“Alastair?” It’s Brynn. “I saw you run for the restroom, are you okay?”
My voice echoes. “Yeah, I just, I must’ve eaten some Mexican last night that didn’t agree with me.”
“That’s the worst.” She pauses. “Can I grab you a water or some Pepto?”
I stand up smoothing my skirt. Leaning my hand against the doorjamb, I murmur, “Thanks, that’d be great.” I hear her steps retreat from my stall and the bathroom. My face sweaty, I wet paper towels and wipe them across my forehead, the small amount of mascara I bothered to put on running down my cheeks. Looking in the mirror, I stare at my reflection—the puffy eyes, dark circles, and flushed appearance. My skin’s clammy and my body trembles. Get ahold of yourself, Aly, I tell myself. You have a business to run. Cleaning the errant mascara away and splashing cold water on my face, I take a deep breath and walk back out into the office, stares following me. I smile even though it’s fake and handle it like a boss.
When I get back to my office, I force myself to open the blinds and greet the day head-on. I could sit and wallow, but the whys and what ifs will drive me bat-shit crazy. I look at the slip of paper and pull up the email Brynn sent regarding Robert, the co-founder of Free Will Grocers, the gluten-free and organic option for the valley. She had provided me a high-level overview. This is his third store with the other co-founder, Ken Willes, the first locations were in California. Both men were looking for options after being diagnosed with Hashimoto’s and Celiac disease, respectively. They had met at a gym ten years ago and were commiserating about finding the right food and the annoyance of having to read every label. I watch a short clip where Willes explains he had no idea all the food items had gluten. Hmm, I ponder, soy sauce has gluten? Interesting. Reynolds explains that now it’s easier than ever to have stores that provide a variety of options, but they wanted to take it a step further and eliminate the guessing game for those who are worried about cross-contamination. A bakery located inside provides bread and baked goods along with a deli that has to-go options with a drive-thru.
My excitement grows as I watch the video and spend some time researching the business model. This could be a learning and insightful client. It’s always refreshing to help a client at the beginning instead of just when you’re putting out fires.
I pick up the phone and Cami’s voice is on the other end. “Oh, Alastair, I was just calling to tell you that Steven is here.”
Steven? My husband?
“Brynn ran to lunch, so I’m covering her desk.” She mumbles something to him and then waits. There’s a long pause as she waits for me to respond. Finally, she says, “Should I send him in?”
“Um, yes, go ahead.” I hadn’t even bothered looking at my cell this morning. They both enter my office together, Cami chatting him up as she’s gotten to know him over the years. Steven’s not as talkative as usual, his head hanging down as if he’d been kicked. He looks tired, his eyes narrowed. “I just can’t wait for the party.” Cami’s face lights up. “It’s always such a good time.” She gives him a quick pat on the shoulder and exits, her headset buzzing as she gives us a wave goodbye.
He fumbles with his watch, gym attire replacing khakis and a button down, unusual for a weekday.
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Steven and I opened our homes every fall for a party with my office and some of his colleagues. We also invited neighbors and certain clients. It’s a hodgepodge of different interests and eclectic backgrounds that lead to some fascinating conversations with people we like to spend time with or get to know better.
The party’s slated for a few weeks, the poster already on the bulletin board in the break room and posted on various walls throughout the office. It’s a low-key gathering, though we always have it catered and a wait staff that serves alcohol.
Before I can respond to Cami, she’s out the door, closing it softly behind her. I almost want her to stay, so I don’t have to face him. What is my world coming to that I don’t want to be alone with my husband?
He takes a seat on the couch, sweatpants and an Under Armour tee underneath a hoodie. He puts his hands out. “We need to talk, Alastair.” Desperation is in his eyes.
“Why aren’t you in class?” I lean against the cool glass on my desk, sitting on the edge. I tentatively cross my legs.
“I called in sick and got a sub,” he says softly. “I also arranged for Livvie to spend the night at Meredith’s.”
“On a school night?” I’m floored. This is not typical Type-A Steven behavior.
“It’s our marriage…” his voice is low. “I fucked up.” He hastily adds, “She will think it’s pretty cool to have a sleepover during the week. I already dropped her stuff off at the McClaine’s.”
I search his face, the wrinkles starting to form on his wide forehead. The gentle hands and deep eyes used to be the windows that mirrored mine, a perfect path into our souls.
“I know you’re busy.” Steven continues, “I also know I hurt the fuck out of you.” He rises and comes over to where I’m perched grabbing my hands in his, the metal of his simple band catching the sunlight, bouncing between both our rings, a bond.
“The vows we took, didn’t they mean a damn thing?” I purse my lips. He squeezes my hands in his. “Of course,” he whispers. “It’s over, it happened once. A mistake.”
I look him in his sorrowful eyes, mine starting to tear up again. “Once?”
“One time.” He stares at me intently. “I promise.”
I shake my hands out of his tight grip and twist the thin metal tugging off my wedding band and engagement ring. “You also promised always to be faithful.” I drop my rings in his palm and close his hand around them quickly turning to glance at the window, wetness covering my cheeks. I swipe at them angrily.
He swings me around to face him, his voice hoarse. “You’re taking your rings off?”
I’m agitated, “How could you? How can you expect me to believe it was one time?”
“Baby,” Steven reaches out his hand and wipes at my cheeks, his touch making me want to scream. “I let a meeting get out of hand. I should’ve said no.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t a date?” I sarcastically throw back at him. He looks confused. I want to bring up the dating profile, but I don’t. I can’t catch him in the act if he knows I’m onto him.
“Believe me, I know what I did was wrong.” Steven shrugs miserably. “I had to come clean with you. You’re my best friend, wife, and the mother of our daughter. You deserve better.” I watch a tear fall down his cheek, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. “I want to spend time with you tonight. We can sit on the couch and talk or not. But it’s got to be together.”
I’m frozen, my hands trembling at my sides. “How am I ever going to forgive you?” I murmur.
“How am I ever going to forgive myself?” Steven looks sadly at me and then twists the ring on his left hand. “I’ll see you after work. I’m cooking us dinner.” He reaches forward and brushes a strand of hair off my cheek. “I hate that this is because of me.” He gives me a quick peck wiping another tear running down my face.
I take a couple of deep breaths after he leaves my office, willing myself to calm down.
There’s a knock at my door. I expect it to be Cami. I don’t want to see her, don’t want to see anyone. This is a private battle I must fight. I don’t believe in bringing my home life into the office, and I’m embarrassed at the emotions I’ve been displaying as of late.
“Come in,” I say.
It’s not Cami, it’s Brynn.
“Alastair,” she says in a light tone, “I just wanted to see if you wanted anything from the deli downstairs. I had lunch there, and it was really good.”
“No, I’m good, but thanks. I’ve got some calls to make.”
“Did I hear Cami say your husband was here?” She looks around my office. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“No, he left.” I look at my screen, time to get back t
o work.
“Being married is so much better than being single. Dating was such a drag,” she says. “I’m so glad that part of my life is over with.” The timing of her statement is unfortunate. I used to feel the same. Now it makes me pensive.
I ignore the urge to put my hands over my ears and yell. It’s not her fault he’s a cheater and a liar. She sees my jaw drop and stutters, “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“No.” I cackle. “Dating was definitely a rollercoaster.” I can barely utter the words at this point. “And everyone thinks my husband is a catch, so he must be.” I shrug. “You just never know until you’re in too deep.” She looks perplexed, and I realize I’m hinting at my personal issues. I smile and glance at my screen. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to make a couple of calls.”
She nods, hurrying out of the office as I pick up the phone to call Robert Reynolds to see how we can work together. The rest of the afternoon passes in a flash, my call with him ending in a meeting for the following week. I return a few other calls, some media inquiries, and clear my inbox which has sorely been ignored for the last couple days.
When I look at my phone, it’s after 6:00 p.m., a missed call from Mara chimes. I decide to call her on my Bluetooth after I leave.
“Hey, Mara,” I say as I head out into traffic.
“Hi, doll, how’re you holding up?”
“I’m okay, minus the wicked hangover.”
“You guys talk yet?”
“He came to the office. Wants to talk tonight. I don’t have much to say. It’s like I want to know, but I don’t want to know.” I sigh. “The truth is, I don’t know how I can move forward from this or trust him again.”
“Yeah, people always say you can move forward from affairs.” There’s a pause. I wait for her to finish but there’s silence. I finish, “And?”
“And nothing, babe.” Mara’s contrite. “I wish I knew how people moved on, but I’ve never met anyone who didn’t start to question everything about their lives.”
“This is all so fresh.” I drum my fingers on the wheel. “I don’t know what I feel besides anger and disappointment. It seems like I’ll never be able to work through it…”
“Well, you’re a strong woman,” Mara muses. “It’s too new to make any rash decisions. Remember that.”
“Do I even want to know,” I mutter. “Who she is?” I glance in my rearview and see a car following way too close tailgating me. “Why does everyone here drive like assholes?” I exclaim.
‘What’s wrong?” Mara asks.
“Someone’s on my ass.” I slow down, tempted to slam on my brakes. The last thing I need right now is to be rear-ended. I tap my foot on the brake, hoping the lights will entice them to give me space.
The light up ahead turns yellow, and I don’t have enough time to stop. I continue through it. The car behind me does as well, the sound of honking follows.
“Hey, Mar, I gotta go.” I bite my lip. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Oh, what I called to tell you was my friend is happy to let you use her pics.” Mara quickly chimes in, “Night.”
“Okay, perfect, bye.” I disconnect. There’s nothing perfect about having to use a fake friend to catch your husband in a lie, but I’m appreciative.
My eyes drift to my mirrors. The car is still behind me. I can’t see much except it’s a late model white Kia. It’s let up a bit on my rear. I can’t read a license number since front license plates aren’t required here. I turn my attention back to driving hanging a left as I turn onto my street.
Weird enough, the Kia also turns left.
Our street is quiet. It leads to the mountains, a long, winding road that is a dead-end. The mountain preserve is the furthest you can go, hiking only possible after. Our street gets busy with vehicles, hikers parking along the side of the road to walk their dogs or do trail runs.
The car slows down. I think it must be visiting a neighbor. It stops, pausing behind me.
I continue ahead and pull into our driveway hitting the garage door button. A quick glance in the rearview and the Kia speeds up, stopping outside of our house. I’m about to open the door when it lurches ahead, speeding up and continuing toward the dead-end.
Probably a hiker trying to figure out where to park.
Shaking my head, I close the garage behind me and enter my house dreading my evening with my spouse. I don’t see Steven, but I smell the BBQ, a combination of charcoal and meat searing.
Heading into the master, I change out of my skirt and blouse and throw on some jeans and a V-neck tee. Our sliding doors lead outside, and I meet Steven near the hot tub by the grill, a beer in his hand and his favorite apron that says, ‘Kiss my Grass’ and then below ‘Fed Beef.’
“Hey, babe,” he reaches for me, his usual gesture, now awkward, as he leans in for a kiss. I turn my head, and his lips brush my cheek instead of lips. A flicker of hurt registers on his face, but he continues, “Glass of Pinot Noir okay?”
“Sure,” I say, settling into my favorite striped wicker patio chair. We also have a matching couch out here. Typically, I snuggle up next to him on it, but tonight I need distance. I want to look at him instead of sit beside him, see his body language when the questions get brutal, the inquisition about to begin.
He reaches into the outdoor built-in fridge next to the BBQ and pulls the cork out of a bottle of my favorite red. The glass is filled to the brim, and it splashes as he hands it to me. I notice his hands shake. I want to ask him if he’s okay, but I stop myself. I think how dare he? This isn’t about him or his feelings.
As Steven finishes cooking the asparagus and filet, I pull out my cell and call Meredith McClaine’s house. Her mother, Rose, answers, and we chat for a couple of minutes before she puts Liv on.
“Hi, baby,” I say. “How was your day?”
“Hi, Mom, it was okay until I found out I was staying at Meredith’s. Now it’s awesome.” She chatters on about her spelling test and then the McClaine’s dog, Murphy, a Labradoodle that has an uncanny resemblance to the mutt in the musical “Annie,” which we’ve watched at least a hundred times. She loves Miss Hannigan and Tim Curry as Rooster, the brother.
Steven and I both wish her a good night, I thank Rose again and disconnect. Steven and I sit in our respective seats outside, the glass patio table a setting for our plates and drinks. My heart’s pounding. I don’t know what I want to know. We eat in silence, both sneaking quick peeks at each other, our eyes guilty as we move to focus on something else.
We’re feeling each other out.
A feeling I’d never experienced with my husband.
Strangers.
Steven finishes his last bite and looks up, his eyes holding mine hostage for a moment.
“Okay, Alastair, let’s cut to it.” He leans back, setting his plate down a little too suddenly, a thud as it settles precariously on the edge.
I sip my wine, examining his demeanor.
“I’m at a loss,” I say uneasily. “You’ve had time to practice your story and how to tell it.”
He sighs, “I didn’t want to tell you.”
“You shouldn’t have,” I emphasize. “You got to unburden yourself of the guilt, and now I have to carry it.”
“Fair.” Steven fidgets with his hands. “I didn’t want to tell you because I’d hurt you and risk losing you, but you deserve to know.”
“Know that you’re not the man I thought you were?” My face twists into a grimace. “Even better.”
“Are you going to leave me?” I think I imagine this question, but the look on his face is a combination of fear and apprehension, his jaw locked, his brows knitted.
“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “I’m still wrapping my brain around this.”
“What do you want to know?” He lifts his foot to rest it across his knee, kicking the table, the plate teetering on the edge and crashing to the cement, breaking into pieces. Just like my heart.
“Who is she?” I twist my
hands in my lap, nausea battling in my stomach. “Do I know her?”
“I met her at a hotel.” I glare at him, my eyes narrowing into slits. “Not like that,” he quickly adds. “It was at the teacher’s association meeting. I had a drink in the hotel bar after.”
“Did you fuck her there?” I ask.
He doesn’t’ speak.
I drill into him with my eyes.
The question isn’t going away.
He nods.
“In a hotel room?” I pry. “Did you fuck her against the wall or on the dirty comforter we always try to avoid sleeping under?”
He grabs his beer and downs the rest of it. “Do you need a refill?” He points to my empty glass. “I’m gonna grab another beer.”
“Avoiding the question?” I say sardonically. “I thought I could ask anything?”
“I’m not ignoring you.” He stands and walks to the outdoor bar reaching in the fridge for a second beer and the half-empty bottle of wine. Bringing them both back, he pours the rest into my glass and then settles back into the couch.
“We…” he mutters, “… had sex in the car.”
“Not even a room?” I’m incredulous. “For the first time, you went straight for the car?”
He’s uncomfortable, twisting his body. He takes a swig of beer and sets the bottle down hard. “Look, Alastair, I fucked up. I had a couple of drinks, and she was at the bar. She started chatting me up, and one drink turned into five, one hour turned into four.”
“When was this?”
“Over the summer.”
“Where was I?”
“Working.” He puts in air quotes, “Supporting us.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I feel like I’ve been slapped. “You don’t complain when it benefits you.” I stand. “The vacations, your goddamn truck, this fucking house.”
“Wait,” he stammers. “Sit down.”
“Why?” I’m angry now, his affair now the cause of my workload?
“Please,” he pleads. “That’s not what I meant.”
I sit down gripping the arms of the wicker patio chair. “What do you want from me?” He tilts his head confused. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it.
The Ruined Wife: Psychological Thriller Page 6
