by Shayne Ford
“No, no. I need a cab,” I rush to clarify.
The doorman grins charmingly.
“No need to worry, Miss. The car was waiting for you.”
“Was it?”
He nods.
I swallow my next question and start walking only to halt a couple of steps later.
I turn to the man who accompanies me.
“The car. Is it...?”
I hesitate, unsure whether dropping his name would benefit me in any way or not.
“It’s Mr. Rockford’s car and his driver. He instructed us to keep an eye out for you.”
“Hmm... He did?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He holds the car door open for me as I slide into a small sample of Sebastien’s universe. A scent of leather mixed with his cologne greets me as I slide onto the bench.
The partition wall goes up before I have the chance to communicate the address to the driver. Something tells me that I don’t need to, the same voice inside my head suggesting that this is none other than the car that had been following me for the last few months. I lean back against the bench, my eyes flying to the window.
Absently, I let my gaze sweep the images parading in front of my eyes. Streets, lights, window stores. People walking in and out the restaurants and clubs. More people. Man and women.
A man who looks like Allan.
Allan?
My head flicks, out of reflex if nothing else, but not fast enough, the car taking a turn that very moment, vanishing around a corner.
Allan...
My mind goes blank, so I let go of that image.
As the adrenaline tapers off, and my pulse calms down, a different thought surfaces, filling me with remorse.
I sink into the stranger’s coat, wracked with guilt.
The lights are on. I can see them from afar.
That’s strange.
Is he back home?
I fish out my phone, slide my finger across the screen and sift through my messages, looking for Allan’s texts.
My eyes widen in surprise.
He had to leave the party for a... work assignment?
As it turns out, he was calling me repeatedly to tell me that he needed to attend a meeting with their legal team in a pressing matter.
Was it him then?
The man who looked like him... Baffled, I slowly shake my head.
“Was it?” I mutter to myself, staring vacantly at the window.
My mind does loops, looking for an answer.
“The car...” I murmur.
The memory brings back a snippet of that image.
It didn’t look like a regular car.
“What color was it…?”
My lips move as my mind digs deep into my memory.
Slowly, my ride pulls to a stop.
“Silver... The car was silver,” I mutter as if I wake from a dream, just as the driver climbs out.
He rounds the limo and opens the door for me. I thank him, and careful not to lose my damaged shoe, I rush up the stairs.
I freeze in front of the door as the limo drives away.
Why are the lights on then?
I slide the key in and unlock the door.
From the doorway, I surveil the hallway. Nothing suspicious catches my eye. I kick off my shoes and enter my office.
The first thing I see turns me into stone.
A box with scarlet and goldenrod camellias sits on my desk.
“Is he crazy?”
Not wasting a moment, I unwrap them.
I set the flowers in a vase before I run upstairs, my heart beating in my throat. In one trash bag, I toss my dress, my panties, my stockings and my shoes. I also slip in the borrowed coat. I tied the trash bag and leave it next to the bathroom door, rushing to take a shower.
Minutes later, I turn the water off, wrap a towel around me and walk into a pair of slippers. I drag the garbage bag to the first floor and toss it into the trash bin outside before I go straight to the closet. I find a set of sweatpants and quickly slip them on.
I feel a shred of relief. But not for long. A thought spears through my head, prompting me to spin around and dash to the mirror.
There’s that mark on my lip. A dab of makeup goes right on it, concealing it.
Tense, I go to the living room and turn on the TV. I’m so nervous I can’t sleep, so I bring my blanket and my pillow from my office and make myself comfortable in front of the TV.
My eyes go quickly blank as my mind starts playing bits and pieces of the last twenty-four hours.
It’s early morning when I fall asleep and it’s close to noon when I wake up. It’s not good rest either. I gasp as I pull out of my sleep and jerk upright as if I’m chased by something horrific.
Soft, warm light streams through the windows. I shield my eyes and push up to my feet. My head hurts. My body aches too.
I expect to smell the aroma of fresh coffee and toasted bagels since it’s Saturday morning. And then I remember.
Allan. He’s not home yet?
I grab my phone from the table and check the screen. No calls, no messages.
A hole forms in my stomach, a bad feeling creeping up on me.
Something happened.
And then it dawns on me.
Something happened... But not now. And not last night.
My eyes pull wide as I realize that for the first time since it all started I can see it.
I gasp in surprise.
How could I be so blind?
I’m trembling. And shocked.
Why didn’t I see it?
It’s not an ordinary thing. And it can’t be fixed.
I lean against a table as I grapple with the revelation.
For months, I couldn’t see it, despite being right there in front of my very eyes.
It was happening to us. Steadily. Predictably. So trite and common.
I couldn’t see it then, but I can see it now.
All the dots have gotten connected by the invisible thread that I was looking for, now pushing a different reality in front of my eyes.
The shift was barely visible, the change unnoticeable, but as the last pieces of the puzzle fall into their place, it all reveals itself.
This has been going on for some time. While I was busy driving myself crazy, and wrestling with my angst something else interfered in our lives. It was insidious at first, planting a seed of disruption here, another one there. A moment of silence here, another one there. Little betrayals. Distance, coldness, and brewing blame.
A lot of guilt spilled around.
He strung me along, from time to time, tossing me a ball of yarn to get busy with. Guilt, self-doubt, maternity.
He drove me crazy in his own gentle, quiet way. Unlike Sebastien who drives me crazy in his own volcanic way.
What is it with these men?
What is it with me?
Nothing is what it seems.
Sebastien’s words flow through me, taking a jab at me and laughing in my face. What was his message for me really? Other than the one revealed to me today. What was it?
How come he knew all of that while I didn’t?
I sweep an empty gaze over the windows.
Is this the end?
What is it?
Limp, I push off the edge of the table and drag my feet to the kitchen, where I fall into a chair no longer waiting to smell the aroma of fresh coffee.
14
TESS
A text message arrives early afternoon. I didn’t expect it, to be honest. I thought he’d give me another excuse and leave on another business trips.
It would’ve fit the late pattern.
He enters our home around four. Stubble shadows his jawline, dark shadows sitting below his eyes.
He looks exhausted.
“How was it?” I ask.
He smiles, his eyes slipping away from me, a bit disconnected.
“Grueling,” he says. “We finished around noon. I only had a few hours of sleep.”
; “Hungry?”
He clicks his tongue.
“I had lunch,” he says. “I’ll take a shower, and then I go to bed,” he adds, already moving toward the stairs.
He starts climbing the steps when he stops and slightly turns, his hand clutching the balustrade.
“I’ll be away next week. We have to finish that project in Seattle. Are you going to be okay?”
I offer him a smile.
“Of course. Don’t worry about me.”
“Good,” he mutters.
With that, he vanishes up the stairs.
The moment I hear the water running, I follow him upstairs. I enter the bedroom and look for his clothes. His jacket sits on a chair. I feel it up, searching for his phone. I find it in his pocket. Swiftly, I try a few password combinations. None of them work.
The water stops running, and I have no other choice but to slide it back into his jacket.
Smoothly, I remove myself from the room and go downstairs.
An hour later, I start working. I find it difficult to focus as my mind spins scenarios in the background.
There must be a way to find out. I interrupt my work and log in to our phone company website to retrieve the calls data for the past month.
First, I look at the record of the last night. I register our calls, and then I notice the conversation he has had on that terrace at the party. Its duration strikes me. It was twenty-eight minutes long.
He called the same number a couple of times before his phone went quiet for good. The next record shows the time stamp of the text message he sent to me a few hours back.
I sift through the rest of the month statement, looking for calls to that number. They show up consistently. Long calls, frequently going over thirty minutes. They follow a specific pattern. They're either placed in the morning when he goes to work or in the evening when he comes home. They become more frequent when he travels for business, but there are instances when he is away, and they stop completely.
“Oh, my God... He meets with her on his business trips,” I mutter to myself.
I pick up my phone, tempted to call that number, but I quickly change my mind and run another search. For a fee, I retrieve the person’s name.
It’s a dead end if I’ve ever seen one, and that does nothing but fuel my suspicion. I doubt that my husband spends so much time on the phone with Angelina Roscoe, a seventy-five year old lady whose address is registered in FL.
My phone starts to ring, startling me.
“Shit...”
My heart convulses in my chest.
“Hi, Anna,” I say, trying to sound calm and collected.
“Hey. Is everything okay? Allan called me last night. He wanted you to know that he had an emergency. He couldn’t reach you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Everything was fine. Are you home?”
“Mmm-hmm. Do you want to come by? I baked something good.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes. Danny’s at his parent’s house.”
“Okay. Give me a few minutes.”
I hang up the phone and push out of my chair.
Half an hour later I walk into her place.
“It smells delicious,” I say as I peel off my jacket.
“Dark chocolate scones with orange glaze,” she says, smiling.
She shows me to the kitchen, where I occupy my favorite seat at the table.
“The weather is gorgeous,” she says as we both glance out the window.
“Yes, it is,” I murmur, my gaze lingering on the street.
The sidewalks are washed with sunlight, the snow melting quickly.
“I am so ready for spring,” she says, setting a plate full of scones on the table.
“What would you like to drink? Coffee? Tea?”
“Coffee, please.”
A few minutes pass before she finally takes a seat across from me. She slides the cup of coffee toward me and sets her tea in front of her.
“How was the party?” she asks as I bring a scone to my mouth and take a bite.
“It was nice,” I say, chewing slowly.
The aroma of orange and dark chocolate fills my mouth.
She picks one scone herself.
“They are delicious,” I say before I set it down on a plate and take a sip of coffee.
“Why was Allan so stressed out last night?” she asks, running a napkin over the corner of his mouth.
“Was he?” I mutter, lifting an eyebrow.
She nods.
“He wanted to make sure that I got the message, I suppose,” I say, irony tinging my voice.
“Where were you anyway?”
“I was there.”
I set the cup of coffee down, and pause for a moment, gathering my thoughts before I speak again.
“Listen,” I say with a different voice.
She sets her cup of tea on the table as well.
“Allan is having an affair.”
Her eyebrows lift, her eyes widening in surprise as her hand goes to her mouth.
“Oh, my God. Are you serious?”
I tilt my chin down in response.
“Actually... We both have,” I add, sadness threading through my voice.
“What??”
“Yes,” I say, embarrassed. “I mean... Technically, I haven’t slept with him since I’ve been it with the other man, but the cold fact remains the same.”
Her hand slides off her face.
“What man...?”
I say nothing.
I only look at her.
“No way.”
“Oh, yes. That’s where I was last night.”
I try to smile but fail.
“Allan left the party last night and came back this afternoon.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Nope.”
“What makes you think he’s seeing another woman?”
I lean back in my chair.
“Everything… It’s been going on for a few months. There were clues, but I couldn’t see them. Or perhaps I did notice them, but it was too hard to believe. I couldn’t admit it to myself.”
I pause again.
“I think he fell for that woman,” I say after a moment.
She searches my eyes.
“Anyway. I’m in no way better than him. I did the same thing.”
“Did you?”
She tosses me a questioning look.
“Yes, I think so. It doesn’t matter that we haven’t slept with each other in a while. I fell for the other man despite the fact that deep down in my heart, I was convinced that I had a great husband. That makes me a horrible person.”
“Perhaps you wanted to believe that he was good.”
I muse over her words for a few moments.
“Yeah... Perhaps.”
A sensation of coldness rolls over my skin.
It’s one of those dreams in which I’m perfectly aware that I’m dreaming, and yet I can’t make myself jolt out of it. The images are not that as clear as I’d like them to be but they’re suggestive enough to grab my attention. Perhaps because the way they make me feel.
A man presses his chest into my back. He’s clothed. My skin is bare. I relish his hands, his lips and his smooth touch as he caresses me.
I wrestle with the thought, and grapple with regret before my focus shifts as a different image flashes in front of my eyes.
A man and a woman make love in front of me in a different room. I can’t explain why I can see them, but I do.
The image is slightly blurred, their voices muted as their moves and kisses follow a natural flow. A shadow veils their faces.
“Do you like what you see?” the man behind me mutters in my ear.
I know this voice. I know it well.
I want him to speak to me again.
He pauses and starts kissing my neck. The touch... The smell. He feels familiar and yet, I cannot turn around to see him.
Not having another choice, I peer at the couple, no longer captivated by t
hem, but rather the details of the room they’re in.
A large chandelier catches my eye as well as the soft lighting. A sofa sprawls in the background and art deco drapes hang at the windows.
Why does this place feel so familiar?
The woman moans.
I wish I could see her face. A curtain of hair conceals it. The colors drain from the image leaving everything black and white. The man leans back against that sofa, sliding his legs open and stretching his arms on top of the couch.
My mind stays focused on his image, trying to arrange the pieces of the puzzle, making them fit. Some do, while others don’t. A black shadow veils his face and torso. His hand slides up the woman’s neck, brushing a mane of dark hair.
A speck of light flickers on his finger, a doomsday feeling pouring into me. And then it all gets pulled away from me. The couple. The man holding me in his arms, the room in front of me.
Everything gets dark and silent before the image of a laughing face pops in front me. I gasp and scream, but no sound comes from my mouth. I writhe and kick my legs, fighting to escape the woman. The more I oppose her, the less air I draw in my lungs. I feel as if an iron cuff locks around my neck.
I’m suffocating.
My body jerks as fingers grab my arm.
I hear Rebecca’s voice.
“Miss Sandoval? Wake up, please. Wake up.”
I jerk upright, kicking my laptop to the floor. I blink fast several times.
“What happened?” I ask, confused.
The woman looks at me, her face washed with concern.
“You must’ve had a horrible dream. Are you okay?”
I run a shaky hand through my damp hair. Beads of sweat run down my neck.
“Yeah... I think I am,” I say, pulling the robe on me.
“What time it is?”
“Ten. You said that I could come today instead of Wednesday.”
“Yes, of course,” I say with a normal voice.
She straightens, a small smile sprouting on her lips.
Her hands go to her chest.
“You really scared me,” she says.
“Don’t worry. I’m fine,” I mutter.
She lets out a sigh of relief.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
“Do you have any plans for today?” she asks as she pivots slightly toward the door.
“I have a lot of work to do,” I say as I push to my feet and slide my bare feet into my sleepers.
