by Amanda Tru
“Is something wrong with the flowers?” Was that hopefulness in his voice? Was he jealous of Garcia? How was that for irony?
As eager as she’d been to find a trash can to dump the entire arrangement into, she was now protective of her mass of overpowering, pollen-infested, allergy-inducing flowers, geraniums and all. “They’re fine. I just thought they might need water.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong with the water in your room?”
She didn’t have a response. It was time to deflect. “Where are you going? Are the bars even open this late?” A low shot, maybe, but he was the one who put her on the defensive all the time.
“I’m not drinking anymore. Three and a half years sober.”
She shrugged. Why should his word mean anything to her after decades of lies? She glanced at his face. Tried to see if she’d wounded him by what she said. That’s when she saw his suitcase and carryon. “You’re leaving?”
Now it was his turn to shrug. “Misty found me a hotel closer to downtown. Saves the company some money on cabs.”
There were so many things she wanted to know. Was he leaving because of her? Was this what he thought she wanted? Was he jealous about the flowers? She tried to guess the answers even as she did her best to appear indifferent. After all, why should she care what her ex-husband did on his business trip to Seoul? She hadn’t seen him in over four years and could happily go the rest of her life never encountering him again.
Never having to face those unbearable memories his presence dredged up from the recesses of her mind. She’d thought she’d been making so much progress …
He squeezed his way past her even though the alleyway was hardly wide enough for two people. Out of habit, she took a sniff as he scooted by, hunting for a scent of whiskey or soju that would prove she still had every reason to detest him.
There was the smell of cigarettes, but smoking wasn’t ever one of his vices, and she doubted he’d picked it up now. Not when he was so successful with drinking himself senseless and bedding cute, curvy interns who didn’t care that he had a wife of twenty-five years at home. No, the smoke was probably from his work associates. She remembered back when they were married how badly his clothes would stink after he returned from his trips.
Nearly half a decade washing nobody’s laundry but her own. That was a nice feeling right there. Something she’d taken for granted for far too long.
He turned around once he reached the sidewalk. “Nice running into you.” He managed to get the words out so casually, as if there weren’t half a lifetime of history between the two of them. She could have been an associate he met for the first time that night and would have forgotten about by morning. “Tell Mena hi, and congratulate her for me.”
Jolene wanted to come up with some sort of reply. Some way to show Joseph that he couldn’t just show up in her life and then leave her alone in an alleyway wearing a mud mask and holding an arrangement of sense-deadening geraniums. That there was more to be said between them.
But she never got the chance.
He turned, and without another backward glance, he was gone.
How could a woman in a facial mask and sweatpants look so irresistibly sexy?
Joseph quickened his pace. It didn’t matter that the sprinkling had turned into a deluge. It didn’t matter that his dry-clean only business suit was going to be unusable for the rest of this trip.
He just had to get away. Put distance between himself and his past.
Nice, safe, comfortable distance.
Over four years. And she still looked good. Even with mud dried onto her face.
Four years. He’d been so focused on work that it only felt like a few short months. After the divorce, he’d thrown himself into his career, relocating to the Seattle office, fast-tracking his advancement, pushing for more international trips like these. A shrink like Jolene’s boyfriend might tell him he was running away.
The reality was he liked to succeed. Enjoyed the respect his associates showed him at the office. Relished having his own staff to manage the way he saw fit. Nobody breathing down his neck or second-guessing his every move.
And he’d stayed sober. Work gave him something to focus on. Some higher purpose to live for than the bottle.
He clenched the sobriety coin in his pocket. He didn’t always carry it with him anymore, but on business trips where he knew there’d be temptations, he brought it along as a reminder of what he’d worked so hard for. He’d managed to turn his life around, maintained his sobriety when Jolene divorced him, Denise left him, and that New York promotion he’d worked so hard for passed him by. Sure, there’d been a few relapses, but this was his longest clean spell.
His fingers ran over the grooves of his coin. As proud as he was for these three and a half years of sobriety, he knew he couldn’t take the credit for them all. Chuck had been a huge factor in straightening him up. It was Chuck who told him what a fool he was for sleeping around with Denise in the first place, Chuck who took him in after the divorce, Chuck who dragged him to church and Bible studies and recovery meetings.
Chuck who would be so disappointed if he found out what Joseph was about to do.
Thankfully, his sponsor was on the other side of the world and would never know the difference.
He’d noticed the bar on his walk back to the hanok. Noticed the American music blaring inside, the Budweiser posters on the windows. He wouldn’t even have to take a cab to Itaewon where most of the ex-pats lived. He could find everything he’d need right here.
Wheeling his suitcase into the establishment, he glanced around. It could have easily been a bar in Seattle except for the Korean staff.
“Welcome.” The young waitress’s accent was heavy, but Joseph had been to Korea enough times he barely noticed. “The bar? Or table?” she asked.
It was a good question. If he picked the table, he’d have a chance to change his mind. Think through the ramifications of jumping off the wagon. Then again, he’d been in recovery for over six years, fully sober for half that. Just because he’d had a problem in the past, why did that condemn him to a life of abstinence? He didn’t even need to get drunk. Just a single beer. Something to get his mind off his ex-wife who was at this moment just a few blocks away in a Seoul hanok and his daughter who’d died in this blasted city.
Talk about a horrible family reunion.
“Table?” the waitress asked, pointing as if Joseph might not have understood the question.
He shook his head. “No. The bar.” He clenched his fists and took a definitive step forward. “I’ll sit at the bar. Thanks.”
How could she have been so stupid? What was she thinking waltzing around Seoul with mud dried onto her face? Especially when she knew Joseph was just a few doors down?
What made her even angrier was that she still had those stupid flowers in her room. What was she supposed to do after bumping into her ex-husband? Toss out her boyfriend’s bouquet while he was watching? Besides, she still hadn’t found a dumpster.
Stupid city.
Why had she come here? What had she been thinking? When she made plans to see Seoul, she’d imagined this as a pilgrimage of sorts. Visiting the country where her daughter had died. Maybe traveling here would help her find a way to come to terms with Chelsea’s death.
Everyone else had moved on. Joseph certainly had. So had Mena, even though Jolene would never deny her the happiness she deserved.
Everyone else was living their lives, making the most of a world without Chelsea’s bright smile, hot temper, and comforting companionship. Everyone else had found healing and closure.
Why couldn’t she?
Jolene turned the water temperature up far too high and lathered up, welcoming the scalding heat on her skin. She’d forgotten to bring soap and had to use whatever generic brand she found in the bathroom cabinet. Fabulous Body Wash. That’s all the label said. She had no idea what was in it, but she wasn’t in a position to be picky. She had a day’s worth of travel and grime and
sweat and frustrations to wash away.
Once she’d cleaned her body and scrubbed the mud off her face, she realized she’d left her shampoo in her suitcase. She picked up the bottle hanging up over the sink. Spectacular Shampoo. What was it with the Korean language and its overuse of adjectives? The shampoo might be fine, or even spectacular like the label claimed. Or it might turn her hair into a mess of dried-out frizz.
She wasn’t going to take her chances. Not with a wedding coming up in just a couple more days.
She shut off the water, threw her towel around herself, and zipped into the bedroom. Where had she put her bottle? By the time she was done looking, the room looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. Still no shampoo, but at least she’d found her conditioner. Whatever odd chemicals were in that Spectacular stuff, she’d have to use it and trust her luck.
Why hadn’t she been more careful packing? What else had she forgotten to bring with her?
It wasn’t like her to feel this flustered. Had running into Joseph really thrown her off so much? Or maybe it was the city itself. Why couldn’t Mena have waited five or ten more years to find the man she wanted to marry? Or brought him to Washington to tie the knot there?
The water was tepid by the time she returned to the shower. Stupid of her to leave it running so long. What did she expect?
Oh, well. Her hair was wet, which meant she was committed. She had to wash it now, or else tomorrow she’d end up with a head of oily plastic.
Back under the faucet, under the cooling water, hoping to get her hair washed and conditioned before the flow turned icy.
No such luck. She’d expected the water to continue to cool down in small spurts, but it dropped about thirty degrees in the two seconds it had taken her to smother on her conditioner.
Drying herself off as best she could with a head of lathered-up hair, she threw on her robe. She’d let the conditioner sit for five or ten minutes. Hopefully, by then, there’d be something akin to warm water to rinse it off with. She certainly wasn’t going back into that waterfall of ice.
Tying the belt of her fuzzy bathrobe, she sat in one of the hard chairs in the kitchen. At least in the hanok they had a Western-style table instead of the floor arrangement like back at the restaurant, but she wished there was something soft she could sink into. A recliner, love-seat, oversized beanbag, she wasn’t picky. Not a straight-backed chair.
But what could she do?
She sat at the table, hoping the water would heat up soon, and stared at Garcia’s stupid geraniums. The fool was trying hard. But after everything Jolene had endured the past five years, she wasn’t in a forgiving mood. She’d told him from the beginning. Social drinking was acceptable, even though she was only slightly comfortable with that. Drunkenness, on the other hand—totally out of the question.
Drunkenness that leads to a one-night stand with your client’s sister?
Yeah, that’s a deal-breaker.
And he’d been so apologetic. Hence the emotional pleas at the airport, the flowers sent all the way to Seoul.
After twenty-five years married to Joseph, Jolene could recognize a manipulator a mile away. She should have gone with her instincts and dropped Garcia months ago. But she’d wanted to believe that a marriage counselor of all people could have a little more couth.
Live and learn, right?
The water still wasn’t hot when she checked, so she passed the time plucking petals off the stupid geraniums one by smelly one.
This is for making me feel like I’m the bad guy when you drove me to the airport.
This is for getting drunk and messing around with your client’s sister.
This is for not being here in Seoul when I need you.
This is for sleeping with your secretary a month after we lost our daughter.
And making her almost miss her senior prom when you got arrested.
And showing up in Seoul when I …
She stopped and stared at the geranium shreds she’d littered onto the table. How had that happened?
A knock on the door.
“Jolene? You in there?”
Joseph. What in the world was he thinking?
“Jolene? You left your key in the lock. I’m just going to open it up and …”
Her ex-husband was about to walk in on her with conditioner in her hair while she was ripping apart her ex-boyfriend’s flower arrangement wearing nothing but a bathrobe. It wasn’t her finest of choices, but she ducked down behind the table.
The door opened.
“What are you doing down there?”
She straightened up awkwardly and barely missed hitting her head on the corner of the counter. “Just, you know, picking up.” She held a single geranium petal in her hand and immediately reminded herself that this was her room. Her territory. She had no reason to feel embarrassed, and he had no right to be here. “You need to get out. What happened to that hotel Misty booked for you?”
He stepped forward. He didn’t know she’d taken self-defense classes after the divorce. Another foot or two in her direction, and he’d get the surprise of his life. Aside from the fact that she had conditioner in her hair and a fuzzy bathrobe over an otherwise naked body, she was a formidable force.
“I came to talk. You left your key in the lock.”
It was no surprise. She’d been so flustered after running into him in the alley, so embarrassed to be spotted in her mask. She held out her hand and accepted the key he offered. “Thank you. Now go away.”
He kept his eyes low. Was he embarrassed for her? Did he seriously think that with as many times as he’d wounded her, she’d care whether or not he saw her looking like this? Some people were so full of themselves.
He held out his hands. “I came back.” What was that supposed to mean?
“I can see you came back. Now do what I said and go away.”
He didn’t budge. She crept her hand closer to the vase. If she needed to, she’d bring the whole thing down on his head. At least Garcia’s gift wouldn’t be entirely useless.
“I wanted to talk.”
One more step closer and she could smell it on his breath. Three years sober? Yeah, right.
“You’re drunk.” Well, that at least explained why he was brash enough to force his way into her room this late at night.
“I’m not. It’s not …”
“Get out.” This time, she really did pick up the vase. It was so heavy she had to use two hands, but she wasn’t worried about the exertion. She could handle him.
“Listen, Jolene, I’ve changed. I haven’t …”
“Get. Out.” Each word came out like a separate entity from the core of her body, where she was storing years’ worth of hatred and bitterness and unforgiveness that she hadn’t even known existed.
“I didn’t drink. I promise. I was just …”
His lies were too much. “You think your promise means anything to me? You think I’m impressed when you barge in here smelling like cheap beer? Haven’t we been down this road enough times? I’m sick of it. So sick of it.” Great. She was so worked up she was close to tears now. Her self-defense trainer told her it was normal, that female brains were wired to get emotional after a major adrenaline surge like what happens in a major fight, but she needed a good cry about as badly as she needed both her legs amputated.
She gritted her teeth, shoved her emotions down into that dark pit she’d so recently unearthed, and growled once more, “Get out. Now.”
He took a step back. At least he realized she was serious. “Ok.” His body deflated, but hers was still on edge. Still ready to fight him off if he tried anything else. Still holding onto the vase.
“Ok,” he repeated, backing up toward her door. “I’m going. I’m sorry. I won’t bother you again.”
“Good.” She hurled the word at him as if it’d been the vase she was aiming at his head.
“I just wanted to talk.”
She wouldn’t listen. They’d danced this dance before, the one wh
ere he apologized so profusely until she was left certain she was in the wrong. No more. Nobody had the right to manipulate her. Nobody. Especially not her cheating, alcoholic ex who lied through his teeth, claimed he hadn’t been drinking when even someone with a sinus infection could smell the beer on his breath.
Once he was at the door, she set the vase down and crossed her arms, glaring at him. Daring him to do anything besides walk out the way he came in.
“I just wanted to talk.” His voice was softer now. Soft but coherent. Funny. He was so pathetic he usually couldn’t get out two or three words straight when he was drinking.
Oh, well. Not her business. Not her problem.
He lowered his gaze. “Ok. Guess I’ll go.”
She didn’t respond. After he shut the door behind him, she marched forward, threw down the deadbolt, and then let out the breath she’d been holding in.
The water was scalding hot by the time she got back into the shower, just the way she liked it. She rinsed out her conditioner, refusing to think of how outrageous she must have looked in her bathrobe with her hair all soaped up. Even so, she’d managed to force Joseph to take her seriously, a feat she certainly had never accomplished during their twenty-five years of marriage.
Twenty-five years …
Sometimes she was tempted to think they were all wasted, but she knew better than that.
Twenty-five years …
After rinsing, she slammed off the water, dried her hair with the towel, and got dressed in her pajamas.
At least now if Joseph came back, she wouldn’t look quite so ridiculous.
Three and a half years of sobriety and he’d almost wasted it. And for what?
He knew he should call Chuck. His sponsor would want to know what happened, how close Joseph had come to diving headfirst off the wagon.
But he didn’t want to.
Didn’t want to admit his failure.
Settled into his new hotel room with its western-style bed, he sank into the armchair and placed the call.
“Hey, brother.” Chuck’s voice was laden with concern. As if he already knew what Joseph was about to say.