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“As soon as possible. To do damage control on a bullshit story in the Daily Mail about me cheating on Oliver…with you.”
“What!”
“That’s not what I want to talk to you about––” I say, ignoring his outburst. In the scheme of things it doesn’t even warrant our attention. I move to half sit on the corner of his desk.
“Is that bastard vindictive? Is he gonna make this hard for you? Because if that’s the case––”
“I love you,” I shout over him. His mouth clamps shut and his eyes lose their hardness, soften, shining love back tenfold. “I love you,” I repeat much more quietly and shrug. “Nothing else matters.”
My cast knocks into the mouse pad over and the screen of his desktop lights up. My gaze inadvertently slides across his computer screen and a list of files catches my eye.
Wimbledon
Australian Open
French Open
And the list goes on.
…wtf?
I blink, blink some more, trying to determine what reasonable explanation he may have for these files being on his computer––a computer that nobody else is allowed to use.
“What is it…Maren?”
Noah’s voice is frayed at the edges, muffled by the busy chatter of my thoughts as I go through a checklist of excuses that don’t make any good sense. And then my scalp begins to prickle with awareness, much the same way it does when bad shit’s about to go down. I grab the mouse and click on the first folder. Multiple files with dates pop up.
“What are you doing?” His voice is closer now, tight with concern.
I click on the 2015 date in the Australian Open file and what I see knocks the wind out of me.
“Don’t.” His tone induces me to look up at him. On the surface his face is still. Only someone who knows him as well as I do would notice the tightness around his eyes, the harsh line of his clenched jaw, his throat moving as he swallows. He’s worried and fighting to keep his reaction in check.
I click on the file and a video plays. It’s Noah––at the Australian Open. He aims his phone down at the court and there I am, bouncing on the balls of my feet, tennis racket flipping, oblivious of who was in the stands watching and recording. The rush of blood in my ears makes it impossible to hear the sound on the video. I turn up the volume.
“Two more sets, baby, and it’s yours. You can do it. I know you can…”
Each word is a stab in the heart, the knowledge almost too overwhelming to accept. He’s been there all along. Through every victory…every defeat. My emotions seesaw from anger, to love, to confusion. They keep taking turns until anger wins.
I click on the last video while he watches me with an expression of pure dread. The US Open. I can’t catch my breath. I run seven miles every day and I can’t breathe. Onscreen, I watch myself dive for the ball, land on my wrist. My prone body lies motionless for a moment. Then my face crumples. Clutching my arm, I curl into a fetal position.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!! It’s okay, baby…it’s okay…” he murmurs in the background.
I turn off the video.
“Every single one.” My voice sounds strange, detached, robotic. “Every one of my matches and you were there.” It’s not a question. I need him to admit it. I need for him to say that while I was missing him, dwelling in an empty feeling after each and every win and loss, he was there having his own private celebration.
“Maren––”
“I did see you there––at Wimbledon,” I continue, my eyes briefly falling shut as the knowledge punches me in the gut and disappointment seeps through my limbs. “I wasn’t imagining it.” He approaches and I check him with a glare.
“Maren––”
“Take another step and I will not be responsible for what happens.”
He stops within reach but wisely chooses to stuff his hands into the pockets of his gray slacks. The worry on his face only pisses me off more. Of all the selfish things…this may be the worst thing he’s ever done to me because this was nothing more than an act of cowardice.
The need to put as much distance as possible between us makes my feet move. I edge round the desk and slowly back out of the room while he’s rooted in place, watching me go.
“Let me explain.”
When I reach the door, he advances. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t follow me.”
As soon as I’m out the door, my pace triples. And for once, he does the right thing and lets me go.
* * *
I pull into the parking lot of the elementary school where Bebe teaches and park, my head throbbing from a hangover nasty enough that I consider updating my last will and testament. Alcohol is not my friend. It’s safe to say my days of drowning my sorrows in booze are officially over.
