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It’s important for me to go to New York with a clear head, and in order to do that, I need to put some distance between myself and Dean. I can’t be thinking about him while I’m having my conversation with Declan and having contact with him will indeed fuck with my head.
Perhaps I should reply to him and at least let him know I’ll be out of town… okay, one text won’t hurt. At least that’ll stop him from texting me and worrying.
THIRTY-ONE
NOW
Dean
Camille texted me last night saying she was going to New York for business. Since then, every call has gone straight to voicemail, and none of my texts are showing as delivered. It’s Wednesday now, and I still haven’t heard a word from her. I’m not worried, of course. She probably had her phone off while traveling, and she’s likely in meetings. Of course she doesn’t have time to talk to me, but that doesn’t stop me from thinking about her and instantly checking my phone every time it beeps, hoping it’s her.
Unfortunately, none of the messages I’ve been getting are from her. They’re all from one person.
My wife.
Karina has been calling nonstop since she went home to London last week. As soon as she left, I went home. Spending the weekend home alone allowed me time to think about both the women and the relationships in my life. I realize how fucked up and wrong I was by asking Cam to spend the weekend with me in the house I share with Karina. She was right to reject me. Who the fuck wouldn’t?
Why did I even fucking ask?
She went home the next morning, and besides endless texts and a few calls, we haven’t seen each other much. We went from spending every night for over a week together to not being together. I know a few days isn’t that long, but when you have the love of your life back in your life after eleven years of separation, any time apart feels like an eternity.
I’m becoming pussy-whipped, thanks to her.
Karina got home last night, and like the coward I am, I stayed the night at my office, unwilling to go home and face her. Not willing to face my wife since I dropped her off at the airport last week.
We’ve spoken briefly while she’s been away, but for the most part, I’ve avoided her phone calls. When we did speak, it was a short, probably less than a five-minute phone call; it was mainly Karina asking me not to leave, telling me that she loves me, and thinking if she gets pregnant, then we’ll be happy and magically our marriage will be repaired.
I’ve been great with excuses and getting her off the phone. Now that she’s home, I can’t avoid her any longer.
In fact, that’s where I’m going now.
Home.
I can’t sleep another night in my office, and I can’t stay at any more hotels. So, I’m going home. Home to face my wife like a grown-up. Home to make her come to terms with the fact I want a divorce and I’m not changing my mind.
Pulling into the garage beside Karina’s car, I allow myself a moment of silence to be by myself and have peace.
I never get silence anymore. I’m reminded of what a piece of shit I am every single day I wake up—not to mention what a horrible husband I am. Since I’ve been waking up with a woman who isn’t my wife, my guilt has been eating me alive, as it should be. I’m hit with a wave of guilt every time I open my eyes in the morning, but the moment Camille looks up at me with a sleepy smile and those intoxicating green eyes, I become numb to my guilt and lose myself all over again.
One look. All it takes is one single look for my entire existence to fall into place and make sense. She’s my anchor, the one person who can make me smile despite all the shitty things I’ve done.
I never wanted to be this person. It’s not like I set out to have an affair and totally ruin my wife. This wasn’t planned, but fuck me, what do I do when the person I’ve always been in love with isn’t the woman I married?
Lying makes me sick. No matter how ugly the truth has been, I’ve never been a liar. I’ve always prided myself on being honest, a good man like my father, and look at me now.
Now I’m someone my father would be ashamed of; someone I don’t even recognize. I’m disgusting. I’m a bastard. I’m a fucking scum.
My internal badgering doesn’t last very long before Karina interrupts me.
The passenger door opens, and my wife climbs into the seat beside me, a heavy breath escaping her parted lips. I turn my head to look at her. She mirrors me, and we just sit there staring at each other for a while.
“Why haven’t you come inside yet?” I don’t answer her immediately, instead, I allow myself a chance to look at her. Toreallylook at her. Her blonde hair is down and hangs around her shoulders, and she looks smaller than usual. Her collarbones are more prominent, her jawline sharper, a sign that she’s lost an unhealthy amount of weight. Dark circles reside under her eyes, her face free from any makeup.
She looks vulnerable, a look that I haven’t seen in years. Her appearance is like a knife to the chest. I’ve done this to her. I’ve sucked the life and love from this beautiful woman. While I’ve been going behind her back, she’s been making herself sick, likely trying to figure out where I am, what I’ve been doing, and how she can try and fix us.
I’ve been fucking someone else; that’s what I’ve been doing.
“Karina,” I whisper, unsure what to say or do, but I reach across for her hands and take them into mine. “Look at you.” Raising her hands to my lips, I kiss each of her cold knuckles. As much as it guts me that our distance has taken a toll on her, I still can’t be with her. Not anymore.
