I stand up, almost puking on the table as I watch a man eat an egg and bacon English muffin.
She emails me again. And again. I don’t reply.
I decide then that I better tell my wife. This isn’t going away.
I make a pussy move. To unburden myself, I tell Alastair a partial truth lying next to her in bed is bad enough, the divide between us growing daily, the idea of being between her legs feels wrong, the secret I’m holding tethering me, pressed up with my back against the wall. She starts to notice. My behavior’s changing, my moods. I don’t turn my wife away or down. I do now. Hurt, I see unease in her eyes. She’s questioning her body, her age, gravity. She tries harder—lingerie, role playing—I gag, my response not one she expects. I’ll never forget the look on her face as if I wrapped my arms around her neck and squeezed, choking the life out of her body. I did that. I caused this.
19
Imagine my surprise when the doorbell rings a few weeks later, and I expect my wife’s assistant, a gay guy with a lisp named Michael who’s babysat for us at least ten times. Instead, it’s a strawberry-blonde-haired woman that’s twenty shades of fucked like my life’s about to be.
I don’t want to let her in our house.
I’m nervous, my hands twitch as I try to play it cool and not lose my shit. Surprise and disgust are two emotions readily available on my face. Alastair’s starting to suspect something. She doesn’t know why I’m being rude to a stranger. I try and trample my feelings, my gut ready to burst. I bite down on my lip, hard, tasting blood.
This is bad.
I can’t focus during dinner. Can’t enjoy my wife or the conversation. I puke in the bathroom, my face clammy as I think of our daughter alone with this psycho stalker. The fact that Veronica/Brynn/whoever-the-fuck she is alone with my daughter, works with my wife, and is alone in my house is causing panic inside me, my heart thudding out of my chest.
We have to end the night. I have to make sure our child is safe. I’m on a mission, the idea for Alastair to still attend the concert with a friend while I try to talk some sense into the two personalities of Veronica/Brynn at the house occurs to me on the drive home.
I give Alastair a quick backward glance and a wave, ready to run into the house as soon as she turns the corner out of sight.
Unlocking the door, Veronica/Brynn and Livvie are perched on the couch painting Livvie’s nails a shade of orange. “Hi, Daddy,” Livvie grins. “Brynn’s helping me stay in the lines of my nails.”
Brynn laughs. “It’s been a bit challenging.”
She’s alive and looks unharmed. I breathe a sigh of relief. “Are you okay, Mr. Adams?” Brynn notices my wan face and sharp gasp. “You look ill. Did you eat something bad?”
I want to scream at her, tell her to get the fuck out of my house, out of my life.
But I can’t.
“Where’s Mommy?” Livvie’s eyes peer behind me.
“She’s coming.” I don’t want to tell Brynn that Alastair went to a concert.
“Why’d she drive off then?” Brynn gives me a sweet smile. I want to wipe it off her smug face.
“She ran to the drugstore.” I lie. “Getting me some cough medicine.”
“Sorry you’re sick, Daddy,” Livvie says. “Does this mean I don’t get to finish my movie?”
“No buttercup, you keep watching.” I eye them both, Brynn finishing the pinkie finger on Livvie’s right hand.
“Let me pay you Brynn, and you can still have a night out.” I walk to the kitchen counter. Livvie’s attention is on the TV and blowing on her nails.
“Are you sure you don’t need me to stay longer?” She tilts her head. “I could be of service in other ways.” She smirks, and I glare.
“Can you come in the kitchen for a minute?” I say.
She stands. “I’ll be right back,” she whispers to Livvie who’s immersed in her princess movie. She doesn’t even acknowledge her, eyes glued to the screen. The first time I’ve ever been so glad for the movie Frozen. It made listening to the soundtrack for the millionth time worth it. I open the door in the kitchen that goes outside. “Let’s step out here.” I motion to Brynn. I shut the door behind us and turn to her. I start to open my mouth, but her hands latch onto my arms, her tongue sticks into my mouth, violating it, a sucking sound. “I knew you wanted to be alone, you dirty old man,” she whispers.
I grip her arms, trying not to leave marks. “Stop. Stop it, Veronica, or Brynn, or whoever the fuck you are.” She steps back, her eyes darkening. “Stop pretending you don’t want me.”
“What the hell is your real name and what the fuck are you doing working for my wife?” I hold her at arm’s length, she’s like a feral cat twisting and pulling at me. “What happened to the interior design firm?”
“I always liked the actress Veronica Lake.” She’s dismissive, narrowing her eyes at me. “And I quit that job so I could go to work for your soon-to-be ex-wife.”
“Huh?” I seethe. “I’m not leaving my wife. I told you that.”
“Oh… but you will.” She motions down to her small belly. “Who do you think knocked me up?”
I drop my hands as if I’d been burned, gripping the doorjamb, my weight crippling against it. “What did you say?”
“I’m pregnant.”
I shake my head no as if that can control unprotected sex and prevent pregnancy.
She nods her head up and down as mine goes side to side.
At this moment, I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. My insides twist as the air leaves my lungs, I gasp. I’m a frozen corpse, panting. Did she say what I just thought she said? That night comes back to me, fumbling around in the backseat, no protection, my seed inside of her.
I drop her arms. She crosses them immediately, rubbing the spot I grabbed. “You might be able to ignore me.” She’s nonchalant. “Don’t think you’re going to dump your baby the same way.” She starts to raise her voice. “Treat them like they don’t matter?” I reach my hand out to cover her mouth. “Shut the fuck up.” I’m eerily calm. “My daughter will hear you.”
“She deserves to know she has a sister or brother on the way.”
“I thought you had a significant other.” I point down to her simple gold band.
“Nah, I just don’t want people to judge. I used to.”
“What’re you going to do about it?” I whisper.
“What do you mean what am I going to do about it?” Contempt drips from her voice. “We are going to have a baby.”
“Veronica…” I inhale deeply. “Or Brynn… Let’s talk about this.”
“That’s why I wanted to meet again.”
“Okay, okay, let’s talk about this.”
“I am.” She turns to go back inside. “I did. I decided I’m keeping the baby.”
My eyes plead with her. “Wait, will you consider other options?”
She huffs. “You mean like abortion?”
That’s what I mean. Instead, I say, “Adoption?”
“No.” She’s firm. “You better prepare to have this baby, it’s not going away.” I sag against the door watching her gather her purse, her sleeves too long for her arms, her fingers twisted around the cuffs. Before she walks inside, she says, “And another thing. You better tell your wife, or I will. Liv needs to know she’s not an only child any longer.”
The smile she gives me is evil, pure wickedness, a thinly-veiled threat.
My veins turn to ice. I have no doubt she will tell my wife.
After I give her some cash, throwing an extra fifty dollars at her with the stupidity to think when I ask her not to come to the Fall Fiesta, she won’t. As if fifty bucks will shut her up. Livvie says her goodbyes, and the front door closes behind her. I sit in shock, unmoving. Livvie’s attention is now on reading a story, begging me to start a new book tonight.
Maybe she’s messing with you, I think. Maybe she just wants a man to take care of her. Maybe it’s her boyfriend’s or husband’s, and she’s fuc
king with you. It’s her attempt at a sick joke. I know it’s not. I groan at the absurdity on my part.
Over the next week, I can’t focus. My eyes are red-rimmed and blurry. I rub them, consistently gritty like sand particles are lodged in my eyeballs. My heart rate and blood pressure feel like they’ve skyrocketed, the pounding in my chest I’m sure both Alastair and Livvie can hear.
Alastair asks me a couple of times if I’m okay. She’s preoccupied a lot, multi-tasking, talking on her phone, sitting cross-legged on the floor as she goes through her own creative process. I resent her at times for her half-hearted responses or one-word answers. Now I welcome them. When she asks if I’m okay, it catches me off guard, and I stutter, unsure what to say. I’m sorry honey, I stuck my dick in a twenty-something-year-old on a whim, and now she’s pregnant.
I’m ashamed to talk to anyone. My friends will be appalled I didn’t use protection. Some have wives who are friends with Alastair, and I can’t trust they won’t spill the beans during pillow talk. A couple might high-five me until they find out she’s pregnant. Pregnant. One word that has opposite reactions. One has a look of awe, sheer excitement coupled with nervousness, a first-time father, the journey with my wife. The second one, the feeling of being duped, set up, horrified, and it makes me sick to say it out loud, wanting to be relieved of it, as if it was an error in judgment, a woman I know nothing about. Not even her last name.
The emails continue.
Are you coming to the doctor’s appointment?
What should we name the baby?
Do you want to know the sex?
The final one causes my heart to beat out of my chest. When are you leaving her so that we can move in together?
When I tell Alastair about the affair, the raw emotion, the fury, it’s all expected.
I couldn’t tell her about the baby.
When I see her at the house for our Fall Fiesta, I about lose my shit. She’s watching an intimate moment with my wife. I about blew a fuse. I’m already pissed at my wife, she’s hiding something, the picture I was sent wasn’t just a friendly hug with a male colleague.
I want to say more to Alastair, but Brynn’s here, and Brynn around my child is a no-no. I clench my hands into fists, slamming the door shut between my wife and me.
Walking outside, she’s sitting with Livvie, acting all innocent, hand on her stomach, the light blue dress matronly. They’re talking about baby names. I about shit a brick thinking this woman might be telling my child about the baby. My forehead starts to sweat, and my palms are sticky.
“Hey, girls, what’re you doing?” I give a false smile.
“Just talking about baby names.” Brynn shows teeth. “I thought maybe Liv would want to help because you know…”
I Interrupt. “Ah, yes because she loves picking out names.”
“And...” Brynn finishes. “Because of her relationship with the baby.”
“Relationship to the baby?” Livvie tilts her head. “What’s that mean? Am I a relative? I have a lot of cousins already. But I’m the oldest.” She says proudly, puffing up her chest.
“No, no sweetie.” Brynn pats her head. “Because I work for your mom. I was hoping you’d babysit when you got older.”
“Oh… oh yes, I love babies.” Livvie twirls a piece of hair staring at Brynn’s belly.
“Great because this one is…”
“This one is extra special,” I finish. “Livvie, go find your mom. She wanted to help you with your hair.” Livvie makes a face, but a stern look sends her running into the house. Why can’t I put the same fear in Brynn?
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I seethe. “You said you weren’t coming.”
Brynn licks her lips. “No, you said that. I never agreed. Plus, my best friend is singing with the band tonight.” She gives me her biggest smile. “I couldn’t miss the party.”
“What do you want?” I spread my palms out. “What’s it going to take?”
“For?” She looks confused.
“For you to stop the mind games.”
“I want you to leave your wife.” She hisses. “Take care of your responsibility toward the baby and me.”
“We’d probably kill each other.” I wish I were joking when I say this. It seems a reasonable assumption that we wouldn’t. I’m unsure.
“Then I guess ‘til death do us part.” She snickers. Livvie comes running back out, pushing in between us, her eyes shining as she talks about her favorite topic—gymnastics. Better than babies at the moment. Alastair walks out at that exact moment, a snide smile on Brynn’s face, mine one of incredulity. There’s a look in her eyes when she spots the three of us, a twinge of jealousy, perhaps? A longing?
I want to silently warn her that this woman is crazy.
But I’m the one who touched her.
20
On Monday, I consult a divorce attorney, one who specializes in complex issues like paternity suits. I’m sure Alastair’s going to leave me at some point. Brynn’s going to try and come after me for money.
When I walk in the swank office of Kauffman, Coffman & Rothschild, I know I’ve hit the jackpot in attorneys… and attorney’s fees. She was recommended on multiple sites by clients, her ranking one of the best in the valley. Reviews can be arbitrary, but she’d been doing this a long time, a ball-buster.
Kauffman is a woman. When she introduces herself, she looks familiar, I know I’ve seen her somewhere. Her face is plastered over local magazines and on television, so that could be why she resembles someone I think I know. Her firm handshake and preference for lots of jewelry and bright pastels in her office appease me, though she’s clad in all black.
We sit down, her posture rigid, hands clasped on her desk in front of me. I’m fidgeting, unable to keep my foot from tapping on the floor, an echo as it reverberates off the tiled floor.
“First off, I know you mentioned divorce. You also said there was more. Care to elaborate?”
I don’t.
“Cheating?”
I nod, unable to meet her eyes.
“You cheated. Or cheating still?”
I chew my lip. “No. I did, but no, it’s over.”
“Mr. Adams, you and I have to be on the same side.” She points to me and then back at herself. “What you tell me in this office stays in this office. I don’t get paid to judge your behavior. I get paid to do a job.”
“Makes sense.”
“I need the truth. We live in a no-fault state. Cheating doesn’t matter in the eyes of the law. All they care about is if the marriage is ‘irretrievably broken.’ Is it?”
“I don’t want it to be.” I sigh. “It wasn’t my plan.”
“It never is.” She leans back, her bracelets clanking. “Did you fess up?”
I nod my head.
“She wants the divorce now?”
Clearing my throat, I say, “No, not necessarily.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Then you want it?”
“I messed up, bigger than the affair.”
“She’s underage?”
I cringe. “No.” My face blushes as she scrutinizes me.
“You’re a teacher, right?” She leans her elbows on the desk. “It’s not a student, is it?”
“No.” I almost add what kind of monster do you think I am? But realize I’m sitting here about to unburden what I’ve just done.
“I met a woman at the bar, and we went home together...” I don’t bother mentioning home was in the backseat of a four-door sedan or that all of fifteen minutes is going to change the trajectory of my life.
She finishes for me. “And she’s pregnant. Or says she is.”
Glad she caught on fast.
“How well do you know her?”
“I don’t.”
“Would she try and extort money from you or your family?”
“My wife has a very successful business. She runs the largest PR Agency in town.” She looks down at a sheet of paper on her desk. “Adams. Hmm�
�� Adams and Connell?” She glances up at me, and the blood drains from her face, her tan fading in front of my eyes.
“That’s her. Alastair Adams.” I’m curious. “Do you know her?”
“I know of her.” The words are rushed, and we switch back to the topic of the other woman. “Has she come after you for money or what’s her angle? Did she approach you with an oh-no I’m late text or is there more to it?
I inhale. “She doesn’t have my number, but she temps with my wife as her assistant. Her contact with me has been email.” She’s taking notes, her pen clicking as she thinks. “Do you know her intentions with the baby?”
“She said she’s keeping it. Won’t consider adoption or... ah…”
She finishes. “Abortion.”
“Nope.”
“Are we sure yet she’s pregnant? She provided any proof?”
“Like did she pee on a stick in front of me while I watched?” I run my hands through my hair, frustrated at the questions, my stupidity, the lack of information I have.
“I know this sounds simplistic, but I’m trying to gather info to determine what steps we need to take. Establishing paternity is first.” She tilts her head. “Especially on the off-chance she’s lying.”
“Do people really do that?” I ask. The question is stupid. I know they do it. You read about professional athletes and celebrities who get caught in scandals like this all the time. I’m not a movie star. We’re not the kind of people you extort money from. We’re well off sure, not rich.
“All the time.” She lowers her voice. “I see women who are dying to have a baby just to have a baby like it’s the latest handbag from Gucci. I see women who want to get pregnant to get back at boyfriends or exes. I see women try to get pregnant to get a baby daddy to pay their car note. I see men who try to keep their wives by poking holes in the condom or hiding their birth control.”
“But why me?” I murmur.
“Why not?” she says. “You might not be rich, but you’re a guy, you slept with her. I’m assuming without protection?”
“Don’t say it.” I warn. “I know.”
The Ruined Wife: Psychological Thriller Page 17
