by Aidèe Jaimes
And now I too have that same choice. I too have to decide if I can live knowing that I’d been unfaithful, and sleep with Owen. It isn’t only a matter of the heart. I trust Bo is clean, but Owen has no clue. I remember, too, the humiliation of having to be tested for sexually transmitted diseases. I didn’t want to put Owen through that.
God, what was I thinking that I shouldn’t tell Owen! The last thing I want to do is have this conversation, in fact, I would much rather the Earth swallow me whole, than to do this. But for him, and for my own soul, I have to.
Decision made, shit I hope I don’t chicken out, I put my clothes on. Grimacing, I press a fist into my stomach as the acid builds and threatens to come up into my throat. It’s the stress that’s making it worse, I know that. Yet another reason to get this over with.
I can hear Owen finishing up with Mia, and I sit on the bed to wait for him, swallowing down the terror that is threatening to strangle me. By the time he walks in I’m shaking.
The moment he comes through the door and takes a good look at me, his sexy smile vanishes.
“What’s wrong?” he asks as he walks to the bed and sits facing me. He takes my hands in his, his brows furrowed with concern. “What’s going on? I felt something was up when I came into the house.” His right hand comes up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re shaking.”
Taking my hands out of his, placing them on my lap instead. It takes all of my willpower not to look down, to force my voice into words. “Owen, I…” I swallow, shift my seating position, clear my throat, all in an effort to steel myself against the storm I know I’m about to unleash. “I… I did something.”
His brows lift slightly, the line between them smoothing out, as he realizes where I’m headed. “Oh,” he says, his voice breaking, and his jaw begins to work in that way that tells me he’s reigning in his anger. Green eyes penetrate my own as they search for truth. “Did you cheat on me?”
I don’t hesitate, but I do look away because I don’t want to see the damage. “Yes.”
There are no words said between us for what seems an eternity, or maybe it’s just five seconds. Either way, the heavy silence stretches on into forever.
“Who?” he finally says. “Was it the same man from New Orleans?”
“Yes.”
“When?” he asks.
“Yesterday.”
He nods, not in acceptance, but more in assimilation of the information. “How many times were you with him?”
“Once.”
“Did you go to him?”
“No! Owen, this was not planned.”
He doesn’t care if this was planned. “Did he come to you?”
“No.”
“Then where did this happen?”
I refuse to answer that and now I do look him in the eye to let him know that I’m serious about that. Dear lord, if I said it was at the Jensen’s he would have a heart attack. And worse, he would know it was Bo I’d slept with. What if they confronted each other? What if he went to the Jensen’s house and had it out over there? As if I’m not horrified enough that Lydia heard me humping her son!
Luckily Owen doesn’t push the issue with that one. “Had you slept with him the entire time since New Orleans?”
“No.”
“Have you slept with other men?” Though there is definite anger in his tone, not that I wouldn’t have expected it, it’s a controlled anger. There’s something else there, too, that I can’t place my finger on. The questions are beginning to sound like some sort of interrogation. Maybe it is, and this is some sort of trial, and he’s here to judge whether or not I’m worthy of another chance. If this is what it is, he’s certainly playing the role to the tee, his face stoic, unfeeling. I think more than anything, this is what makes me explode.
“No! Jesus, it was only this time!”
“Not counting New Orleans, of course,” he adds sarcastically.
“New Orleans doesn’t count, and you know exactly why that is.”
“Yeah, well that may not have counted, but this one does.” He gets up and goes to the closet, me close at his heels. Hangers whack and break as he tears through them, looking for whatever he’s trying to get, any semblance of control gone. I’m not so sure I like this any better.
“Owen, we need to talk about this.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Oh, so you can have an affair and I’m supposed to find a way to forgive, but I can’t make a mistake?”
He spins on me so fast I jump back and hit the closet door hard. He’s not too concerned with whether I hurt myself or not. There’s so much resentment, perhaps even hate, rolling off him in waves that I think this may not be the time to talk after all.
“Let me ask you something, Cris.” He spits out my name like it’s poison. “Was this a mistake? To you, I mean? Come on, be honest. Because what I did was a mistake, I knew it from the moment I did it. And I have not fucked Cassandra or anyone else since then. But you! I wasn’t even gone one fucking day and it’s enough time for you to spread your legs for the same man again! It’s almost like you were waiting for me to leave so you could do him again.”
“You know what, Owen? Maybe we should calm down before we say something we don’t mean,” I tell him, afraid he’s going to start calling me a whore or something worse. He won’t be able to take that one back; I don’t want him to go there.
His eyes are red, whether it’s the fury that has enveloped him, or the pain I know I’ve caused, I don’t know. My own eyes are prickling, and I fear I may come apart at any moment.
“Owen, please,” I beg. “I am so sorry. I swear it wasn’t something I thought about doing. It was only once. I’ll do anything you want me to do, please, I just don’t want to lose you.”
He shakes his head. “Why don’t we skip this shit, and jump straight to the part where I leave.”
“You’re leaving?” I ask, surprised, though really I shouldn’t be.
“Wouldn’t you? Oh, right, you did. I think I’ll just take a page from your book and follow the steps. What was it, drive around crying, find a hotel, worry the shit out of you. You can come find me tomorrow, but I won’t talk to you for a few days, then I’ll finally let you fuck me, but all the while I’ll make you hate yourself. Actually, you’ll hate yourself to the point where you won’t know if you should continue to fight for me, or if you should just kill yourself and end it because you know you’re just a piece of shit anyway. How’s that? Does that about cover it?”
If I was on the verge of falling to my knees and begging for his forgiveness, he pretty much wiped the idea right out of my head. “Yeah, I think you covered it all.”
Without another word, he takes whatever he had in his hand, and leaves. The moment I hear the front door slam I drop to the floor, my head against the wall as I look at the ceiling.
What have I done?
He follows that page he took from my book, for sure. All night I pace the bedroom, walk down to peek out windows, checking every room as I go, just in case he’s come back and I didn’t hear him.
In the office, I check online to see if there have been any credit card charges anywhere that would give me a clue as to where he’s been. At about two in the morning he checks in to the same damned hotel I’d stayed at. It’s a jab at me, a purposeful slap in the face, as it were.
Well, if his intent is to make me feel like garbage, a cheater and the lowest of scum, it’s working. I definitely feel that way. Though I think it’s worse for me than it was for him. Unlike Owen, I have to make myself suppress very real feelings for another man. And that above all, is what takes my betrayal to a much higher level than his.
My head aches. Why is everything so complicated? One man to love, that’s all I wanted. Not two! With fisted hands, I wipe the wetness from my eyes. I didn’t even know I was crying, that’s the worst part. If this had happened before last year, I’d have been devastated. A complete wreck, just as I’d been when it was Owen that cheated on m
e and the possibility of losing him was more than I could bear. Now the pain is numbed. It’s definitely there, but it’s muted a little, almost like I’m on some sort of Novocain for the heart.
It could be a good thing, making it easier to deal with. Or it could be a disaster for me later, when the “drug” wears off and everything hits me full force.
I let my head drop hard onto the surface of the desk, my arms dangling loosely at my sides, and take deep breaths. Between this god-awful heartburn and the tightness in my chest, I feel like I can hardly breathe. Why, oh why did I have to see Bo again? How is it that I had absolutely no willpower with him? The moment he touched me, any semblance of fidelity, of integrity, flew out the window.
And just when everything with my husband was going so well. I thought we’d finally gotten back to the way things were, where Owen was my world and we were so strong nothing could pry us apart. How wrong I was. All it took was one look from Bo, one touch. What did that say about me? Was I now incapable of being faithful? Or was it only this man that could turn me into such a wanton that I was willing to throw sixteen years of marriage out the window?
I didn’t want to be someone even I couldn’t trust. And the fact of the matter is, that as long as Bo is close by, I can’t. Then I think that if we move, everything could change. Or who knows, now that the Jensens know what Bo and I have done, they will move.
My stomach sinks, just like it does every time I think about them and how they must see me!
I feel so lost. It’s at times like this that I miss my mother the most. It’s not that I don’t talk to her now, we do talk a few times a week. The thing is, we were so close my entire childhood. She was my best friend, my confidant in everything. Then when she left, everything changed.
It became almost impossible to talk to her on a daily basis. I’d have to be sure to have a calling card on hand at all times, and sometimes that wasn’t possible. Days and even weeks would go by without a word to her. I mourned the loss of my relationship, crying for her like an abandoned child, even though I’d already married Owen by this point.
It was during this time that I became closer to my dad, helping him through the pain caused by an unfaithful spouse. The pain I’d just put Owen through. Even though he’d done it to me before, I didn’t want to wound him. Not anymore.
Yes, I’d become so much tighter with my father, but I always missed that relationship I’d had with my mom. I still do, even though technology allows us to talk every day now, it’s never been the same. The trust was never rebuilt. And I miss her. I want her here, her arms around me, telling me everything will be fine. That I’ll figure this mess out, fix it. I want my mommy.
The sound of the front door startles me, and so does the sunlight coming in through the window. I’d fallen asleep with my forehead pressed against the desk, and there is now a sore spot there when I go to wipe hair from my face.
It’s six-thirty in the morning, and Mia would be up very soon. I want to talk with Owen before she gets up. When I get down stairs, I find him still standing at the door. He’s unshaven, his clothes a wrinkled mess. His green eyes are red and crusty, dark circles framing them, sinking them into his skull. There is a grayish hue to his skin, making him look tired, weary and so much older.
And I caused this.
“Owen. Can we talk?”
Looking pretty much like a zombie, he walks right past me without a word, and up the stairs. A door closes up there, and I go to follow thinking he’s gone to our bedroom, but when I reach the top of the stairs, I realize he’s gone to the guestroom.
“Owen?” I knock softly on the door. His response is to lock the door.
30
For the last few days I’ve skirted around Owen like a dog with its tail between her legs. If he’s in the kitchen and I need something, I stick to the perimeter of the opposite side of the room, keeping as much distance between us as I can, my eyes averted at all times. When our eyes do make contact, there’s so much resentment thrown my way that I’d almost rather him scream the words at me.
This is not something that I do because I don’t want to be near him. These are the actions of the guilty mind.
I feel horrid, not only because of what I’ve done, but because I now know the hell he’d been through when he cheated on me. Truly, I don’t know how he was able to stay here day in and day out, keeping his head up and trying to earn my trust again.
An entire week goes by before he addresses me. “Will you do me a favor?” he asks out of nowhere, coming into the laundry room while I’m folding clothes.
Of course, I jump on it. “Yes, anything you need.”
“Are you doing any other loads today?” he asks.
“One more.”
“Can I toss this in? Do you mind washing it?”
“Yeah, no problem.” I take the white shirt from him, nodding. It’s not a huge request, being that I’m already washing clothes, half of which are his. In fact, I don’t think that what he’s brought me has been worn at all.
When he leaves me I nearly beam, knowing that this is his attempt at first contact.
In the evening after I’ve washed, ironed and folded the shirt, I take it to him as an offering, a hope that we can start a conversation.
The following day he asks if I’d be willing to make cookies for him to take to work. I don’t love cooking, baking even less so. But having baked them several times before, I am familiar with the recipe.
When they’re fresh out of the oven, he comes into the kitchen and tries to sneak one. I slap his hand playfully and we both laugh, but he stops the moment he realizes what he’s doing, my smile following suit.
“Owen, can I talk to you?”
He looks down at the tray with the sweets, picking at little crumbs that have fallen. “I don’t know if I’m ready.” He doesn’t sound angry anymore, and that’s a good thing. But there is still a lot of sadness and uncertainty.
“Okay, no hurry. I understand.”
“Yeah, I know you do. I guess now we both know what it’s like to be on the other side, huh?” It’s an honest remark, nothing more.
I smirk. “The funny thing is I don’t even know which is worse. Being cheated on, or being the cheater.”
He nods, taking the cookie I’d denied him earlier and eating it anyway. There is a little crumb on his lip and I desperately want to reach over and take it, but I’m scared the physical contact will be too much for him.
But then, because I’m curious, or afraid, or maybe just stupid, I ask, “Are you going to give me a ticket, too?”
His eyes dart to mine, and they narrow to slits. He huffs, turning on the spot and leaving me there to stare after him.
“Why, Cris? You idiot!” I growl in irritation with myself.
It’s Owen’s job that finally breaks the ice, oddly enough. They are having the annual company cookout.
“Would you want to go?” he asks me after dinner, coming to stand beside me at the sink as I clean up.
“Are you sure? I mean, the last time I saw all those people…” Eesh, just thinking about the cookout they had last year makes me cringe.
“No one will remember. Besides, they expect to see us as a family. If you don’t come, I’m afraid it will get the gossips going.”
“Ah, I see. So, you just want me to go to keep people from talking.”
“It’s not just that. It will be nice to feel normal, if only just for one day. Mia would love it, too. There’s going to be one of those princess impersonators there. Think about it.”
“I don’t have to; it would be great,” I tell him, just happy that he’s talking to me at all.
“Perfect.”
“Owen,” I stop him before he walks out of the kitchen. “Is Cassandra going to be there?”
The frown that settles between his brows lets me know he hasn’t even thought about that. “No. The only reason she was down here was because Mike was dating her. They aren’t anymore.”
“Is she still wor
king for Crawford Co.”
“I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully. “Cris, if I’d have known that Mike was dating her back then, or that she’d be at the park, I would have done something about it.”
“And when you saw her…”
“At first I didn’t recognize her. Then, when I did I thought my world that was barely held together was about to fall apart on me again. That’s why I lied.” He’s being open about it now, whereas before he’d withheld a lot. Maybe it’s the fact that now we have something in common. We’ve both betrayed someone. Namely each other.
With that same understanding, I say, “Yes, I know. It doesn’t matter anymore. I just don’t want to run into her.”
“That makes two of us.” His lips tighten into a semblance of a smile. “She won’t be there. I promise.”
That Saturday, the three of us dressed in our best spring clothes, we head to The Latta Plantation. When we park, Owen takes Mia, and I carry the strawberry shortcake I half made. Well, maybe a quarter made. I did add fresh strawberries and plated it differently.
There are only a few of his employees there when we arrive at the covered picnic area, but they come trailing in soon enough, filling the space with laughter and playfulness.
A petite woman dressed in a superhero costume I can’t place, stands surrounded by children of all ages, including mine, who tug and beg for her attention. Someone behind me throws some charcoal onto the grill assigned to us, and begins cooking hotdogs and burgers, while others set out their dishes on a covered table.
I stand with Owen chatting, making our way through everyone and making sure no one is left out. At first I was worried someone would remember the scene I’d made when I met Cassandra, the slap! God, my face burns thinking of how hard I’d hit Owen. But if they remembered, they certainly didn’t let on.
My tension eased, as must have Owens. We relaxed into our roles of the happy couple, and I think for now we are exactly that. A couple. Several times during the afternoon, Owen places his hand on my back, or rests his arm on my shoulder.