CLARISSA
oss, the-”
“B
James’s voice fades into the abyss as I run past him and into my office.
“Shit!” I yell, swinging the door shut with a loud slam. The sound momentarily provides some release, but then the sound of his voice drowns out everything else again.
After a week, I’d finally found a way to get through the day without needing to hide in my office for hours on end, sobbing.
What was he even doing here? Other than to twist the knife. Doesn’t he know how much it hurts to see him?
“I hate you, Matthias Baxter. I hate you so fucking much,” I sob.
And I feel myself about to slip into another bout of tears when my phone rings.
Composing myself, I answer. “This is Clarissa.”
“Clarissa, it’s John.”
My immigration lawyer. I hadn’t heard from him in over a month, since Matthias and I had seen him to submit my spousal green card application.
“I’ve been waiting to hear back from you,” he says.
That’s weird. I hadn’t heard anything about him needing to hear from me. “Oh, were you needing something from me?”
“Well, there’s a time limit when we can resubmit your application for a business visa.” “I don’t understand…”
There’s a pause before he explains. “Oh, Mr. Baxter didn’t tell you? It was found that someone had tampered with the agent who processed your application. He has been fired and all of his cases are now in review. Mr. Baxter is actually the one who told me about it. So, I asked him which application you wanted to go ahead with and he said he’d ask you and get back to me. But we only have another month to submit the paperwork for your original application.”
What I am hearing? Is this what he came here to tell me? Why hadn’t he just said so? “Um. I… I’m going to have to get back to you, John.”
“Of course, sometime this week would be best.”
“I will. John? When did you talk to Matthias about this?”
He thinks about it for a bit, flipping some pages. “Oh, it was almost a month ago now. I’m sorry to nag you, I just wanted to make sure you didn’t miss the deadline.
A month.
When we came back from Milan.
A whole month.
And he never brought it up once?
Why?
Had he been so desperate to make sure I went through with this stupid fake marriage that he’s kept this from me?
My body stings with betrayal.
Who’s the liar now, Matthias? Who’s the fucking liar now?
MATTHIAS
O
ver the next week, I make more enemies than I ever had friends.
Everyone and everything annoys me and I get increasingly more irate. By Friday afternoon, I’m downright tyrannical.
“Hannah! Where the fuck is the Henderson report? I said I wanted it on my desk at two p. m. It’s three now. God! Can’t anyone do the simplest tasks around here? ”
I storm back into my office, ignoring the looks of everyone on the floor. When they’re the ones with my responsibility, then they can comment on my behavior.
“Hannah!” I yell again. The papers on my desk are a fucking mess. I can’t find anything. “Where is my iPad?”
She comes in, slams it on the table and slaps the back of my head. On her way out of my office, she pulls the double doors of my office shut, but not before saying, “Maybe when you stop throwing tantrums, you can keep your door open.”
Except for that morning outside of the club, I haven’t seen or heard from Clarissa.
And I thought it would start to get easier, but with each ticking second, the missing of Clarissa buries deeper inside me, an ever-present ache in my chest that sometimes overwhelms every other sensation.
I miss every fucking thing about her.
I’ve only been able to go back to my apartment once, her scent drowning me when I walked into our… my bedroom. Her toiletries in the bathroom, her clothes still hanging in the walk-in wardrobe, a lip-stained glass on the kitchen counter that I couldn’t bring myself to ask Marika to wash. They all haunt me.
I don’t want the traces of her gone.
Saying goodbye is hard when you know it’s going to be the last time.
I leave a note asking Marika to pack up her things. But on my way out, I scrunch up the note and throw it away.
Maybe one day, when I can stand being here without her actually there, the ghost of her will be enough.
My office door opens and Hannah steps in, her face about as stormy as mine has been.
“I’m not done throwing a tantrum, you might as well keep the door closed.”
“Mr. Masters is here to see you,” she says through gritted teeth. She might not say anything, but Hannah knows everything that’s been going on.
She steps out as he comes in.
Being based in New York while Terry lives in London, I only see him in person three or four times a year. I guess the last time he was here; I was too busy trying to wrap my head around the three of them in my office to really look at him.
He looks old. His hair is completely white now; his face lined with wrinkles that look an inch deep, eyes devoid of color. I guess not having a heart makes you age badly.
“We need to talk,” he says, still standing by the door.
“I don’t think that we do. There’s a board meeting next week. I can talk to you there. I mean, you called it to talk about my ‘bad boy’ behavior after all,” I say, the bitterness clearly evident.
If I ever forgive him for his part of my possible firing, I’ll still never forgive him for what he did to Clarissa. Just because she turned out to be the traitor her father is, doesn’t mean I can’t hate him for what he did.
“Matthias. You need to listen to me.”
I lean back, piercing him with my look. I could just kick him out, but while he’s here, I’m going to make it as hard for him as possible. “What makes you think that?”
The wrinkles deepen a little. “It’s about Clarissa.”