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Well, damn. Okay, another check mark in your folder.
“How about I tell you more about me? Then you can see if we might make a good working relationship. I’m in my sixties, married for more than half my life, high school sweetheart and all,” she tells me. “I’ve been doing therapy for over thirty years and came to work with the military because of watching my dad suffer from PTSD.”
I nod and feel like it’s an admirable thought, but something is off. The feeling lingers in my bones. Her Ivy League plaques and family photos are displayed proudly on the walls. Wonder where she got the money to pay for these degrees and certificates? I notice the “humble” wedding band. It doesn’t match her Christian Louboutin shoes. Simple jewelry, expensive shoes, designer glasses that are not prescribed.
“How did you pay for school?” I asked, still looking at the degrees. I see her out of the corner of my eye, shifting in her seat.
“I worked full-time at a bar.” The half-truth is filtering out of her mouth.
“Tips must have been impressive.”
“Yes, they were,” she coughs. “But my husband and I made some good real estate deals. He is a developer.” She is quick to defend herself.
“Oh?” I look at her a bit more. What is it she’s hiding?
“Yes, he came from some money, but this life we built is from us and real estate deals. When his father passed, my husband took on the family business and brought it up out of the weeds.”
I nod again and look over at her desk. There are a few framed pictures of her and two kids. Two boys stand on either side of her and they look just like… him! I turn my head to her and she can see my surprise. I know who she is now! This lying bitch!
“Who is your husband?”
“I’d prefer to keep my personal life… personal.”
“Yet you want me to spill my guts.”
“Well, you are here for you.”
Fuck this. I stand, and she quickly holds her hands up toward me. “Let me help you! You are struggling with something; I can see it!”
Yeah, Allison, I’m struggling with the fact of who you married. You procreated with that… that… wow.
“I don’t think this is a good idea.” I stare.
“My husband doesn’t know who I treat or what’s said here.”
She must trust that man a lot.
“You love him?” I ask.
She sits back, baffled at the reverse physiological mindfuck she’s going to receive.
“I do, I love my husband.”
“You think he is a good man?”
“Yes! He’s improved certain areas of the city. He hires a lot of veterans in memory of my father. He has the biggest heart and gives back to the community and several nonprofit organizations. We are chairs on a few fundraisers.”
“So, you don’t care about his affairs?” I throw this shit at her. Her eyes widen with a “How did you know?” response. “How can you be OK with him flaunting all of those younger women? Have your children seen?”
“Now hold on.”
“What about the confidential deals overseas that left people dead? The people you sit on the fundraising chair for, do they know?”
No words. Mental mindfuck. Hell, we are here. Let’s give her some more. Tell me, Mrs. DuPont, do you like it rough?
“Inside trading, embezzling, having employees pay their salaries when they invest back into the company.”
She purses her lips together.
