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I really mean those words, because isn’t that the dream? The thing that we all hope for when we get married? For that special connection to still be there after so long?
He shifts uncomfortably. “Nah, I’m the lucky one. No other woman would have put up with me for as long as she has. Now, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you. Did you come to drag that husband of yours away from work?” He says, eying me up and down.
“Something like that,” I mutter, the anger that I’d pushed down while talking to Mike rising to the surface again.
“That’s good. That man spends way too much time at work.”
“Let’s see if I can pry him away, then.”
With a weak smile, I murmur goodbye and head to the elevator.
About a year ago, the PR Account Executive in charge of Quinn’s team quit unexpectedly. Quinn had a real shot at the position, and he was determined to get it. We knew it would mean putting in extra hours, but it was his dream to lead his own team, and I supported him. Days, nights, and weekends blurred into each other, where he’d leave for work at the crack of dawn, only to drag himself home late at night to pass out and do it all over again the next day. It was hard, but his dedication and passion to reach his goal made me love him so much more. Most nights, I’d rush home from work, whip up a meal, and make the drive so he could at least have a home-cooked meal at a decent hour. It was my tiny contribution to show my appreciation for all his efforts, and to steal a few minutes a day with my husband.
As the night guard, Mike was always manning the reception desk when I got there, greeting me with a friendly word or two, and with time, the greetings morphed into casual conversations. When Quinn finally scored the promotion, I was so happy for him and relieved that it was over and that I would finally get my husband back. Seems that I was wrong. Judging by the hours he’s been putting in over the last six months or so, managing his own team increased his workload, not lightened it.
The elevator doors sliding open with a soft ding breaks me from my memories, only to be assaulted by a sense of nostalgia as I take in the open-plan office in front of me. My eyes land on what used to be Quinn’s desk. It’s much neater than what his used to be, with a tiny cactus taking up one corner.
The time we shared dinner at that desk was short, but we made it count. We’d cram a whole day’s conversation into that thirty minutes we had, often not caring if we spoke with our mouths full because the little time we had together had been precious. Other times, we’d just stare, silently drinking each other in.
It didn’t matter what we did as long as we were together. Shaking my head slightly, I make my way through the open plan and down the corridor that houses the offices, my footsteps muffled by the carpet. I’m halfway down when I hear a few murmured words, followed by a light, feminine laugh. For some reason, my heart starts beating faster, and my steps slow down. There’s only one door open, and I check behind me, counting the doors on the left to make sure I haven’t made a mistake. Sure enough, the open door is the fourth, erasing any hope I had that I was wrong. That maybe I just missed Quinn, that he did remember our anniversary and was actually on his way home. Breath shallow, I take the steps needed to get to the door, the pain in my feet from my high heels forgotten.
There are a few moments in every person’s life that are defining. Moments you look back on that make you say, “That was the moment that changed me,” or “That was the moment that changed the course of my life.”
It could be a decision you made that set you on a whole different life path than what you had envisioned for yourself, or it could even be something simple like deciding on Mexican takeout instead of pizza that causes you to bump into someone you wouldn’t usually meet. Someone who would go on to play a vital role in your life.
I don’t need time to go by to tell me that this moment will be one of them, maybe the greatest of all those moments. Everything in front of me is screaming it at me. The laughing takeout boxes on his desk instead of plates delivered with a flourish by a waiter. The cell phone lying forgotten next to it whispering that we’re friends, bonded by the fact that we’ve both been ignored. The two glasses of red wine on the coffee table in front of them, smugly satisfied that they got chosen instead of the white I would usually pick. The kicked-off high heels lying discarded on the floor boasting that I’m naive, thinking that mine could top them in the game of seduction. Their bodies turned into each other, her leg drawn up, skirt riding high on a smooth thigh, a hand I know so well resting on bare flesh, fingers that have traced every inch of my body now entwined with fingers tipped with blood red insisting that he doesn’t belong to me, not anymore. His arm resting on the back of the couch curled towards her, almost caging her in, declaring that my husband, my lover, and my best friend had found someone else. Someone better.
But most of all, it’s the look in his eyes—eyes that are focused on someone that’s not me that tells me. The eyes that say, “No matter if the world is burning down around us, I won’t look away.” The eyes that once looked at me like that are now assuring me I’ve been replaced.
I think I stop breathing while I watch them, watching each look, each touch, each word opening a crack in my world that a moment ago wasn’t perfect, but at least was whole, was mine. Now I feel like an outsider, someone who’s watching a moment that wasn’t meant for them, someone who’s intruding on someone else’s private moment, and I’m numb.
Reaching for her wine her head turns, and she freezes as unfamiliar blue eyes meet mine. The stillness in her body must alert him because his head turns my way, and because my gaze has snapped back to him, I see recognition setting in, his smile fading, and dread taking over. It’s the look of a man who has just been caught. One I suspected but never fully believed I’d see on my husband’s face.
Devastation is a living entity, one that demands I scream and break something. Inflict pain so that someone else can feel what I’m feeling to help lessen the crushing burden, but pride takes the reins, shoving all those feelings down. My hands are quivering, and I grip them tightly together to hide the weakness that’s threatening to buckle my knees. I won’t give them a front-row seat to the breakdown I feel hovering on the edges of my numbness.I won’t.So, one by one, I take the fear, anger, and humiliation and shut them down, leaving emptiness behind. Seconds tick by in the silence as we hold eye contact, and I know at that moment that my life will never be the same again.
Woodenly, like a marionette, I turn, knowing that I have to leave before the emptiness I’ve been granted evaporates and the tsunami of emotions I know are waiting below comes crashing down on me. I’ve almost made it to the elevator when his frantic voice calling my name echoes down the corridor. I don’t want to acknowledge it, so I power on, hoping that the elevator is still on this floor. I don’t spare his old desk a glance as I move past it. Dimly, I wonder if it’s hers. Is it her that replaced him, replaced me in his life, or was she here already, an unknown lurking on the edges, waiting for her moment? Thankfully, the elevator doors open immediately, but just as it’s closing, his hand slaps against them, halting my retreat.
“Bailey.” His voice is hoarse, filled with so much pain, and I feel the monster, deep in my chest, stir with anger and rage. How dare his voice be filled with pain? He caused this pain. He doesn’t get to feel pain.
“Let go,” I whisper. A whisper is all I can do. More than that, and I’ll break.
“I’m not letting you leave. Please, not like this.” Movement behind him tears my eyes from his. The look she’s giving me over his shoulder is one of shock. Or is it dread? Did she feel so secure in their sneakiness that she didn’t think they’d get caught? Or is she scared that I’m going to win this competition that I haven’t been aware I’ve been in?
“You better let go. You’re upsetting your girlfriend.” My mouth is dry, my words thick, and I swallow hard in a desperate attempt to dislodge the lump in my throat. I’m barely holding on by a thread.
His head whips around. “Justine!” he barks. “Give us some privacy.” I feel a small sense of satisfaction when she steps back, shock crossing her face. So, she has a name. My hands clench at my sides.
“No need.” I move to push his hand off the door, but still when I notice his bare finger.
“Bailey, please. Just wait for me. Let me get my things, and we can leave together. I don’t want you driving like this.”
I ignore his concern because he and his concern can go and fuck themselves. Where was that concern when he started whatever he was doing with Justine?
“Does she know you’re married?” His eyes drop to where I’m looking, and he visibly recoils, pulling his hand back and clenching it into a fist. A hand that I’ve never seen bare since the day we said our vows.
My eyes feel dead when I look at him. “Don’t come home. I don’t want you there.” His breath hitches, and he takes a small step backward as if I’ve punched him.
We keep eye contact as the doors slowly close, Quinn’s face looking as wrecked as I feel inside. I sag against the back of the elevator, those strings holding me upright finally cut. I blink slowly, and when I blink again, the doors to the lobby open. A few blinks later, I’m in my car and pulling out of the parking lot with a vague recollection of Mike calling out to me. It feels as if time isn’t moving right, my thoughts like leaves tumbling in a brisk fall breeze while I drive aimlessly. At some point, I must have left town because an empty, dark road stretches ahead of me, my headlights the only light in the darkness pointing the way.
