After I blow through the articles that needed to be written, I close my laptop with a smile on my face. I pick up Roarke’s lunch from his favorite deli, let him know I’m on my way, and head for his Southern California office, careful to watch my time lest I be late. Or early. My phone chimes. It’s already a reply email from my military man.
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: Interview me
How are you so sure I’m a Mr. Eppington? Looking for a date along with an interview, are you?
I can meet you tomorrow at 5:30 p.m. Does that work?
Eppington (Mr.)
My stomach flutters. I’m not sure what reason forces my hand, but I delete the emails off my phone. Roarke would never go through my personal emails, but if he did, it would be bad. I’m not supposed to keep things from him. He likes to knoweverythingeven though he cares about nothing. Then realization hits me. How am I going to get away with a late-afternoon meeting? Roarke will come home from work and expect dinner and a drink—a la’ Betty Draper style. I never leave in the afternoons.
The mere thought of lying to him makes me sweaty. My sweater sticks to me as I exit my vehicle and make my way into his office. The very pretty secretary, who I’m sure never does anything wrong, greets me with a cheery smile and a wave.
“Carina. You look beautiful today! So good to see you. I’ll let him know you’re here with lunch. Wait here a sec, please?”
I nod and run my fingers through my hair. I hope he’s not embarrassed by how I look. I’ll be mortified if he is. He’ll never get mad at me in public, but when we get home, it’s even worse.
I was distracted by the email, so I didn’t check my face in the mirror. The one good thing about black eyes and living in San Diego is that I can always hide my face with large sunglasses. No one questions it. Not even now,standing in the lobby of the expansive office. There’s so much sunlight pouring in that it requires shades.
The secretary returns moments later with a frown perched on her face. “He left a note for you to leave his lunch and go. He just left for an inspection.”
Panicked, I look at my watch. I’m on time. Perfectly so. “I’ll head back then,” I murmur. I try to keep my shoulders back and head high. It’s how confident people walk. I remember to smile and look approachable. I close his office door behind me and take in a deep breath.
I scribble a note for Roarke, leave his lunch in the mini fridge in the corner, and take a quick visual sweep of his desk. He has a framed photo of me. I look happy, but I’m not. My smile is wide and white. My cheekbones carve a subtle line in the sides of my face. An attribute my father passed down to me, or so my grandma explained. I’m wearing makeup, and my appearance is blessedly free of kisses from his fist. It was taken at his work Christmas party last year. I’m alwaysonat his work functions. The image makes my head feel light.
How long will I feign happiness? When will true contentment with Roarke commence? I just need more time. Something is fundamentally wrong with me, I know. Any woman would be lucky to have my life. A tear forms in the corner of my eye, under my sunglasses. I leave it there for fear of wiping away the precious cover-up.
I’m happy. I am.
I open a side drawer in his desk, looking for a small pack of tissues. He keeps a package in his desk at home, but I find three loose condoms instead. Closing the drawer with a loud bang, I leave Roarke’s office. I shouldn’t have snooped in his things. It’s my fault. A couple of years ago I caught him cheating on me with his partner’s wife. No one knows except me. Since then he’s promised that he’s been faithful. Sometimes a woman has to deal with certain things in life. This is my penance. We have never used condoms. At least he’s being safe.
I’m happy.
I wave at the blond, bubbly secretary on my way out the door. She calls out a goodbye at my back, but I don’t respond. I’m too upset. Plus, I can’t confirm she’s not the one he’s cheating with. What a fool I must look like.
Climbing into my car, I turn it on and grab my cell phone. I email back the military man and confirm the date and time. I’ll do whatever I have to do to make it work out. Talking to a stranger is something I need for my mental health.
I hold little to no control over my life. I’m flailing, drowning in an ocean of pain and grief. Something has to change. It needs to, because the more time that passes, the stronger my outlook on the world gets.
It’s better off without me in it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Smith
“You’re fucking strong, dude,”Moose says.
Weights clank, and the heavy metal music blasting through the speakers fades into another softer song. Sweat is pouring off my body as I bench the weight. It’s a new PR for me. Moose is spotting me from behind as I lie on the bench and put the weight up on the rack. Done.
I’m out of breath, and my arms feel like Jell-O when I sit up. Bending over, I put my forearms on my knees and attempt to catch my breath. “I’ve been trying to get that bitch up for a week now. Thanks, man,” I reply through jagged breaths. “Fuck, it feels good to be back.” Moving out of his way, I grab my water bottle and let him adjust the weight for his turn.
“It’s good to have you back, man. I’m sure Miss America doesn’t feel the same,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.
I merely shake my head. Megan’s pageant days are behind her. She teaches fourth grade now. I’d guessshe’s probably the hottest teacher that ever entered an elementary school. I cringed when she mentioned going back to school to teach high school students. Teenage boys. The guys at work will always only see her as a pageant queen, and that’s bad enough.
