MY FIRST MEETING with Jerrison begins pleasantly enough. I walk into his office. Gasp at the pieces of me scattered everywhere. Photos on his dresser. The fern I brought when he signed his first client. The paperweight we got on a trip to the Caribbean.
I tell myself not to pick up those memories. Not to run my fingers over them and remember the taste. Tell myself not to chase them down the rabbit hole. It will only lead to weak knees and even weaker convictions.
Doc’s advice sticks with me. Two things.
Treat him like a stranger. Become a P. I.
I’m at an advantage because I know my husband. His tells. Eyes that skitter to the left when he lies. Hands that dive behind his back when he’s hiding something. Fingernails with jagged edges from nerves and guilt.
Right now, my eyes are clear. Free from lust or nostalgia. I’m following the path laid before me. The path that Nataya, Jaz, Chloe, Hazel, and Pax all followed. I’m the leader of my own life, and I won’t make the silly decision of taking Jerrison back too soon.
I keep my walls up. Build my armor. Reinforced steel. Impenetrable emotions.
It’s hard sometimes.
The sun hits Jerrison’s eyes like a lover. Softly caressing. Bringing out the best in them. I drown in blue and flecks of hazel. I lose myself in a soft twinkle and a golden glow.
Our fingers brush when we reach for the same pen.
My heart bucks. Focus, Harriet. Focus. I’m immune.
I’m untouchable.
This is just business.
“How about that soccer player?” I pull out a headshot of a B-list celebrity. “I think he’d be open to doing something like this. Especially if we frame it with a social media kick…” My eyes slide over to Jerrison’s and I find him staring at me. Heat billows through my chest and climbs into my cheeks. “What?”
In a slow, languid movement, he rests his elbow on the table and props his cheek against his fist. Now that he’s been caught staring, Jerrison doesn’t bother to hide his inspection.
I squirm nervously. “We’re working, Jerrison.” Still no response.
I sharpen my words. Make sure they’re angry enough to pierce him. “Stop playing around. This is very important to me.”
“I have a question.”
The annoyed sigh starts from deep in my throat. “Can it wait?” “No.”
I press my lips together.
“Harriet…” His eyes drop to the ground. He opens his mouth. Snaps it closed.
My fingers dig deep into my palm. The prick of my fingernail makes me hiss. I’ve never seen such a thoughtful expression on his face. No, it’s more than just thoughtful. It’s… self-reflection. I’m extremely curious to hear what he has to say.
“What is it?” I whisper.
“I’m trying to think of evidence that proves I was committed to you.” Despair pools in his blue eyes. “But I can’t find any.”
My heart stops beating for a second. I suck in a breath.
A thick weight settles on the room. It smells like the earth before a storm. Sounds like thunder about to clap. I’m struck by invisible lightning. Flames lick at my skin. A special kind of pain. A twisted form of torture.
I hesitate to identify the source of that agony. It would require admitting that my husband still has the power to make me feel helpless and small.
That he still has the power to ruin me.
“That’s not true is it?” Jerrison croaks. The question is oddly vulnerable.
Quietly introspective.
“It…” I stop. Pull my lips in.
He eases back from the table, almost as if he’s bracing himself for a hammer to crash into his head.
I look at him, sense the earnestness in his question, the power he just offered back to me, and I want to lie to his face. Like a mother who forgets the trauma of childbirth when she holds her baby for the first time, I long to throw away the past. If only to reshape the guilt he feels. If only to rearrange the dumpster fire that our marriage became.
The compulsion falls on my shoulders. It’s heavy in my hands. Unwelcome. I let it go. Close my eyes and watch the guilt slip through my fingers.
This question means a lot to me and I won’t sugarcoat the pain he inflicted.
I am not Jerrison’s mother. I am his wife.
Forgiving the pain he caused does not mean forgetting the hurt he inflicted. In fact, forgetting would mean making myself even smaller. I’d have to break the Harriet I’ve only recently begun to rebuild.
Jerrison’s shoulders slump. “You don’t have to answer that. I already heard you.”
I look at him and realize that he has.
The truth is ugly sometimes. It’s twisted and decrepit. We’d prefer to sweep it under the rug. But buried secrets only multiply. A false narrative. A convincing mirage that becomes a universe.
We show up. Put up. Make excuses.
We hold on when the disrespect mounts.
We fight other women for a prize that isn’t worth its weight in gold.
I should know. I hid my pain in other ways. In more beautiful ways. I showed up to events in luxury dresses, hanging on my husband’s arm, flaunting my diamond ring. I heard women gossip in the bathrooms. Whispers that went cold when I entered. I cried into my pillows at night while guzzling bourbon and telling myself that my husband would never.
This moment unveils my folly like a flashlight sweeping over dried bones.
Silence falls in the office.
Jerrison stares at his hands and says nothing.
I watch him through the corner of my eye and wonder if he saw something. If he’s finally beginning to care about what broke us.
Even this small conversation amazes me. It’s a miracle.
It’s Doc.
I swallow past the lump in my throat. Seize the moment and bare my soul for my own sake rather than Jerrison’s. “You hurt me.” My voice is a husk. Raw vulnerability. It bursts from my throat, scraping off my tongue. “You really hurt me, Jerrison.”
“I’m sorry.” His eyes dart back and forth. A man wrestling with a truth he’d rather not touch. A stripping of old skin. Old habits. Old thoughts.
It burns him.
I can see it.
No one likes the process of becoming. Something.
New. Better?
It’s all we can hope for. But it hurts.
I understand.
“Didn’t I buy you the house you wanted?” He wrestles with the words. “I came home everyday. I paid the bills, the car, the mortgage.” He stops. Shakes his head. “Don’t answer that. Doc already… I know where I’m going wrong.”
My hand over his feels like something new. “Tell me.”
“Not yet.” He places his hand on top of mine. It’s not romantic as much as it is a lifeboat. He’s a man drowning in emotions he never felt before. New revelations that are turning his world upside down.
I never considered Jerrison a selfless man. He was kind. He was loving. But he’d always given me the impression that he would choose himself over me. At all times. Without regret.
I married him knowing that. Stupidly, of course. I didn’t have access to Doc’s technology. I couldn’t spot the red flags that would have spared me so many years of pain. And, even if someone had pointed them out to me, I would have been too in love to turn back.
Today, sunshine streaming through his office and dancing over the photo of me when I was happy, when my arms found his and my heart believed that he would only ever look at me, I see a different light in Jerrison’s eyes.
Selflessness.
Regret.
For the first time, he’s not just thinking about himself.
“I should go,” I whisper. My fingers squeeze his arm. My legs push out of the chair.
This moment demands solitude. Privacy.
Jerrison doesn’t reach for my hand when I leave. He doesn’t call for me. Doesn’t remind me to meet him at the gym tomorrow morning like we agreed.
I quiet the nurturer inside who wants to hug him. Coddle him. Tell him I still love him. That the nights are cold without him and the days are long.
Instead, I lock the door quietly behind me and tiptoe down the hallway. “Harriet.” Patrick stops me as I step through the lobby. His eyes are
wider than my palm. “What are you doing here?” “I came to see Jerrison.”
“Oh.” He blinks. Licks his lips. Darts a nervous look at the elevator.
I frown at him. Patrick is an old friend of Jerrison’s, but not one I respect. He was an active participant in my husband’s cheating and would often cover for him when I asked where Jerrison was.
The elevator dings.
Patrick grabs my arms and hauls me around. “Do you want some coffee?” Nervous laughter spills from his lips. “I think we should have some coffee in my office.”
High heels clack behind me.
I frown at Patrick. Why is he acting so weird?
“Excuse me,” a feminine voice rings out, “is Jerrison in?” Dread replaces all the blood in my body.
The world goes dark at the edges. Shadows bleeding into sunlight.
I met the owner of that voice only once-at Fuentes’s party-but her face is etched into my mind.
Patrick cringes.
I shove him with my elbow and break out of his arms. Spinning, I seek out the owner of that voice. She’s standing in a pair of skinny jeans and a
loose cotton blouse. Hair done. Eyebrows plucked. Make-up on point.
Her head lifts.
And suddenly, I lock eyes with my husband’s mistress.