by Julia Derek
Of course, my intentions aren’t quite that unselfish and noble. I also know that, if I just disappear, chances are that Angie will contact Jason and ask him if he knows where I am. I don’t want my husband to know that I’m not at work. That will make him wonder what I’m doing, worry about me. Try to find me. And I definitely do not want him to find me right now.
Well, at least he’ll pretend to worry about me. I can no longer be sure if he is ever actually worried about me. Even though I’m fairly sure that Jason is capable of feeling something regarding having killed Celeste, I have changed my mind about it being guilt necessarily. As I made my way back from the cemetery, I concluded that he sweating and turning white like a sheet the day he and I went to visit Matt’s grave might be some other feeling. Fear, perhaps. Fear that the world will find out the truth about him. Or maybe he was simply feeling sorry for himself, sorry for being reminded what a weak man he is deep inside. Only a weak man would do what Jason did to Celeste. And a man like Jason would hate to realize that, when all is said and done, he is no alpha male. Barely a man at all actually.
As I consider this fact, I have a couple of large sips of white wine in an attempt to drench the pain that keeps expanding in my mid-region. It’s been a while since I last drank any alcohol and I enjoy the taste, even if it is crappy bar wine.
I can’t decide if he is truly bad—a sociopath—or just a really fucked up, weak human being. If he is a sociopath, I definitely do not want him to try to find me or even know how upset I am about what he has done. Not before I have figured out what I’m going to do with what I now know for sure to be the truth. As early as this morning, when he and I parted ways after having shared a cab, I was convinced that this would all turn out to be part of Jason’s deepest, darkest fantasies after all. Then later, at dinner, I imagined that when I finally asked him about it, he’d confess that to me. He’d be embarrassed of course, but he would nonetheless admit to the twisted turns of his mind. The words he told me yesterday while gripping my shoulders so hard they hurt return to me in that moment:
“Don’t talk like that, Lexi. We all have a dark side to us and it’s not healthy to keep it buried deep in our psyches. Sometimes you have no choice but to let it all out to move forward, to become whole again. Don’t ever forget that. I haven’t.”
I put my elbows on the bar counter and bury my face in my hands and exhale with despair. Who would have ever thought he’d actually meant each of all those horrible words written in the diary literally!
The pain in my stomach doubles in intensity as I ponder this terrible reality. I want to cry, but I can’t, and instead I empty the half full wine glass before me. The question is, what am I going to do about this now? Getting drunk is only a temporary solution.
“Would you like another one?” the thin-haired bartender with the potbelly and cheap dress shirt asks me in a smooth, sexy voice that doesn’t fit his appearance.
“Sure,” I reply. It will be my fourth glass of crappy bar wine, but I don’t care. It does the job it needs to do, dulls my senses, gets me drunk. When I first stumbled into this shoddy hole in the wall, I was in such pain I would have settled for rubbing alcohol to feel better. Fortunately, the bar has slightly better things to offer than that. But only slightly.
He pours me another serving of cheap wine and I place another ten-dollar bill next to the glass. They only take cash, no cards, which is fine since I happen to have plenty of cash on me today. I don’t think it’s more than five or six bucks a glass, but he can keep the change. He is a good bartender, keeps my glass full without asking me any annoying questions, stays hidden at the end of the bar the rest of the time. Only two other people are at the bar counter, appearing to be there alone like I am.
I stay at this dark, quiet place for another hour, then I begin to feel claustrophobic, not to mention a bit nauseous. I need to leave and get some fresh air. At this point, I have lost count of how many glasses of wine I have drunk, but it must be at least six or seven. Fortunately, I’m one of those unusual women who, while small, can drink lots of alcohol before I get so drunk I pass out. I’m not even close to that stage yet, but if I drink more I might throw up and I definitely do not want to do that. Plus, sitting at this bar is not helping me figure out how to best deal with the situation. Hopefully, if I take a walk, it will come to me.
I need to know what to say to Jason when I see him again this evening. While I sat before Celeste’s grave this morning, the next move seemed obvious to me—I must ask him why he did it. Was it an accident? Did he do it on purpose, planned it out in advance? I have to know what prompted him to do it. He is clearly aware that I know what he has done.
Another option is to keep acting like I’m okay with it, the way he seems to think that I am. Just keep living life and forget about it, not challenge him. That’s probably the way he prefers it or he would have told me about it himself already.
If I were a sociopath, guarding his secret might be an option—a good one even—but I’m not. I’m not okay with my husband being a murderer. Of course, if it was an accident, not planned, I’d be more understanding, but only somewhat. He shouldn’t have been having an affair with Celeste in the first place.
My gut feeling tells me it just has to have been an accident in the end. I refuse to believe that I have been married to a man capable of cold-blooded murder all these years and haven’t had a clue. No, it must have been an accident. A convenient accident, but still an accident that we have to go and tell the police about. Let them decide what happens next. If he doesn’t go willingly, I will have to go on my own and turn him in.
The bright sun is glaring at me from a crispy blue, cloudless sky as I leave the bar. It blinds me, causing me to become disoriented for a long, disquieting moment. In order not to fall, I grab onto the building wall. Finally I can see again and start walking down the windy street, pulling my coat closer around me to stay warm. My phone suddenly sounding in my pocket makes me jump. I reach my hand down and pull it out, pretty sure who is trying to reach me.
I’m correct. It’s Jason, wanting to know how my day is going so far, the way he usually does.
Except for the fact that I’m drunk in the middle of the day and nauseous because of what you did, I can’t complain, my fingers are itching to type back. I put the phone back in my pocket instead.
I can’t help but to laugh then the situation is so absurd. I feel like a crazy person as I pass other people on the street, unable to put a stop to the hysterical laughter coming out of me. Some of them glance at me with fear on their faces and make sure not to pass me too closely. I would have done the same had I been in their shoes. With my bloodshot eyes and messy hair, I must appear to be just another of New York City’s many homeless people despite my expensive coat and high-heeled designer boots.
A few blocks later, the laughter stops bubbling out of me at last. I must reply to Jason’s text or, being the overprotective man that he is, he might call the office just to see that everything is okay with me. The last thing I want him to discover is that I told Angie I’m at home because I’ve gotten sick. That would really make him worry.
So I stop walking and lean against a building to get my phone. Then I type a reply to my husband: “Everything is going great. Super busy with tax documents. How about you?”
I really don’t feel like interacting with Jason any more right then, but I don’t want to take any chances. Being too curt with him might make him pick up the phone to talk to me to ensure I’m truly okay, and that would be even worse. I press Send and the text is off. Jason replies almost instantly:
“Sitting at a restaurant in midtown having lunch with a client. He’s in the bathroom right now. Can’t wait for it to be over. Did you get my email?”
What email? I have no idea what he might be referring to. Then I remember that he was supposed to email me his book and that I’m supposed to read it over lunch. Tonight we’re supposed to discuss potential plot points his story can take.
I scroll through my emails on my phone and there it is. An email from Jason with a big attachment.
I text back: “Are you talking about your book? I did get that.”
My phone buzzes with Jason’s response. “Yes, that’s it. Great. Let’s go out for dinner tonight.”
I stare at the text. Oh, God, can I handle going out for dinner? Jason clearly thinks I not only can, but that it’s something I’d love to do. Which isn’t strange—up until the last several months, I used to love going out for dinner at least twice a week. I decide that it’s best to just say okay.
After I have sent him a text telling him so, I realize having dinner out might actually be wiser since I’ll be confronting him about what he did. I’d rather we’re around people then. Who knows how he’ll react?
“Definitely,” I text back. “Just tell me where and when and I’ll be there. I have some stuff to do after work, so I probably won’t go home in between.”
I don’t have stuff to do, but I don’t feel like going together with Jason to the restaurant; it’s better that we just meet there. He doesn’t always come home first when we go out for dinner, but he might tonight. I’ll go home now instead and take a shower, fix myself up a little after having spent hours at the stuffy, little bar. I feel sweaty and disgusting, generally out of sorts. Power walking across the city to our apartment will only help to sober me up, not clean my body.
My phone buzzes again. “Cool. Meet me at Capital Grille on 42nd between third and Lex at 8.”
I reply with “see you there.”
Putting my phone back in my pocket, I start walking at a brisk pace in the direction of our apartment. It will take me at least forty minutes to get there, which means it will be almost four o’clock by the time I’m home. I will have to hurry to freshen up to be sure that I don’t run into Jason. On the off chance that he comes home early from work, I will just tell him that I also left work early. He knows I run my own schedule right now, so he won’t question it.
As I’m halfway home, I realize that I do have stuff to do before dinner. I need to read Jason’s book again or he’ll be upset that I didn’t. I’m not going to start off the evening by asking him why he killed Celeste, which means I can’t avoid discussing his book. He will surely ask me about his story right away.
When I arrive at our building and ride up the elevator to our apartment on the eighteenth floor, I’m feeling almost sober again. The fast walk in the chilly weather did me good. Not only has the nausea long since passed, but I can think clearly now and I’m not as upset about what I need to do. It won’t be fun, but I can do it. I’ll get to the bottom of this and I’ll still survive.
I jump in the shower, fix my makeup and put on a different set of very similar clothes. The pants I wore earlier are wrinkly and dirty from me having crawled around on the ground in front of Celeste’s grave, and the shirt is sweaty at the armpits. Jason won’t be able to tell that I’m not actually wearing the same black satin shirt or the same gray slacks. I have so many of them that look almost identical.
When I have blow-dried my hair and applied new makeup, I leave the house to find a café where I can read Jason’s story again. At eight o’ clock sharp, I’m walking into Capital Grille on East 42nd Street.
Chapter 11
I have an eerie feeling of déjà vu as I walk up to the bar counter where Jason is standing already, his back to me like the last time we had dinner out, only a few days ago. Feeling like my arm doesn’t belong to me, I tap him on the shoulder and he turns around, brightening at the sight of me.
“Hi, babe,” he says and kisses me on the cheek, his hand at the small of my back as he presses me toward him. As his soft lips touch my skin, all the resolve I have been filled with on my way over in the cab drains off me like water. It won’t be as easy and straightforward as I somehow managed to convince myself of to discuss this matter with Jason. I’m not even sure any more that I’ll be able to do it at all. Despite what I have found out, I still love this man deeply and I don’t want to see him hurt. One way or another, what I’ll ask him will hurt him in so many ways, especially when I tell him that he must turn himself in even if it was only an accident. He still needs to pay for what he did.
He gazes at me with a concerned face, the smile shrinking.
“Is everything okay?” he asks. “You look like you had a rough day.”
I’m quick to nod. “Yeah, I did, but nothing that I can’t handle. Just a lot of annoying tax papers that were driving me crazy. But now I’m finally done with them, so it’s behind me.” I force myself to smile. “And I did get a chance to read your story again. I really, really like it.”
It’s the truth. My husband is a very good writer and this time I was able to get lost in the story. If a story absorbs me as agitated as I am now, it must be really good.
“Really?” He looks pleased.
“Yes, really. You’re a true wordsmith.”
He grins big now. “Thanks, babe. What do you want to drink?”
Strong drinker or not, the thought of more alcohol is not appealing, so I ask him to get me my usual seltzer with a splash of cranberry instead. I’m not supposed to be drinking anyway, and, besides, I want my head to be clear. Within seconds, I have a tall glass of sparkling pale pink soda water in my hand, a lime wedge adorning it.
Soon we’re seated at our table, the hostess leaving us with big menus.
“I’m starving,” I say to Jason and open my menu, then glance down at it. I am in fact starving, having not eaten anything since breakfast and finally hunger has caught up with me despite the anguish I’m in. But no matter how hard I try, my brain can’t absorb a word of the many food items I’m looking at. I might as well have been reading a menu in Chinese. Clearly, the thought of having to confront Jason is affecting me more than I could ever have imagined. I keep trying to decipher the menu, though, because I don’t want Jason to know that I’m in a state.
“What are you in the mood for?” he asks.
I look up, glad that he asked. Capital Grille is a steakhouse and has traditional American cuisine, which means there must be plenty of meat such as steak and burgers on the menu. No need to see all the items. I make myself smile at Jason and lick my lips.
“Steak and fries,” I say.
He raises an amused brow. “Really? Not fish? I can’t remember the last time you had steak, not to mention anything fried.” His eyes find the menu and then they return to me again. “Well, they do have New York strip steak and skirt steak, both with fries. The skirt steak comes with cilantro chimichurri sauce. Would you like that?”
“Mmm, yeah, that sounds delicious. Can you order that for me and a mixed greens for appetizer?” I close the menu and put it on the table. “I need to go to the ladies’ room.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll be back in a sec,” I say and leave the table, walking quickly past the other tables that are in between where we are seated deep inside the restaurant and its spacious bar area. The bathroom must be somewhere around the bar as there is nothing but solid walls and tables at our end. I’m hoping that if I get a moment to myself, I can get centered again, find the conviction I was filled with in the cab that I’d be able to do this. Sitting with my husband, the cheater and the murderer, and having him act like everything is okay still when he knows I know all his secrets just proved to be too much for me. But I have to find a way to deal with it the way I found a way to deal with him after I read his book the first time and realized it wasn’t what I had expected.
When I’m inside a stall, I’ll do the breathing exercises I learned in preparation to give birth naturally. If they can make me relax enough to give birth without feeling pain, they sure as hell should help me focus and relax around my husband so I can do what I need to do.
As I enter the bar area, which is fairly crowded, I search for a sign that says “Bathroom.” I can’t spot one anywhere, so I go up to one of the two pretty girls who’re standing at the bar counter, both of them looking
like they are waitresses at the restaurant.
“Excuse me,” I say to the tall, blond one. Now that I’m up close, I note that she is drop dead gorgeous and has a killer body encased in a short, black dress with a plunging neckline. “Do you know where the ladies’ room is?”
She smiles at me and points to a small, white sign right at the end of the long bar area, close to the entrance of the restaurant. It says Bathroom in bold letters. I must have missed it as I was looking around the space.
I smile back at the blonde and say “thanks.” Then I hurry over in that direction and turn the corner. Finally inside the bathroom, I’m relieved to find that one of the three stalls is empty, so I enter it and sit on the toilet seat. Closing my eyes, I do the breathing exercises that I have been taught and they do help me get centered and relaxed. In fact, it goes much faster to achieve this than I could ever have hoped for.
A few minutes later, I leave the stall and the bathroom, having first checked my hair and makeup in the mirror. All things considered, I look pretty good.
As I make my way back through the crowds of people, I spot our table and Jason. He is not alone but talking to the gorgeous, blonde waitress in the black dress. Both of them are smiling big, and it looks like they enjoy talking to each other and not in the way a waitress and a customer normally do. These two appear like they are way more chummy than that.
The serenity that I had fought for and achieved via breathing in the bathroom is gone and replaced by hot fury. Walking closer and getting an even better picture of what the two are doing, I see that my first impression is definitely correct. These two have met before, or if they haven’t, they have instantly connected on a level that I’m not comfortable with at all. I can’t believe that Jason is doing this to me after all that he is guilty of.
