Elizabeth like laser beams. Elizabeth bit into the rich pastry and looked back at her, unconcerned.

  “Damn it!” Emily exhaled the expletive sharply, throwing up her hands. “You’re right.” She picked up a pastry, biting into it savagely. “These past few weeks have been hell,” she mumbled, her mouth full. “Trying to avoid you. Inventing reasons why Keenan couldn’t come over. And I think I’m going into board game withdrawal.” She looked at Nina, who was grinning. “These are radical, by the way.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “They are. Totally rad, dude. Gnarly.”

  Chapter 14

  Elizabeth put the mail down on the bench near the front door and stepped out of her boots, brushing the snow off her shoulders before hanging her puffer coat up on its hook. It was a week before Thanksgiving and they’d had snow already, unusual for southern Iowa. The precariously leaning snowman the kids had made in the front yard the week before was beginning to lose its form beneath the thick layer of snow that had fallen during the night. It was still coming down, a gentle drift of soft lacy flakes from the gray sky above. Fortunately, it hadn’t been severe enough for the schools to close and Elizabeth could work. With Cullen Zweibeker’s upcoming film added to her resume, Abbie hadn’t had any difficulty finding a publisher for her second novel. In fact, there had been a bidding war, and Elizabeth had come away with an exponentially larger advance for Hot Damn than she had for Habibi Baby.

  She picked up the pile of slightly damp envelopes and glanced through them as she walked through the living room to the kitchen where the recycling bins were. A credit card bill, a Hy-Vee flier, a postcard from her mother in Florida where she was visiting a friend. Elizabeth looked at the picture of a droopy-eyed bulldog stretched out on a towel on the beach, a fruity umbrella drink beside it. The caption read, “Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?” Elizabeth flipped it over and read, “It all depends on the trick. Laguna Beach, Florida.” Her mother hadn’t bothered to write anything other than, “Don’t forget to pick me up on Tuesday!”

  Elizabeth sighed. Connie McCanna was still living with them, but they’d managed to work out most of the bugs. Installing her in the newly renovated basement granny-flat had helped immensely, as did shipping her off on regular holidays.

  Elizabeth stuck the postcard to the fridge with a magnet, glancing at the calendar as she did. She and Steve had needed to cancel their weekly appointment with Frieda, their marriage counselor, but she’d given them a homework assignment to make up for it. She and Steve were supposed to write a letter of gratitude to each other.

  Though Elizabeth had groaned inwardly when Frieda, placid and nurturing, her face almost the same shade of gray-brown as her lank hair, had assigned the letter, when she actually sat down to write it, she found herself surprisingly absorbed. She ended up writing five pages that she’d ruthlessly edited down to two, surprised by how much she did have to be grateful for in Steve. It was amazing how everything was perspective, Elizabeth mused, scanning the ads in the Hy-Vee flier before dumping it in the recycle bin. If she had been asked to do the same assignment a year ago, it would have been an entirely different – and substantially shorter – letter.

  They had made some changes since Steve confessed his affair. Frieda was one of them, of course, and as much as they liked to joke about her bad hair and wardrobe of hand-knit sweaters and Birkenstocks and her pop-psychology catch phrases, they both admitted that she had helped them pinpoint and correct negative patterns of behavior. Elizabeth and Steve were actually learning to communicate in a loving and supportive manner, even when they were stressed. In fact, working with Frieda had improved all of Elizabeth’s relationships, from Keenan’s teacher to her own mother.

  Frieda had also helped them find and, where possible, limit unnecessary stresses from their lives. After much deliberation, Steve had decided to give up his job at Dean, working remotely from his office in the garden shed for a company in Seattle instead. Though he’d taken a significant pay cut, he had more time to spend with the kids, and he and Elizabeth had even started training for a marathon together. Elizabeth looked forward to their early-morning runs almost as much as she anticipated their biweekly dates.

  They had reinstated date night, with a twist. Twice a month, they would spend the night at a Super 8 or B&B within an hour’s drive of home. They took turns coming up with the evening’s entertainment. The week before Steve had made reservations at Iowa City’s most exclusive restaurant, but they’d only stayed for drinks and appetizers after Elizabeth made it clear that she wasn’t wearing any panties under her ladylike LBD and pearls.

  Elizabeth sighed happily, and flipped through the rest of the mail. Electric bill. Water bill. Something from her publisher. She tore the brown envelope and pulled out a check. Her first ever royalties check. It was for one-hundred and twenty seven dollars and fifty cents.

  The mail sorted, she was about to make another cup of coffee and head up to her office when the doorbell rang. Elizabeth opened the door to find a snow-dusted young man in a brown UPS uniform.

  “Hi?” she said, the intonation rising interrogatively. She hadn’t ordered anything that she could recall.

  “Morning ma’am,” he said, handing her a flat cardboard envelope. “Can you sign here, please?”

  “Sure,” she said, taking the envelope and signing.

  “Thanks, ma’am,” he said, hurrying back to the warmth of his van.

  She closed the door and ripped open the envelope. Inside was another envelope, this one thick, glossy and black with her name written on it in nearly illegible silver script. Inside was a card and two tickets. It was her invitation to the premier of Habibi Baby. Elizabeth ran her finger along the edge of the slick card, contemplating it. “Ouch,” she said, putting her finger in her mouth. Paper cut.

  She decisively stuffed the invitation and the tickets back into the envelope and tossed it into the recycling bin with the Hy-Vee flier.

  Elizabeth scooped up the rest of the mail and started up the stairs to her office, but she hadn’t gone more than three steps before she turned around and retraced her steps. Reaching into the recycling bin, she retrieved the black envelope, adding it to the pile of bills in her hand.

  In her office, she casually dumped the bills on her desk and stood in front of the bookshelves beside it. She ran her fingers along the spines and, finding the book she wanted, slipped it off the shelf. Elizabeth opened her well-worn copy of Madame Bovary and placed the glossy invit
ation inside, on top of two notes written on hotel stationery and a computer print-out of a rippled male torso. The ink had faded slightly, but she could still make out the bite mark on the right shoulder.

  HAZEL HUGHES is an erotic romance writer and urban nomad. She writes from wherever there is Wi-Fi, strong coffee and funky beats. You can find out more about Hazel and read more of her work at hazelhughesromance.wordpress.com

  Table of Contents

  PLEASECopyright: Hazel HughesPublished: March 2014

  AKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7“

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12“

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  HAZEL HUGHES