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I look at the dresser and closet, longing to tear through them and start purging myself of everything that belongs to my dear, late husband, but I have to exercise restraint yet again. It’s imperative that I not make any sudden moves.
It will be the single hardest act of my life, but I will succeed—somehow.
Toeing my shoes off and leaving them beside the door, I enjoy the way my toes sink into the plush carpet as I cross to the bed and lie down on my side. Staring up at the ceiling, I stare blankly at the popcorn texture, at the tiny bits of dust that have accumulated on some of the small peaks. Then something occurs to me.
Why am I restricting myself? In my home, where I’m safe from prying, judgmental eyes, I can do whatever the hell I want.
With a flourish, I jostle myself into the center of the bed and spread my arms and legs out wide, letting loose a long, satisfied sigh. Glenn won’t be coming home tonight. Not ever. I listen to the silence that pervades the two-story home, smiling as myriad things occur to me: no more loud slamming of doors, no more jostling of keys or shoes clomping up the stairs, no more sweaty kisses or smelly hugs, and certainly, above all else, no more lies.
I am well and truly alone now, and I can’t think of a single thing better than that. If I never make it to a tropical island, this in itself truly is a kind of paradise.
My thoughts drift from one thing to the next until I finally fall asleep. Hours pass, and by the time I wake, it’s dark outside. For a moment, I almost leap from bed to start dinner, thinking Glenn will be home any minute, and I’d fallen behind schedule until I remember that my life belongs to only me now. If I want to make a meal, I can. If I don’t feel like it, I don’t have to do a thing. Everything is at my own pace now, and I grin as I climb out of bed and strip out of my clothes, on the way to the bathroom for a refreshing, unmolested shower.
What a difference a day made!
After I’m clean and in fresh, loose-fitting pajamas, I treat myself to a bowl of ice cream with crumbled brownie topping and sit down in front of the television to watchThe Bachelor, relishing in the fact that the remote is all mine. This is a celebratory snack, but if anyone asks, I’ll simply claim I’m drowning myself in sorrow with junk food.
Funny how closely related happiness and grief are and how easily people can confuse the two.
I spend a couple of hours watching television, absorbing mindless reality TV and shaking my head at some of the antics people get up to in the pursuit of love. At times, I even find my heart swelling with hope as I watch couples bear their souls on camera just for a chance at reciprocation.
Fools. All of them. If they only knew how fleeting lust was and that love was a unicorn—beautiful, coveted, and so rare as to be fictional.
Yet, I can’t help wanting them to find that happily ever after, and maybe that means that, even in my jaded state of mind, I am still a hopeless romantic waiting for my prince to come and sweep me off my feet.
Of course, my mind immediately conjures up thoughts of Cal—no, Declan. The way he’d touched me, kissed me, worshiped my body…it felt like nothing more than a dream. I’ve never experienced that kind of reverence as if he held true feelings for me. But that was impossible because he was cold as ice.
Just not when he had sex. Or had they made love? I would almost call it love, but I wasn’t stupid and wouldn’t make that kind of leap, knowing that only dead air greeted me on the other side.
Despite the late hour, I managed to run out the clock on scheduled programming, and the broadcast switched to news, which I find repetitive, so I set aside my empty bowl and decided to go to the office to review the insurance papers.
After all, I’ll need to file a claim soon.
Twenty-Three
~Declan~
One week later…
The funeral was shockingly packed, though I didn’t know who half of the attendees were. I’d spotted a few that I’d recognized as Glenn’s coworkers, as well as a woman who vaguely looked like the one I’d seen him with in the cul-de-sac, but since I’ve only seen her in heavy shadows and never got a full visual, I couldn’t be positive.
Sitting far back in my SUV, which had recently become my home on wheels, I kept an eye on the attendees, studying each of them to determine if anyone might be with the police.
As always, I trust no one and nothing. A funeral is the perfect place for cops to look for possible suspects. That is, assuming they had a reason to suspect anything.
I had spent the past week keeping a close eye on the happy widow, impressed by her ability to appear downtrodden in the wake of her husband’s death. I knew better, of course. She was thrilled, but she sure didn’t show it. To the scrutinous eye, one might notice how well-rested she was, as well as clean and put together. Sure, she shed some tears where appropriate, but to me, a trained eye, she was just playing the part.
The question that weighed on my mind, however, was whether or not she’d snitched. I don’t know a damn thing about the case, but I’ve been watching from afar, and I haven’t caught wind of or noticed any unusual activity at my old apartment. Nothing in the news, except a brief mention of an unnamed man who’d met a tragic end in a remote camping area north of the city.
It appears the plan went off without a hitch, and if it did, then I could soon retire in peace without looking over my shoulder or doling out retribution, which I want nothing more than to avoid.
That night with Brenda—Faith…had been a mistake. I can’t get her off my mind. Every night when I kick back the driver’s seat and close my eyes, I can feel her breasts filling my palms, the liquid heat of her body wrapped around mine, pulling and sucking me into oblivion. I have never been as affected by a woman as I am by this one, and it’s disconcerting.
I don’t want to feel this way, but I don’t know how to turn it off. This woman has somehow reached inside of me and flipped a switch I didn’t know existed, and now I’m forced to figure out how I’m going to deal with the aftermath.
If only I could prove she’s done something inherently wrong, something that goes against my code, a betrayal. Then I could kill this thing growing roots inside of me once and for all.
But I have nothing. No evidence to point to anything she’s done outside of our agreement that I can act on without remorse or regret. Faith Overmeyer has been a near-perfect client. My last client. Now, just like all the ones before her, I have to move on and put her behind me, pretend she never existed, that no part of that life ever existed. My fresh start is just around the corner.
