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BAILEY
A WEEKpasses in a fog. The numbness that set in the day after our anniversary has persevered, and I’m grateful for it. It’s allowed me to go through my days on autopilot. So what if my smiles are few and far in between and feel alien, stretching my face into unnatural angles? At least I managed some. I’ve been avoiding everyone as much as possible. I’ve resorted to taking my car to work every day to avoid having to talk to Kallan. It’s not him specifically I don’t want to talk to. It’s everyone. It hasn’t stopped him from coming in for coffee every day, but he doesn’t push it. His mouth greets me, but his eyes tell me he’s there if I want to talk. I appreciate it, and every time I watch him walk back to his shop, I’m filled with an inexplicable sense of sadness.
Home is a different story. It’s been impossible to avoid Quinn. Every day I get home, he’s there, waiting for me with dinner and something he got for me. Flowers, chocolate, perfume, a book, my favorite ice cream. Dinner is either something he’s made or takeout. I hardly eat, mostly just picking at whatever is on my plate, despite his pleas for me to eat. From the moment I step through our apartment door, he’s attentive to all my needs, even trying to predict what I need before I can voice it. It’s…frustrating. Months ago, I was desperate for this kind of attention, but now it all feels empty. Now, all I want is for him to leave me alone so that I can just breathe. It all feels a little too much, too late.
Our evenings are spent with Quinn telling me all about his day while I listen in silence, often finding myself spaced out. He doesn’t let it deter him, though. It’s written in the determination on his face when he carries the conversation for the both of us. As if that determination alone is enough to fix what I fear might be broken beyond repair.
I know I can’t go on like this. I know I need to do something, make some kind of decision. But I feel lost. All the important decisions in my life have been made with us as a team, and the thought of having to do it alone is like jumping out of a plane without a parachute. So I do nothing.
Every night, I close the bedroom door and go to bed alone. Mercifully, I fall asleep almost as soon as my head hits my pillow, exhaustion tugging at my bones, but each morning, I wake up just as tired.
*****
It’s seven thirty when we walk into The Blue Harlem Lounge. This belated anniversary dinner is just one of the things Quinn has on his redemption list.
“Mr. Foster. So good to see you again,” the hostess says with a smile, which dims when she looks at me. Because Quinn’s pressed up against me, I feel him stiffen. “I reserved your usual table.”
I meet her eyes, and I’m not sure what I see in them. Condemnation? Disgust? Judgment? I can’t exactly pinpoint any of those emotions. Perhaps it’s a combination of them all. All I know is I don’t like it.
Her smile in place, she grabs two menus, and I’m helpless as I follow in her wake, Quinn’s hand a firm presence on my back herding me behind her. The table she leads us to is in the back of the restaurant. It’s cozy and intimate, surrounded by big potted plants, making it semi-private and setting it apart from other tables. Quinn rounds the table, taking his seat after holding out my chair for me. The perfect gentleman.
“Your waitress will be with you soon,” the hostess says, placing menus in front of us. So consumed with all the realizations and facts I can no longer ignore I don’t notice her leaving.
Quinn’s voice pulls me from the dark place my mind has gone.
“Sorry, I wasn’t listening.” Even to me, my voice sounds dead. Like I’m on autopilot.
“I was asking if you’d like some wine.”
There’s a desperation in his voice that catches my attention and drags my eyes to him.
Two glasses of red wine standing side by side.
It feels like an eternity that I stare into his eyes. His beautiful, deceitful eyes.
Abruptly, I stand up, knocking my knee on the table.
“Actually, I think I want to leave.”
“Bailey, wait.” I ignore his frantic call. I ignore the stares, but for some reason, I stop at the hostess stand.
“I’m his wife.” I don’t know why it’s so important to me that she knows, but I don’t question it. The way her eyes widen with understanding and then soften with compassion settles something in me, and with a tiny nod, I leave. I’ll never step foot in this place again.
Quinn finally catches up with me outside. “Bailey, wait. Please come back inside. Let’s just forget everything and enjoy a meal together.”
Forget everything? I shake my head. “I’m not hungry. I want to go home.”
My voice catches on the word because that’s a lie. That place isn’t my home. Not anymore.
The car ride is stiff and awkward, the silence deafening. I don’t miss his glances or the rhythmic clenches on the steering wheel.
I bypass everything and walk straight to the bedroom, Quinn a heavy presence on my heels.
I thought I could do this. I thought maybe we could weather this storm together and come out stronger on the other side, but that was before I allowed myself to acknowledge the full scope of his betrayal. When I still preferred denial over reality.
“What are you doing?” he asks anxiously, watching as I grab a suitcase and unzip it.
“Packing.”
