“That sounds like a cop-out,” I told him.
“It may be, but it’s the truth.” He leaned forward. The smell of his cologne tickled my nose. Everything about this man was sexy. Maybe I would use his number after my divorce was final.
“But let me be clear,” he continued. “I’m not justifying cheating in any shape, form, or fashion. It’s just the reality. Oftentimes, a man cheating on you is not a reflection on you. Sometimes we just do dumb stuff.”
“What about when he cheats with someone you know?” I found myself saying.
“Whoa,” he said, leaning back.
I nodded. “Exactly. She was his best friend’s wife and a dear friend to the family.”
“Wow. And his best friend hasn’t put him in the hospital?” Wilson asked.
An image of Rob popped into my head. I couldn’t even imagine how hurt he would be about this. “No. His best friend died a few months ago. Dawn—his wife—was supposedly heartbroken. I guess in the midst of their”—I made the air quotes again—“ ‘grief,’ they found their way into each other’s bed.”
“Oh,” he said. He took another sip, nodding like he was thinking. “Well, I know it’s wrong and I know it hurts, but I wouldn’t put a lot of stake in that. People always say men are physical and women are emotional. But I think a lot of people don’t realize that men can be emotional as well. I think, based on what you just said, the two of them were just in an emotional place.”
“So then they cry on each other’s shoulder. They don’t have sex,” I snapped.
He raised his hands in innocence. “Hey. I can’t defend the guy. All I can tell you is that I messed up the best thing that ever happened to me. And I regret it. I’ll go to my grave regretting it. People do dumb things. They . . . we make bad decisions. Is it possible that he just made a horrible mistake and that ‘once a cheater, always a cheater’ philosophy is a bunch of bull?” He paused, giving his words time to sink in. “Has he done it before?” he asked when I didn’t answer.
“No, not to my knowledge,” I said. I don’t know why, but I believed with all my heart that Clark wasn’t a serial cheater.
“Do you think he’ll do it again?” Wilson asked.
I was pensive for a moment, then said, “I mean, I’d like to say no, but I never thought he would do it in the first place.”
Silence momentarily filled the air. Then, “Has he been trying to contact you?”
“Nonstop.”
The sincerity on his face was touching. “My gut is on you don’t have to worry about this again. You guys have been married how long?”
“Twelve years,” I said.
“Have there been any unusual phone calls? Any clandestine meetings or unexplained disappearances? Any indications at all that he’s a serial cheater?”
“No,” I replied without hesitation. Because there hadn’t been. Or maybe I’d been too blind to see them.
“Serial cheaters usually leave some type of sign.”
“Okay. So what if it was his first time? It doesn’t excuse anything.”
“I’m not saying it does. I’m just saying right now you’re in an emotional place, and the last thing you need to do is make a decision based on that emotion.”
I smiled. On top of being handsome and undeniably sexy, Wilson was a thoughtful and wise man. “You’re just full of wisdom,” I told him.
“I graduated magna cum laude from the School of Hard Knocks,” he replied.
“Well, your next wife will be a very lucky woman,” I said.
“I don’t want a next wife. I want my last wife.” He shrugged. “But it is what it is. The good thing is, she’s forgiven me.”
“Well, that’s great,” I said. “Maybe there’s a chance you’ll reunite.”
He shook his head. “Nah, because she reminds me constantly that even forgiven sins have consequences. And this is the consequence. I have to watch her move on with someone else. While I was watering someone else’s grass, someone else was watering mine.”
I smiled. “That should be a blues song.”
“It probably is.”
“So, she wouldn’t take you back because she’d found another man?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Of course, that’s what I wanted to convince myself of. But I found some emails. Though he was there for her while I was doing my thing, she remained committed to me. Until she made the decision to finally leave. Even then she would only be friends with him until months after our divorce was finalized.”
The way he talked about his ex-wife made my heart ache. There was no doubt that he still truly loved her.
“The bottom line is, she’s found someone and is very happy. Are you ready for that?” he asked me.
I thought about it. I knew the answer to that was a resounding no. This hurt enough. Imagining Clark building a life with someone else tore at my insides.
“So I should stay with someone that hurt me just because I can’t envision him moving on?”
“Absolutely not,” Wilson replied. “You should stay with him because you love him.” Seeing his cup was empty, he stood. “I need to hit the road. Baby girl awaits. It’s been a pleasure, Ms. Savannah.” He took my hand and gently kissed it. “When I left you the other night, I hoped we would meet again, perhaps hook up and finish what we started. Right now, I just hope you work things out with your husband because I see it in your eyes. The love you have for him is real. Don’t let something like that get away. One mistake does not define a man.” He leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. “You take care of yourself.”
He left me to simmer in his words.
+ + +
Wilson had been gone almost an hour. My coffee was now lukewarm. And I was still sitting in the coffee shop thinking about his words.
I could throw around the d-word all I wanted, but Wilson was right—I loved my husband. But as my mind drifted back to my friendship with Dawn and Rob, I couldn’t help but wonder if that love was enough to weather this storm.
My phone buzzed, snapping me out of my thoughts, and that’s when I noticed the alert that my voice mail was full. I’d only brought the phone with me because my plan had been to call and check in with my job. I opened the visual voice mail and scanned the numbers. Most of the messages were from Clark, and I deleted them without listening. But I paused when I recognized one of the numbers as one of my sources’. I pressed the voice mail icon to listen.
“Hey, Savannah,” the voice began. “This is Richard Carthage, give me a call ASAP. It’s major.”
The journalist in me pushed the heartbroken wife aside and quickly dialed his number.
chapter
* * *
7
Richard Carthage had been a beacon of story ideas. And while the last thing I felt like doing was work, I punched in the number to call him back. He picked up the phone on the first ring.
“Savannah!”
“Hey, Richard, how’s it going?” I asked.
“Got something big for you.”
Despite the pain I was feeling, I was still a journalist to my core. So I immediately sat up and gave him my full attention.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I’m at Texas Children’s Hospital. A six-year-old bystander has been shot in what looks like a gang shooting in Stafford. A little girl. Her older sister was hit, too, and is in the hospital.”
I frowned in confusion. That was tragic, but why in the world would Richard be calling me about a gang shooting?
“I know you’re wondering what’s the big deal,” he said as if he was reading my mind. “But this isn’t an ordinary case. They were leaving a birthday party at the Main Event. The six-year-old was killed. Her eight-year-old sister is in critical condition.” He paused, like he was about to deliver a cliffhanger. “The girl’s mother is undocumented and INS has been notified. They’re on their way to the hospital to pick her up to deport her.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “Her daughter was just killed,
another one is fighting for her life, and they’re about to deport the mother? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Nope. No one else knows about the story. It’s yours if you want it. You’ll have the exclusive scoop. Tomorrow, everyone will be all over this story.”
“Oh, my God,” I mumbled. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked a fiery mess. “I . . . I’m not at work today.”
“Well, if you’re busy, you can send someone else from your station. What about that Isiah guy?”
“You know how I’ve been busting my butt on this immigration beat. I’m not about to turn it over to another reporter. They already gave Isiah his own show over me. I’m not letting this slip away.”
“Well, it’s yours. I owe you from that last story you did for me.”
“I appreciate it, Richard.” Could I really shake this funk I was in and go to work? While my boss had been understanding about my personal leave, she would completely understand why I would need to cancel that to cover this story. “Yeah, I’m on it,” I decided.
“The mother doesn’t know,” Richard said. “But ICE will be here in about two hours.”
“I’ll be there.”
That would give me time to go get some more clothes. I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t want to go home, and this was Pulitzer Prize–winning material. The last thing I needed was to be looking like an old hag as I broke the story.
I glanced at my reflection, trying to see how much I could clean up. My hair had lost all its curl and I hadn’t brought any other work outfits or my curling iron to do my hair. No, I had to go home.
I contemplated calling the Boys & Girls Club to make sure Clark was at work. But everyone knew me there, so I didn’t want to take the chance.
“Hey, Margie,” I said, calling my boss once I was in my car and heading to my house.
“How are you?” she asked. “Feeling better?”
“I’m okay. But actually, I was calling because one of my contacts called me. Got a major story. Can you get a photog to meet me at Texas Children’s in two hours?”
“What’s going on?”
“Six-year-old girl was struck and killed by a stray bullet as she was leaving a birthday party at the Main Event in Stafford.”
“Yeah, we got that call. I have a crew on it,” Margie said.
“Well, the little girl’s sister is in surgery and it’s not looking good. And my source says a deportation order has just been executed for the mom.”
“You have got to be kidding me!” Margie said. “They won’t even let her grieve her daughter?”
“I know, right? Anyway, it’s an exclusive.”
I knew any days I had missed had been forgiven because if there was anything to send my boss into utopia, it was an exclusive story.
“I’ll have a photog there in two hours.”
I thanked her and told her I’d have the story for the news tonight.
Now I just needed to put aside my personal life and focus on my job.
+ + +
When I pulled onto my street, I saw that Clark’s car wasn’t parked in the driveway. I was grateful for small blessings as I dashed into the house to change.
I tried to do something with my hair, but I couldn’t contain my frizz and didn’t have time to flat-iron it, so I just moussed my hair down and pulled it back into a bun.
I was putting on makeup when I heard the chime of the door opening. I silently cursed myself for not putting my makeup on in the car.
“Savannah!” Clark yelled. His footsteps pounded up the stairs. “You came back!” he said, stopping in the doorway to our bedroom.
I glared at my husband. The man I’d thought was my forever love.
“I came back to get some more clothes.” I stepped around him.
“No, wait, baby. We have to talk.” He reached for me, and I immediately stepped out of his grasp.
“There is nothing for us to talk about,” I said.
“Please. You have to hear me out.”
I stopped and glared at him. “I don’t have to do anything but wait for you to get out of my way.”
He held his hands up in defense, but said, “Savannah, please?”
“Clark, I don’t have time to do this with you. I have somewhere to be.”
He moved to block me again. His face was frantic. My husband was usually calm and cool, so I knew he had to be scared crazy. “I’m not letting you go until you hear me out.”
“What are you going to do, hold me against my will?”
“I just need to explain.”
I exhaled my exasperation. “There is nothing to explain. I have an exclusive story I’m working on, and I do not have time to do this with you.”
“Okay, but just hear—”
“No!” I pushed past him. “Go tell it to Dawn.”
“Savannah, please.” He began following me down the stairs. In his state, I had no doubt Clark would follow me to the hospital for my news story, and I definitely didn’t need that. So I turned to him, and he stopped on the bottom step. “Look,” I said, “let me go do this and I’ll come back and hear you out. Is that fine?”
He shifted like he wanted to protest, but the look on my face must have told him not to push me, because he simply said, “Fine. You’ll come back by the house? How long will you be at your story?”
I rolled my eyes but said, “Yes. I’ll come back in a few hours, after I go live for the six o’clock news.”
That sent a wave of relief over him and he nodded. “Okay, I’ll be here.”
I turned to leave without saying another word.
“I love you,” he called out after me.
I let the door slam on his words. And my lie. Because I had no intention of coming back anytime soon.
chapter
* * *
8
As a journalist, I’d seen my share of heartbreaking stories. But nothing had torn at me like the story I’d just filed. I don’t know if it was because I was in an emotional place, but when they ripped Lupe Garcia from that hospital waiting room, I cried.
Her wail would stay with me. The cold, heartless ICE agents, who dragged her away as she begged to stay and wait for her daughter coming out of surgery, would haunt me forever. The doctors had pleaded. Even I pleaded, but they would not be moved. It was the evilest thing I’d ever witnessed. Apparently, Ms. Garcia had already been deported once, nine years ago, so the ICE agents showed no sympathy.
Her child had been killed, another injured, and they wouldn’t even let the poor woman grieve. Normally, I kept my opinion out of my news stories, but when I went live on the six o’clock news, I didn’t bother with objectivity. I let my disdain be shown.
So when I was leaving the hospital and my live shot, and saw my boss’s name on my cell phone, I knew she was about to chew me out.
“Hey, Margie,” I said, bracing myself for my verbal chastising.
“Savannah!” she sang. “That was frigging awesome! I know all the other stations are scrambling.”
Her enthusiasm over our exclusivity apparently took precedence over any anger about me interjecting my opinion.
“Good. Glad you’re pleased,” I replied.
“Oh, I’m more than pleased,” she said. “Hate to ask but can you come back and go live for the ten?”
I had known that request was coming, so I was already prepared. “Sure, I have to go take care of some things. I’ll get an update, see if I can get a statement from INS, and be ready to go at ten.”
“Awesome. That’s why you’re my superstar,” she said. “I’ll check in with you later.”
Her excitement made me feel good. I took my job seriously and loved working for Margie. Besides, over the past few hours I hadn’t thought about Clark or my situation. So obviously work was good for me.
But as I navigated down I-10 back toward the Markham, I knew going back to the hotel would give me time to rekindle my pity party. So I made the decision to swing by Starbucks and try and make
some calls and dig up some more information, to get a different spin on my story tonight. The only issue was this rush-hour traffic.
I inhaled, decided not to let rush hour get me worked up, then turned up the radio to relax while I took my time navigating through the traffic.
I smiled when the Temptations began singing about sunshine on a cloudy day. The song immediately took me back . . .
“I’ve got sunshine on a cloudy day.” Rob’s voice resonated throughout the karaoke club. The crowd was eating it up. “When it’s cold outside, I’ve got the month of May.”
“Don’t quit your day job,” my husband yelled from our table in the back of the room.
“Leave my baby alone,” Dawn said. She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Go on, baby. Sing for mama.”
Our table erupted in laughter as Rob belted out the entire three verses of the Temptations’ song. It was good to get out after months of locking myself in the house. I’d taken a medical leave of absence from work and restricted myself to the house. I’d come out of my grief, but every time I had fun, I felt guilty, so it was rare for me to indulge. Though, tonight, I’d finally taken Clark up on his offer and headed out for a night on the town with Rob and Dawn, his wife of sixteen years. The four of us had been inseparable before my accident. I knew Rob had been Clark’s rock through my whole ordeal. And I genuinely loved him, not just for that but because he was the kind of friend that every wife wanted her husband to have. By default, Dawn and I had become really good friends as well.
A chorus of catcalls for “More!” and pats on the back surrounded Rob as he made his way back over to us. His dimpled smile and hazel eyes lit up the table.
“So, do you think Atlantic Records is gonna sign me?” he said as he slid into his seat.
“No, you’re going to have us signing. You see, we’re going to need sign language since we’re all deaf after that number,” Clark said, patting his ear like something was stuck in it.
The Book in Room 316 Page 4