by Ella Fields
With his brows pinching, he took a step toward me.
“Stop right fucking there.” He did, nostrils flaring and hands fisting. “How many times, Miles?”
“Once. Fuck, I swear. But it’s more complicated than—”
“What did you do?” I couldn’t believe my own question. Why did I want to know specifics? I couldn’t answer that, but I just had to know. “Kiss, just touch, or …” I swallowed, eyes closing briefly as I said the last word. “Fuck?”
The drooping of his shoulders and the hesitant step he took said it all.
“You fucked someone when we first got together?” I batted his hands away when he tried to reach for me and moved back out of the room and into the hallway.
“Jem, please. At the risk of sounding like a fucking moron, I can explain.”
My arms folded over my chest. “Go on then. Explain. I’m sure it was some huge mistake. People accidentally have intercourse all the time.”
Ignoring my sarcasm, he shook his head, eyes pleading. “I can’t yet. Give me time and it’ll all make more sense.”
A strange noise sounded, and I realized it was laughter. My own choked, wet laughter. “Not only have you fucked another woman, but you’re seriously telling me I have to wait for an explanation as to why?”
He bit his lips, more tense than I’d ever seen him before. A strangled sound wrenched from him as he squeezed the back of his neck. “Yes.”
“Why is she still contacting you?”
He didn’t answer me.
I tried again. “Why, Miles? And is it that same woman from the fundraiser?”
He dug his hand into his hair, tugging and groaning. “Please, Jem.”
Tears continued to well in my eyes.
Okay, now I could lose my shit. “Fuck you and fuck off.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, trailing after me down the hall. “I’m not that guy, I promise. It sounds bad now, but …”
In our bedroom, I whirled on him. “Go away before I kick you in the junk.”
His lips dared to quirk.
My knee met his balls, and he went down like a sack of potatoes, groaning on the floor and staring up at me as though he didn’t even know who I was.
And maybe he didn’t.
After stuffing some clothes into a bag, I marched into the en suite to collect my toiletries and my hair dryer.
He made the decision, however unwise, to let me go.
“Jemmie?” My dad came out onto the wraparound porch holding a cup of tea in his hand. “What are you doing?”
Tugging at my duffel, I pulled it out of the back seat. It hit the packed dirt with a thud, and I slammed the door before hauling it and my purse toward the porch.
My dad’s eyes bulged, and he set his tea on the steps before lumbering down them to grab the duffel from me.
I thanked him but otherwise said nothing as we went inside.
“Jem,” he said, trailing me up the stairs to my childhood bedroom. The same room I sat in a few days ago, trying to find answers. I’d gotten what I’d asked for, so why did I feel even more confused than before?
“Jemima Dianne Clayton, care to tell me what the hell is going on?”
Being that it was Mom’s first name, I knew he’d only use my middle name if he was really concerned. “Sorry,” I said, sniffing and hoping my eyes had dried. “I’m okay. Miles is a fucking dick, but I’m okay.”
Dad blinked, dropping my duffel onto the bed. “He’s a dick, and you’re okay?”
I nodded, not wanting to talk about it just yet. I hoped he’d understand that without me having to say it.
“Okay,” he finally said. “Have you eaten? There’s beef stew in the fridge you can reheat.”
“I’m good,” I said, trying for a reassuring smile. It wobbled and fell. “I just need some time.”
After a long moment of studying me, he went to the door. “I’ll be watching the game if you need anything.”
Exhaling a relieved breath, I started unpacking my bag, hoping my work clothes for Monday weren’t wrinkled. I hated ironing.
“Oh, and Jemmie?” Dad called from down the hall.
“Yeah?”
“Is this a bad time to say I told you so?”
My eyes rolled, then watered. “Love you too, Dad.”
“Miss Clayton?”
I glanced up from where I’d been staring at the weeds sprouting around the climbing frame and found Lou Lou, her hair in two braids, standing before me.
“Hi, honey,” I said, then looked around. “Where’s Rosie? She doesn’t want to play today?”
Lou Lou sucked her bottom lip, then shook her head. “No, Rosie’s fine.”
Knowing she wanted to ask me something, I gave her my patience even though I longed to wallow in peace before I had to return to class.
“Are you okay?” she finally asked, peering closer at my face.
Shocked, I smiled and smiled big. “Of course, why do you ask?”
I’d been careful to be my usual self. School was almost done for the year, so I could fake it until summer break. Apparently, I hadn’t been careful enough. Or maybe Lou Lou was as perceptive as I already knew her to be.
“You seem sad.”
Oh, boy.
Her little hands wrung together, and leaning forward, I gently clasped them in mine. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind. I promise I’m okay.”
“You promise?” She lowered her voice. “Daddy says promises are unbreakable. So you need to mean it.”
That made me smile for real. Regardless that it felt like a lie, people had their hearts broken every day and lived to see another sunrise. So I knew, no matter how much it hurt to force the words out, that I wasn’t breaking her promise by saying, “I will be okay, I promise. All in good time.”
Lou Lou stared. The innocent worry, the way her amber eyes searched mine for the truth to my words made me want to gather her close and squeeze her in a hug. Instead, I squeezed her hands, then released them, murmuring for her to go play.
She took a step back, eyeing me another breath before running to the playground, where Rosie appeared with a soccer ball in her hands.
I returned home hungry and weary.
Something that was becoming a horrible new normal.
The drive wasn’t long unless you tried to make the trip in rush-hour traffic. But I’d been at my dad’s all week and licked my wounds long enough, so I made plans to head back to my apartment that weekend.
As I brushed dust from frames and placed books on shelves, I smiled.
I smiled because even as the hurt bruised every breath I took, I was proud of myself. Not that being proud helped much. But the apartment that I’d kept was a sign that as much as I’d dived into our relationship with reckless abandon, and as stupid as it made me feel, I’d done one thing right.
And I desperately needed not to feel like a fool for a hot minute.
Dad had followed me into the city. His help wasn’t needed, but his company was appreciated as he helped me clean, ridding the apartment of dust bunnies and cobwebs. He was silent mostly, which I was thankful for, knowing he was probably seething inside after I’d finally divulged the details of what’d happened with Miles. He’d kept quiet for me, and for that alone, I hugged ten years off him on the sidewalk before he got into his truck and drove back home.
Rain pelted the window as I laid out some laundry to dry over a clothes rack in the corner of the living room. Draping a gray cardigan over the last free row of rails, I peered out the window to the cloud dusted sky. I wondered, a lot more than I wanted to admit, what Miles was doing. I wondered why he hadn’t tried to call me, or why he’d never shown up.
Was that other woman taking up all his time now? Had he really moved on that quickly?
I wondered, and I cried, and eventually, both things happened less frequently. It was scary that over the course of almost two weeks, I could already feel the difference in my chest. Feel it loosen more and more. The diffe
rence most noticeable when it clenched tight, making it hard to breathe, as thoughts of him knocked me sideways.
Hope had told me the trick was not to think about him after I’d caved and called her last week. But I’d tried that, and the fear of suffocating on memories was somehow worse than reliving them. So I forced myself to re-live them. Every night, in the safety of my twin bed with Funshine Bear and my ragdolls staring at me from their corners of the room, I let out what I no longer wanted weighing on my heart.
Four knocks hammered my door just after eight the following night, and I knew.
I knew it was him.
I wanted to ignore him. To forget him the way he’d seemed to have already forgotten about me, yet I got up off the old scratchy couch and padded to the door in my sleep shorts, a T-shirt, and slippers.
“Who is it,” I said more than asked.
“Jem, let me in. Or at least open the door.”
“Why?” I knew I would at least open it, but he could sweat first.
“Because I’m a huge fucking asshole who misses you. That’s why.”
My lashes felt heavy, my eyelids drooping to the scuffed floor as his hoarse words slithered inside my aching chest, burrowing into wounds that were healing, or at least trying to.
I opened the door.
Miles stared at me with assessing eyes and his head hung. He was the picture of torment with his arms braced on either side of the doorframe. Muscles seized, then bunched, and the energy radiating from him made me take a step back. I clung to the door as his gaze raked me from head to toe and back again, holding my stare.
“You weren’t here when I came by last week.”
“I was at …” I stopped myself from saying home, not wanting to hurt him even though I shouldn’t give a shit. It was then I realized you could hate and love a person at the same time. You could wish they’d never existed while missing them with a tenacity that scorched your insides.
He nodded, understanding. “Will you let me in?”
I shook my head.
He sighed out a long breath, arms falling away from the doorframe as he inched closer. He stopped and leaned into it, close enough to touch, and close enough to smack him in the face with the door if I let it go.
Tempting.
“I know I fucked up. I’ll never deny it—”
“But you did,” I cut in. “Deny it. You covered it up the whole time we were together, Miles.”
He swallowed, his jaw working. “Yeah. The thing is, I was telling the truth when I said there’s more to it. More that I can’t explain right now.”
“I can’t wait for that, and if I’m being honest, what good would it even do?” I begged for him to hear me, to understand. “It won’t change what you’ve done, will it? What you might do again, if you haven’t already.”
“No,” he said instantly, moving forward and cupping my chin. “I swear to you, it won’t happen again. I meant it when I said I’m not that guy, and I hate that I’ve made you think I am.” His head bowed, and his lips moved fast over mine, taking, prying, pleading.
I pulled away, loosening my hold on the door until it slipped free of my clammy hand.
He took the opening, taking two strides into my apartment and whispering with vehemence, “I love you, and I know you still love me.” His gaze dropped to the ring I still wore. The ring I couldn’t tug off my finger yet. It was more than just the pain it’d cause. It was saying goodbye to a fairy tale that I wasn’t ready to do.
“That doesn’t mean I can just forgive you. It doesn’t work like that.”
“So let’s make it work.” His voice was still low, rocking me on my feet with his stare and its intensity. “It’s you and me, babe. We’ll get through this. We just need time.”
Need time.
How often I’d said those words myself.
“Go. Please.” I grabbed the door. “I don’t want to do this.”
“I’m not leaving until I know I’ve still got you.” He reached out, grabbing the back of my head and threading his fingers roughly into my hair. “I’ll give you space, but I won’t give you up. Understand me?”
Words coated my tongue, weighing it down with all I wanted to say, scream, and yell. But I did none of those things. “I can’t tell you what you need to hear. And seeing as you can’t do the same for me, I’d think you’d understand that.” Tears hitched my voice, feathered up my throat, and pricked the corners of my eyes. “We’re stuck. There’s no moving.”
Miles dropped his hand, defeat dragging his shoulders as he retreated a step. “Not true. We’ll talk soon.” When I said nothing, he pressed, “Okay?”
Wanting him gone, all I did was nod.
After I’d slammed the door shut, I heard a growl of curses in the stairwell.
Seconds later, what sounded like a fist meeting the wall hid the sound of my choked sobs.
Summer curled waves of heat around the springtime air, warning everyone she was upon us.
I had one week left until I could do what I wanted most—flee back home or go anywhere else that wasn’t here.
Thankfully, none of my co-workers commented on my rumpled appearance or sleep-starved eyes. And the kids, besides Lou Lou, were oblivious for the most part as long as their routine stayed the same.
Armed with a bucket of soapy water and a sponge that I kept in the sink at the back of the room for cleaning art supplies and paint mishaps, I got comfortable in front of the marker art drawn on the wall. Well, as comfortable as one could get on hard wood floor.
“You should really try isopropyl alcohol.”
The sponge landed in the bucket, drops of warm water jumping up to smack me in the face.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Thomas standing in the doorway of my classroom, holding his fedora between his hands. “Huh?”
He closed his eyes and sucked in a hissed breath. When they reopened, they flashed with irritation. “It’s excuse me, Little Dove. And I meant rubbing alcohol.”
When I still sat there dazed, he continued as though I didn’t understand him. I did; I was just speechless. “Nail polish remover, hand sanitizer …”
I got up off the ground, halting him right there. “I know what rubbing alcohol is.” I rolled my eyes. “I went to college, remember?” I reminded him of the time he’d all but accused me of being uneducated.
“I suppose they don’t teach manners there.”
Ignoring that, I waved at Lou Lou, who stood behind him, chomping on an apple.
“What can I do for you, Dr. Verrone?”
Brows furrowed, perhaps over the use of his surname and not his first, it took him a moment to say, “I was just saying hello.”
Now it was me who was confused. “Right. Well, thank you?”
“You’re welcome. May I walk you to your car?”
I stared back at the wonky smiley face on the wall, then shrugged. “Sure, one second.”
I took the bucket and sponge to the back of the room to empty and set it upside down next to the sponge on the sink. When I turned around, Thomas was studying the math equations on the whiteboard. “This is basic.”
“Such simple things to us,” I combatted. “We forget how intricate it is for the mind to solve at first.”
Thomas stared, his eyes unreadable as they stuck themselves to mine.
Lou Lou cleared her throat, and then he said, “Actually, Lou would like to know if you want to play.”
I glanced from him to her, uncertain where this idea had come from.
Lou Lou groaned and yanked on his hand. Thomas sighed. “Fine, she said you need to come play because you haven’t smiled properly in two weeks.”
Ignoring the curious gaze from her dad, I asked Lou Lou, “Is that right?”
“Yep. Swings always make me smile.”
With nothing else planned besides ramen noodles and a half-finished book, I locked up and followed them outside to the empty playground.
“We’re technically not supposed to let anyone use the pl
ay equipment after school hours,” I unlocked the gate, and bent low, whispering to Lou Lou, “so it’ll have to be our little secret.”
Lou Lou mimed zipping her lips, then bounded over to the swing set, little legs kicking as soon as she jumped onto the rubber seat.
I lowered to the wooden buddy bench, and Thomas slowly did the same, keeping a large amount of distance between us. I was on one end, he on the other.
“Do I smell?” I went to check myself, then thought better of it, knowing I didn’t. “I might work with kids all day, but I don’t think I do.”
Thomas slid closer in answer, but there was still enough room to squeeze two bodies between us. I smiled down at the ground.
“Lou says you’ll feel better soon.” He kept his gaze on her. “I’m guessing trouble with the … fiancé?”
“You guessed right. I’ve actually been wanting to ask you …” I licked my lips, his words returning. The same words that sent my doubts free-falling in search of the truth. “How did you know?”
Thomas placed his hat on his head. “How did I know what?”
“You know, that he’d cheated on me.”
His hands clasped together in his lap. “I didn’t know that.”
Perplexed, I ran a hand through my hair. What had he been talking about then?
Lou Lou squealed in delight as she whipped through the air, her curls billowing behind her.
“How does it feel?”
His soft words were slow to penetrate, and when they did, I swung my eyes to his profile. “Being hurt, you mean?”
Thomas sat pin straight, leather wrapped feet planted evenly on the bark covered ground in front of him. “Yes. He didn’t hurt you in the physical sense.” He didn’t wait for my answer. “He hurt your heart.”
Such candid yet interesting words. “He did.”
“So he was having an affair?” There was no hesitation behind his words, no concern for overstepping. It was refreshing.
“Not exactly. But he slept with another woman. We’d apparently just gotten together when it happened.”