I’M proud of myself for not shedding a tear. My arms are free of bruises. I’m not spitting dirty extensions out of my mouth. There aren’t any police officers in sight. No one is dragging me away in handcuffs.
It could have gotten ugly yesterday. For a split second, I almost lost it.
I thought about running straight to Ashley and yanking anything I could. Thought of tearing that cheap pink T-shirt and breaking one of those long, willowy legs. Thought of running downstairs and kicking her car’s side view mirror to the street.
Violence. Gore. I smelled her blood on my hand. Heard her screams in my ears. Felt the surge of adrenaline from breaking glass and denting metal.
It knocked me back a step. The longing to destroy her. The need to make her pay.
But I did not bring those visions to life. Deep breaths for tranquility.
Doc’s voice calmed the storm.
I nodded at my husband’s mistress and she nodded back. We exchanged a quiet ‘how are you’.
She smiled. Brazen. Unapologetic.
A woman with a prize that didn’t belong to her.
Only the husband can fix this, Doc said in my head when I passed Ashley.
She smelled of cheap burgers and evil. Scum.
Witch.
Burn her at the stake.
I scowled at her instead of punching her in the face.
My legs carried me to the door. To the elevator. To my car. My heart dragged behind my vehicle and got run over by traffic.
I’m proud. I didn’t cry.
Rewards were in order. Last night, I gave myself a big pat on the back. A bowl of ice cream. Vapid retribution that only placated rather than soothed.
Last night, I kept looking at my phone instead of the television. I went to the bathroom with it. Toothpaste suds dropped on the screen while I bent over the sink, waiting for a call that never came.
It’s morning now. A new day.
My phone is still silent.
I gather all my pain, frustration and anger. Just breathe. Just focus on pouring it out of me. Down the sink. Wash it away with a stream of warm water.
The sink clogs.
Darkness rushes up again, overflowing and dripping down the countertops.
My fingers dig into granite.
What did they do in his office when I left?
It haunts me. Thoughts of their nakedness. Their passion. Her pretty smile. Her smooth face.
Ashley.
The other woman.
The one he chose.
I can smell her perfume even after showering three times. It makes me want to slam my fist into the mirror. Watch the shards crash into a million pieces and splinter at my feet. I want to scream at someone although there’s no one in my apartment to hear.
How did he hold her? What did he say? Was it better, sweeter, because I was gone? Because I knew and not even my leaving could stop it?
The thought is there. Always. Lingering. What’s the point?
This fight is rigged anyway. I’m the only one suffering. Holding on to broken things that cut my hand and cause infections. While my bed is cold and empty, while my heart beats for one man alone, my husband is enjoying his girlfriend’s company. She’s a stain on my memories. An oily film on my hands. In my head.
I march to my car and open the door for bitterness because it’s an old friend. I invite him to take the passenger seat. To fill the car with his presence. I stop off to bring more of them. Resentment. Outrage. Disappointment.
How stupid am I that I can still be disappointed?
Jerrison weaved his spell on me. When he asked me the right questions, when he listened intently to the answers, I thought that things had changed. Boom. Magic. I expected brooms to dance out of closets. Birds would stream through the windows with soap powder and wet jets. Talking mice would adjust all that was wrong and make it right again.
Perhaps that was naive of me. No, it definitely was.
I told him he hurt me, and I thought the rain would stop pouring. The sun would shine. The world would spin in a different direction. But it’s not like Jerrison didn’t know he was hurting me all these years.
He saw. He heard. He continued to screw other women.
Taking that small moment and believing it had changed everything is my mistake.
My problem.
So I take myself in for repair.
The mechanic shop is noisy today. The scent of car oil hangs heavy in the air.
“Hello?” I call out.
Doc stops working on a truck and glances up. “Harriet.” I lift a hand. Wave. “Do you have a minute?”
“Of course.” He gestures to the table.
I snatch the mug of lemon water before he can get to it. My fingers tremble when I pour him a glass.
Doc’s eyes blaze through me. I can tell that he’s waiting patiently for me to declare what I came for.
I decide not to waste his time. “I’m thinking about giving up.” “On what?”
“The hope that things will get better.” My voice cracks. The weight of the world falls on my shoulders and pushes me into the chair. “I don’t know what to do next, Doc. Where do I go from here if this doesn’t work?”
“Repairing a wound like this takes time.”
“I know.” I brush my hair back. Wrap my arms around the cup of water. “It’s not that I don’t have faith in you, but I’m starting to wonder if he even wants to change.”
“That’s not something you can control.”
“Exactly.” I hate feeling so helpless. “I wish I could be the one who fixes this.”
“A woman cannot train a man to be the right kind of driver.” He takes a sip. “But what you can do is demand more without speaking a word.”
My interest piques. “How do I do that?” “You already know.”
“Oh.” My expression drops flat. “Go back to dating him.”
Doc studies my face for a long moment. After a pause, he sets his cup on the table and leans forward. “It’s not hard to do, although it can be demanding.”
“I’m trying not to give in too easily, but I wonder if that’s just pushing him away.”
“Good.” Doc grabs a rag and wipes the table calmly. “Good?”
“If he’s moving further away instead of showing you that you’re his priority, then you should make note of that. Observe him. Observe his level of interest in you.”
“How will I know for sure that he’s interested in me?” I tap my chest. “Just me.”
“Interest is measured by actions.”
My eyes begin to brighten. “Give me more, Doc. What actions should I be observing?”
“Everything. Anything. Think of what he used to do when he was dating you. How did he pursue you when he desperately wanted you back then? Measure whether he’s meeting those standards now. In fact, he needs to exceed them.”
I take my phone out and start scribbling notes. “So if he’s not doing all that…”
“If he’s not, at minimum, seeking you out, then you know that he’s not ready.”
My hands flatten on the cell phone. “What if… he’s doing all that, but he’s still seeing other women?”
“That’s good too.”
I almost laugh. “Doc.”
His lips twitch. “You want to know if he’s really changed before you get your heart involved. If he’s still seeing other women, you’ll know that he hasn’t matured at all.” Doc closes his eyes as if his thoughts are moving too fast and he needs to center them. “His actions are the measuring sticks. Infidelity is easier to measure as it’s something tangible. It’s an immediate neon sign that he is not meeting the standard.”
“What if the signs are more subtle?” I think of the past when I had no proof of Jerrison’s affairs.
“That’s why you run tests to see how honest he is.” “Can you give me an example?”
Doc rubs his goatee thoughtfully. “Find reasons to see his phone. If he needs to hide his phone from you, take note. Small things like this are a sign.”
“What if he catches me snooping?” I frown. “I’ll look so insecure, Doc.
I never wanted to be that kind of wife.”
“That’s why you’re not a wife. You’re a private investigator.” His voice gets gentle as does his dark brown eyes. “I’m sure you never wanted to be at this point in your marriage, but you chose him without recognizing those signs and here you are.” Doc bobs his head. “That’s why I encourage women to become a P. I. and test all these things before marriage.”
“What about those of us who are stuck in the ‘after marriage’ part?”
“We can still go back to the dating stage even inside a marriage. In fact, the key to a healthy marriage is for the husband to live in that stage, constantly wooing and prioritizing his wife.”
“I get all that, Doc. I do. But don’t you think the cell phone checks are infringing on his privacy?”
“It is not wrong to check things. Before you go and purchase a car, you take it to the shop and allow an inspection to see what you’re getting. That is common sense for buying a car, yet few women become inspectors before entering a marriage.”
“We’re blinded by love,” I murmur, thinking of my own life. “We want to believe the best in him.”
“Being blind is dangerous. That’s why I advise women not to get intimate before their date has shown he is mature and ready for marriage.”
“What does this maturity look like?” I swipe to another page in my notes.
Doc squints into the sunshine. “He has to discipline himself and focus on you. You should be the center of his attention.” His eyebrows arch. “You should accept no less than his all.”
I nod, soaking it in.
“He needs to hunt you. Put you first. Court and romance you.” Doc plants his hands flat on the table.
“Is anything physical allowed?” I squeak. “I mean… for us. We are technically married already…”
“No, no, no.” Doc shakes his head. “You’re in the dating stage.” “Sorry. You’re right.”
“If you’re just beginning to date someone, they don’t belong in your house or in your bed,” Doc says firmly. “They invite you to dinner and wait outside until you get in safely. They’re patient, empathetic, and willing to do whatever it takes just to see you again. A man will become everything a woman wants in the dating stage.” He juts a finger down. “This is dating 101.”
My sigh is heavy with sadness. “It doesn’t sound real.”
“Didn’t your husband do those things when he was dating you?”
“He did.” I hunch over the table. “But it’s been so long, I’ve forgotten what it felt like. Will I even recognize it when I see it?”
Doc offers a reassuring smile. “If you put the wrong fuel in a car, it won’t work. But if you put the right fuel in, it will work automatically. It’s in your nature to pick up on the signs. Just as a car recognizes the right fuel, you will know when you are a man’s priority.”
“What if I’m not the only one he’s pursuing, Doc?”
“At least you will be equipped to see that and not blindly run after him.” Doc pats my hand in fatherly concern. “The level of his effort shows his heart. You’ll see, by his actions, if he understands what he has done wrong and if he’ll put in the work to repair it. But this depends on his maturity and resolve. Only a man who’s truly changed is willing to do the work to build back what he’s destroyed.”
“And if he’s not showing that…”
Doc frowns. “Then he needs more time. Or…” “Or?”
“He may never change.”
I squeeze my eyes shut as fear grips my heart. That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.