“I want to make sure a random guy isn’t going to be at the house.” He doesn’t meet my eyes. I think back to the horror stories our friends told us.
“She’s married, I presume,” I say again, the gold band on her finger. “She wears a ring and said she doesn’t miss dating.”
“So, she’s having a baby soon?”
“Yeah.” I chew a bite of filet.
“She doesn’t look that far along.” He puts his napkin on the table signaling he’s done eating. I look at his half-eaten plate, a striking resemblance to how our nine-year-old eats, pushing food around she doesn’t want, a colorful mess.
“I think she’s a few months along.” Steven spits his water out, spraying me.
“What the…” I wipe my face. “What’s going on?”
“I’m going to be sick.” He stands up abruptly, leaving the table. “I think we should go back home.”
Flagging down the waiter, I pay the check when Steven doesn’t come back after a few minutes. I’m concerned, I wait near the entrance for him. He comes out, wiping a hand across his mouth. “Do you mind if we go home, skip the concert?” He puts his hands in his pockets. “Relieve the babysitter?” His face is pale, beads of sweat drip down it.
“That’s not a problem, but honey, are you okay?” I reach out to touch him, and he flinches at my touch. “Was it something you ate?”
“I don’t know, it hit me like a Mack truck.” He shrugs. I offer to drive. He clutches his stomach and leans back, his eyes closed, the rest of the way home.
“I feel terrible,” he says. “Why don’t you call a girlfriend and go to the concert? I don’t want the tickets to go to waste. They were expensive. It’s almost Livvie’s bedtime anyway.”
A line creases on my forehead, eyes on the road ahead. “Are you sure?”
He reaches for my hand. ‘Yeah, Alastair, you deserve to let loose. Take a cab or Uber.”
When we get home, I eye the clock. “I’ll just drive. Headliners will probably go on shortly.”
“Okay.” He gives me a quick peck. “Don’t worry about the babysitter. I’ll pay her. You go ahead. Don’t bother coming back inside. You head downtown.”
“Thanks,” I say, watching as he slams the door shut, his head hanging.
His mannerisms are off. I’ve known him for nineteen years, slept beside him for seventeen. He’s hiding something. Is he going home so he can meet another date?
The nausea unsettles me, and my dinner now feels too heavy for my stomach. I gag as I pick up one of my friends, her concern apparent as I lean over my seat, my body shivering.
If Steven wants a divorce, he can have one.
8
We settle back into our routine—the monotony, the effort—it’s like walking on broken glass daily. I’m a torrent of emotions, and words are perfunctory. Besides that, I feel I’m being stabbed in the heart… and in the back.
One night when Liv is at gymnastics practice, Steven takes a high-interval class with me that’s next to her studio. As we’re sipping water, waiting for her to finish and watching from the viewing area, I casually ask, “What do you want to do about the party?”
The Fall Fiesta is coming up in two weekends at our house, an October tradition. Steven and I have discussed his supposed one-night stand, counseling, and the state of our marriage. We’re going through the motions, the day to day, the routine. He’s suggested a vacation, and I’ve nixed the idea. Internally, the last place I want to throw money is for an expensive getaway, especially if we end up splitting. I shudder as I think of attorney’s fees and what it’s going to cost in alimony and spousal support.
He looks surprised, his eyebrows raising. “What do you mean?”
“You think we should have it?” I dread his answer.
“Why wouldn’t we?” He shrugs. “The invites have already gone out.”
“I know.” I stare at him intently. “I just hate having to pretend…”
He reaches his hand out to mine. “I know I’ve put you through hell, but we’ve always loved these parties.” I don’t add that I’m the one who has to plan, pay, and manage all aspects of it while he gets to drink a beer and banter with the guests.
I keep my eyes glued to the group of nine- and ten-year-olds tumbling, Liv in her requisite blue leotard and ponytail. “How’d she get so big?” I switch the topic.
“She looks more like you every day,” He squeezes my hand. “Beautiful and graceful.” I give him a tight smile. I hear a vibrating sound and check my purse. It’s not me, my emails are amazingly quiet tonight. He drops my hand and reaches into his pocket for his phone.
I never was the snooping type of wife.
Until he cheated.
Then all bets were off.
I try to keep my eyes straight ahead, ignoring the sinking feeling, the pit that’s endless now, every time his phone rings or a text chimes. I hold my breath, the fear of the unknown. He’s been understanding, reading my body language, an unknown rule between us that he lost any secrecy he had.
He’s left his emails up.
I checked.
Found nothing. Not in his spam folder, not in his trash or sent emails.
Oh, you’re good, I thought, covering your tracks.
His phone has always had a password, both of ours did, because we have a child, and he’s in the classroom. We never wanted adult communication or the occasional sext or dirty picture to get into the wrong hands.
His password never changed, I could always access his list of contacts or texts.
Until a couple of days ago.
It’s a different one. He’s shut me out of his phone, the passcode no longer working.
He swore she never had his number or vice-versa.
I had scrolled through his texts, searched our bill for his call history. Months had passed, so I didn’t expect to find anything. He could delete whatever he wanted. His contacts didn’t seem suspect, so I checked to see if there were any unknowns.
Tonight though, his face turns beet red, a blush creeping up the back of his neck. He freezes instantaneously. I can see him out of the corner of my eye. I don’t want to turn and face him. I want to see what he does next.
Scanning the text, he puts the phone away immediately, never bothering to respond.
Hmm, interesting.
Opening my mouth, I’m about to ask who it is. Liv runs into the viewing room, jumping into his arms. “Hi, Daddy. Hi, Mommy.” Her face is also flushed, the last tumbling pass winding her. “Did you see my cartwheels?”
“Yep.” I tweak her nose. “They looking amazing, definite improvement from last time.” She smiles, snuggling into Steven’s arms. He gives her a tight hug and puts her down. “Grab your stuff so we can go.” She heads to her cubby, and as I’m about to speak, he says, “I’m going to run to the restroom. Be right back.” I give him a questioning look which he ignores. “I’ll meet you at the truck.”
My irritation’s starting to rise, something is clearly up. We’d talked about boundaries and openness and communication, traits I’d thought we’d done a damn good job of keeping before his slip. I run the word over my tongue. The word ‘slip-up’ implies an error in judgment, a mistake. This isn’t something that can be undone, the weight of it heavier than a simple snafu. This isn’t my favorite dress ruined at the dry cleaner or a hurt feeling over some slight.
This is my marriage.
My husband.
Who is now back to acting strange.
I hold Liv’s hand as we cross the street unable to concentrate on the story she’s telling me about gymnastics class. I open the passenger side of the truck and help her in. She asks me the same question again. I don’t even hear her, lost in my thoughts. “Mommy…” she says, “… are you okay? I asked you again about getting a dog.”
“We can talk about it later.” I slide into the passenger seat turning to the backseat to make sure she’s buckled in.
“That means no.” She crosses her arms.
&n
bsp; “What?” I keep my eyes trained on her strained face.
“When you say later, that always means no.” She pouts. “Meredith has Murphy. She’s so lucky.”
“Puppies are a lot of responsibility,” I admonish. “Maybe when you’re older.” I keep my eyes trained on the rearview mirror, no sign of Steven.
“Will you turn on the radio?” Liv asks.
“What do you say?”
“Please.” She’s impatient. “Please, Mommy.”
“Good girl.” I hand her a banana and some trail mix. “Thought you’d like a snack.” I turn the station from talk radio to music, and she hums right along as I sit in stony silence. Steven finally comes outside, no sign of his phone in his hand as he gets in the truck.
“What took so long?” I snap. He looks at me, surprised at my reaction.
“I drank a lot of water and then a protein shake after the gym, is that okay? He starts the engine, giving me a side eye. Liv ignores my comment, Taylor Swift taking her attention as she pretends she has a microphone.
“What’s wrong?” he asks in a low voice.
“Nothing.” I twist my fingers in my lap, tired of feeling like a nag. I hate myself right now, but I hate him even more.
“Who texted you?” I ask.
“When?”
“What do you mean ‘when?’” I hiss. “When we were inside. The one you didn’t answer but managed to shove your phone in your pocket and then take a bathroom break to respond.”
“Seriously?” He turns to look at me when we reach a red light. “You need to stop.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child,” I jeer.
We sit in uncomfortable silence the rest of the way home, a feeling unknown to both of us, our relationship never strained before.
When we pull into the driveway. I immediately get out, slamming the truck door behind me. I march inside, heading straight for the bathroom where I close the toilet lid and sit down, my head in my hands. The sobs come wrenching my body as I shake.
There’s a knock at the door. “Mommy…” It’s Liv. “Will you tuck me in?”
I swallow, a hiccup escaping my throat, “In a minute,” I manage to squeak out.
A minute later, another knock. “I said I’d be right there.” I grab a tissue. The door starts to open. “I said I’d be…”
It’s not Liv, it’s Steven. He shuts the door behind him and locks it. He looks angry, his jaw set as he leans against the doorjamb until he sees the tissue in my hand and my wet face. His face looks stricken, and he closes the gap between us. He crouches down, so he’s in front of me. “Baby, what happened tonight?” He takes his thumb and wipes away the tears. “Everything was fine until my damn phone pinged a text.”
“I hate this,” I manage to gulp out. “I hate feeling like this, every time your phone rings or you receive a text. You acted strangely.”
He reaches into his pocket and hands me his phone. His last text is a meme of boobs sent from TJ, one of his college buddies. It says ‘the twins are in.’ “This text?” He chuckles. “It’s a dumb text from my dipshit roommate.” TJ and he had been friends since they were paired to live together in the college dorms. He lives in Colorado now and is a lifelong bachelor, his downtown loft decorated with animal prints and decorative art that costs as much as our vehicles.
A sense of relief washes over me, the feeling of gut-wrenching sickness subsiding, at least a little. He pulls me into a hug, holding me pressed against his chest. He whispers in my ear, “I know it’s going to take a long time before you trust me, and it’s okay, just keep talking to me.” I nod into his arm as a loud pounding follows, and the doorknob twists.
It’s locked, but Liv’s voice whines from behind the door. “Guys, come on… I want a story.”
“Okay, okay, we’re coming,” Steven laughs. “Pick out one book, and Mom and I will read it to you.”
“Two,” she insists.
“One!” we both exclaim, laughing as he helps me up from the seat.
He leans in for another hug, kissing my eyelids, running a hand through my hair. “I love you, Alastair.”
We exit the bathroom, holding hands, our daughter’s face lighting up, relieved as she sees the tension gone.
9
The week of the party is a madhouse. I’m trying to balance work with making sure the caterer, band, and rental furniture are confirmed.
I’m sitting in my office Thursday afternoon, typing an email, when my cell phone screen lights up signaling a missed call. “Shit,” I murmur, not realizing it’s on silent. There’s a voicemail, it’s Joe from the Blues Troupe, a bass player from the group that’s slated to perform. They’re a local blues band I found a few years ago at a wine tasting event, the lead singer’s voice not quite smooth—it’s gravelly like lingering cigarette smoke. I fell in love with their sound, a reminder of Nina Simone. I’ve followed them over the years at various charity and local blues fests, and they started playing our party two years ago after we decided to provide some entertainment.
Joe’s calling to tell me his wife Lena has laryngitis and can’t perform. He’s contrite, a last- minute cancellation not good for anyone.
I sigh. It’s not the end of the world, I think wryly. Maybe Liv can entertain them with magic tricks or tumbling passes.
A knock at my door signals Brynn coming for our weekly one-on-one to discuss what we have upcoming for potential clients and status updates for those we’re working with. My head’s in my hand as I mutter, “Shit.”
“Everything okay?” Brynn peeks her head in before taking a step inside.
“Ahh… not great, but not work-related.” I motion for her to have a seat.
“Problems on the home front?” She’s casually looking at the spot where my frame used to be. “Removed the family pic?”
I thought she had done that.
I give her a surprised look but don’t say anything, my eyes narrowing.
She’s quick to continue, “I don’t mean to pry, you’ve just looked miserable lately.” She waves around my office. “You seemed so free and happy when I first met you, and then a change came over you.”
I search her eyes, the cornflower blue as she pauses, “I shouldn’t be talking to you like this. You’re my boss, none of my business.” She sits back in her seat with her notepad on her lap.
I nod. “The party tomorrow night, the band canceled.”
“That’s terrible.” She taps her pen against her paper. “And too last minute to book another one.” She leans forward. “Unless...”
“Unless what?” I’m curious as she jots down a note.
“Would you be opposed to my friend?”
“Is your friend in a band?”
“She’s an aspiring singer.” She sees my look of disdain, everyone a wannabe American Idol. “She’s great, you can see her on YouTube.” She stands. “Can I use your computer? I’ll pull up some clips.”
“Certainly.” I scoot back from my screen. “Go ahead.” I stand up. “I’m going to grab a water. Do you want one?”
“Sure.” She takes a seat. “If you don’t like her, no biggie, but it might be a possible solution.”
“I’m always happy to listen. Everyone’s gotta get their start somewhere.” I laugh. “My voice is like cats being strangled, so I appreciate those that can sing.” I head to the breakroom and grab a couple of bottles of water, my thoughts on the party. Karla stops me. She has some last-minute questions on a client meeting with a new restaurant that has faced zoning issues and another one that lost its liquor license for serving to minors in a college area.
I head back to my office, Brynn clicking on a link. “You ready for this?” A women’s sultry voice echoes through my speakers, a country twang apparent. I lean against my door, and my face breaks into a grin. “This is your friend? Wow! Impressive.” She nods, and I listen as she plays a few more examples. “Great voice.”
“Yeah, Andrea’s a doll.” Brynn shrugs. “And she’s uber-talented.”<
br />
“And she’s local?” I eye her quizzically.
“Yep, I’ll check to see if she’s available.” Brynn laughs. “I guess I should’ve done that first.”
“Now that I’ve fallen in love with her, yes, she’s probably booked.”
“Her boyfriend used to do backup vocals, and they broke up, so the band did as well. She’s in between.”
“So, she doesn’t have a group?”
“No, but she could do solo.” Brynn muses. “Or maybe fill in for the sick vocalist?”
“Great idea.” I bite my lip. “I’m sure the rest of the band would want the gig, they definitely want to get paid.” I take a sip of water. “Why don’t you talk to your friend and see if she’s available. If so, I’ll take her contact info and see what I can work out with Joe and the rest of the band.”
She nods empathically. “Perfect, let me grab my phone and shoot her a text.” She heads out to her desk, and I shoot Joe a text asking him to call me.
“If that’s okay, I’ll bring my phone to our meeting in case she calls.” Brynn giggles. “It’s like I’m waiting for a guy to call.” She makes a face. “Were guys as flaky back then?”
I’m not usually one to divulge to co-workers and those who work for me, but her question reminds me of Steven and me. I was set up with his roommate, Ted. Ted, on paper, seemed more my type—he was a guitar player, night owl, and had long, greasy hair and wore flannel button-downs and ripped jeans. My qualifications were not discerning at the time, just a bad-boy type. When I came to their dorm, it was like polar opposites living together. Steven was the neat one, a polo shirt and khakis, bed made, and a haircut that screamed recent. Ted, on the other hand, had half-eaten bowls of Ramen lying around, crumpled sheets, a pile of dirty laundry, and mommy issues that screamed of his insecurities. We went out a couple of times, and by our third date, it was clear we weren’t compatible. He had nothing deep to show minus his scars from self-mutilation and self-loathing. I showed up to his dorm for our date on time, ready to tell him we would be better off as friends. He didn’t bother to show up. Steven was working on a paper that was due and kindly spent the next couple hours in a deep discussion with me on parental figures and how they were shaped by biology rather than circumstance. We dated the issue over a bottle of tepid wine and a delivery pizza. Ted never came home that night. Later on, I heard he was getting drunk with a freshman.
The Ruined Wife: Psychological Thriller Page 8
