After Her

by Amber Kay

“So you two genuinely had a normal marriage at some point,” I say.

  He chuckles at the nostalgia, briefly lost in thought.

  “Anytime I closed a deal with a client, she’d show up in my office with a bottle of wine eager to celebrate.”

  My cheeks flush; his smile wavers.

  “Celebrate?” I say. “You don’t mean…”

  “She liked to make love atop this desk,” he announces while stroking his fingers across the desktop. I watch those fingers move methodically against the surface, spellbound by the wayward thoughts that venture into my head.

  “No one ever walked in? Or overheard?” My voice rises in pitch like the squeak of a pesky mouse.

  “That’s why the soundproof walls were installed,” he laughs. As his laughter subsides, his eyes appear sullen as if these memories drudge up a surfeit of dormant emotions for him. He’s almost as ephemeral as Vivian is, from one memory to the next.

  Neither of them can maintain a grip on the present whenever reminded of the forgotten past. I'm sure they’d both rather fade into the past to recapture those days before the cancer, before the murder trial and the scandal.

  “How long has it been?” I blurt without bothering to consider the nature of my question until it’s already escaped my lips. By then, it’s too late to censor myself, too late to filter the words. I bite my tongue, wanting to take it all back.

  Adrian gives me an indiscernible look. It’s hard to tell from this whether I’ve actually offended him. With him, it’s never a simple hop and skip to uncover the truth behind his silence. He and Vivian are alike in that sense, neither of them ever willing the shed their apathetic masks long enough to allow anyone within their citadels.

  He clears his throat like an old man gnawing tobacco. It’s an obvious attempt to freshen the mood between us despite the fact that I'm the one that’s made it awkward. He downs the rest of his whiskey and pushes the glass aside.

  “Are you questioning me about my sex life with Vivian?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, scrambling to excuse myself. “Forget I ever asked. God, I'm so sorry. I don’t even know why—”

  “Two years,” he interjects. “She hasn’t let me touch her in two years. The cancer has destroyed her sex drive. When she was diagnosed, she started pushing me away. I'm allowed one kiss a day and an occasional hug, but her libido isn’t what it used to be. These days we virtually live like platonic siblings, not spouses.”

  Vivian mentioned this, made a note of telling me how much she hates being touched. Her body at this point is something she’d rather keep to herself and I don’t blame her. I have seen the physical effects of the cancer and how she can’t stand being reminded of it anytime she notices the varicose veins streaking her inner thighs.

  “Do you two talk about me when I'm not around?” he asks. My immediate thought is of Vivian’s proposition. I realize how easily I could expose this arranged marriage plot and put an end to all of this, freeing myself.

  She’d hate me for it, I'm sure, but she’d get over it. Adrian should know. Vivian’s face cloaks my thoughts like a shadow, reminding me not to say a word like it’s some dirty secret kept close between a pedophile and victim.

  “Cassandra?”

  “Huh?”

  “You never answered my question,” says Adrian who stares at me like I'm some dying thing lying in the street.

  “Sometimes,” I say, wanting to sugarcoat the truth as much as possible. “She mentions you occasionally.”

  “What does she say?”

  “Can’t you just ask her these things instead of using me as a middle man?” I reply.

  He chuckles to himself, beneath his breath.

  “Vivian and I don’t talk much these days,” he says. “She spends most of her time busying herself with you. If I were jealous type, I’d say that you were trying to steal my wife.”

  A spastic chuckle explodes out of me, making me stiffen in my seat, nailed to the chair. Adrian’s eyes lock to mine in search of something. Soon after, he sits back with a smile, amused by whatever he’s found.

  “Listen,” he abruptly replies. “You won’t have to worry about this mysterious stalker much longer. I’ll get some people on it. Have it investigated. We’ll figure out who he is. I promise.”

  “Should I be worried that you’re suddenly so cooperative?” I tease.

  “Is that your new complaint? That I'm too…cooperative?”

  When he says it like that, it sounds sillier aloud than it did in my head.

  “I'm sorry,” I say. “It’s a habit of mine to always think the worse of you.”

  “There is no definitive way to please you, is there?” he asks in a voice that suggests that his words mean more than what he’s actually saying. I reign in my immediate reaction, wanting to scold him for that vague innuendo, but feeling instead a curl of something sinful in the pit of my stomach.

  “I should get home,” I announce. “Sasha is probably waiting.”

  He doesn’t object. For some reason his lack of effort disappoints me. I imagine him ordering me to stay. Then I feel silly for wanting him to say anything at all. Before I can exit my chair, the door bursts open.

  The pretty, brunette receptionist emerges in the entrance, leering in, first at Adrian then at me like some scorned spouse seeking to catch her husband in the act. Upon noticing the opposite, she quickly readjusts her distrustful expression to appear cordial.

  “Francesca, I’m in the middle of a meeting. Can I help you?” Adrian asks her without bothering to raise his voice above a casual tone. His voice is one above an exasperated father, reprimanding his kid for interrupting an adult conversation.

  “Mr. Delmarco called. He’d like to move that lunch to 1:30,” she says. “I’m sorry for the interruption. I just—”

  “Thank you,” he interjects. “You can leave now.”

  She glances once more at me. If she could, I'm sure she’d shove me from the seventieth floor window. In her, I sense something more than spite, something territorial. After a moment, she clears her throat and exits the room.

  “Okay, that was weird,” I say.

  “Disregard Francesca. She’s a bit uncomfortable with strangers in the building. She does her job too well.”

  “By ‘uncomfortable’ you mean jealous,” I reply. “There is no way any girl would take the duties of an entry-level receptionist as seriously as she does. She hasn’t stopped glaring at me since I arrived.”

  Adrian chuckles at some secret joke. I’ve yet to hear the punch line.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  “If you’re going to imply something, why not just say it outright?”

  “Alright, if that’s how you want it…are you fucking your receptionist or is there some other reason why she feels the need to constantly mark her territory around you like a pissing dog?” I ask, no longer feeling the need to censor myself out of respect or common courtesy. Apparently, these social laws don’t apply to him.

  “I’ll never understand why you feel the need to ask questions that you already know the answers to,” he replies.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” I say while approaching the door, moving my legs like sandbags through the mud. As I make my way to the exit, I feel him watching with strict intent. I grip the doorknob, but I don’t leave. Some unfinished business remains between us, some unsaid words neither of us have bothered to say.

  “Are you really sleeping with that girl?” I ask again though my voice reminds me of a child agonizing over a parent’s divorce. I can’t conceive why this bothers me. What Adrian chooses to do with his anatomy is none of my business.

  His expression leaves a cold sensation of panicked curiosity simmering beneath my skin.

  As he sets his stare on me, allowing no room for misinterpretation or ambiguity, he ultimately confesses, “Not currently.”

  “Good,” I reply. “Vivian has enough to worry about without obsessing over you keeping it in your pants.”

 
“Are you sure that’s the only reason you asked?” he asks.

  “Why else would I care about you and your rampant extramarital sex life if not out of concern for Vivian?” I ask.

  He shrugs, exposing no sense of discontent with the subject matter.

  “You don’t have to be concerned about Vivian,” he says. “She’s always been able to take care of herself.”

  “With you as her husband, it’s no wonder why.” I fling open the door, anxious for a quick escape. My mind maps the route out, mentally evaluating how fast I can get to the elevator, out of the building then to my car.

  “Cassandra?” he calls, as I'm one foot into the hallway. I weigh my options, debating whether to respond.

  “What?” I say, the word tasting sour on my tongue like a mouthful of bad whiskey.

  “You should wear your hair up like that more often,” he remarks. “It really does brings out your eyes.”

  I want to disregard his compliment, to treat it as nothing more than the inappropriate advances of a man I should hate. I should be repulsed, should curse or reproach him for coaxing this flattered little girl out of me.

  I almost feel giddy, taken by the words like there’s a heady toxin in the air, inebriating my senses. I won’t allow him the pleasure of seeing this side of me. I refuse him the honor by marching out of his office.

  Once in the parking lot, sitting in my car, I peer at my reflection in the rearview mirror and bring my hands to my hair. After removing the rubber band to release the chignon, I sigh aloud, feeling a sense of urgency lift from shoulders.

  PART THREE

  The Truth

  23

  When I open my eyes, it’s not an intentional gesture.

  There is no subliminal voice ordering me to wake. I have no conscious thoughts to move or react. I lie beneath the quilts, peering through holes in the fabric, squinting at the glint of sunlight shining over me.

  My alarm clock crows, urging me to acknowledge it. I prefer the stillness, to recollect the contents of last night’s dream. My phone buzzes, displaying a name that I'm not enthusiastic to see illuminating across the screen. I know the consequences of not answering and that is something I don’t need on my ass right now.

  “Good morning, Vivian,” I answer, apathetically.

  “Ah, Cassandra, I hope I didn’t wake you,” she says.

  “If that were true, you wouldn’t have called at all.”

  She chuckles.

  “Just thought I’d remind you of tonight’s festivities.”

  I nod, though she can’t see the nonverbal reply.

  “I haven’t forgotten about the gala, Vivian. It’s only been yesterday since the last time I saw you.”

  “You mean since you started avoiding me?”

  “Vivian, I don’t have time for this,” I say. “I can’t talk to you right now.”

  “Fine, the real reason I called is to tell you to open your front door.”

  “Why?”

  “Do as I say then you’ll know why.”

  I set aside the phone and slip into my robe. I head down the narrow hall, past Sasha’s bedroom then into the living room where the deadbolt sits unlatched from the front door. Something in me reacts before my brain can process it. I sprint across the room, clasping hold of the doorknob to peer outside.

  Air catches in my throat, pulsing like a sting from a bee. I'm not sure what to expect. With Vivian, I should anticipate anything. Has she been in my apartment? Snuck in while we slept? I see no visible answer to either question.

  All I see upon poking my head out the open door is a gift box sitting on the ground. The box is plain on the surface, coated in white wrapping with a single red bow taped to the top. I kneel to retrieve it, briefly noting an unfamiliar black Sedan parked in the lot just below my apartment stairwell.

  The person inside sits hidden by tinted windows. I swear I recognize him. I step further outside, leaning against the balcony railing to examine the car. The moment we lock eyes, the Sedan speeds off, exiting the lot. I carry the box inside, perching it atop the arm of the sofa before heading back into my bedroom where my phone remains face down on the bed.

  “Okay, three questions, Vivian,” I say after pressing the phone back to my ear. “First: what’s in this box? Second: who’s the weird man driving the black Sedan? Third: how the fuck did he get into my apartment?”

  “I sent an employee to deliver it since you weren’t answering my calls,” she replies. “This is what you get for being so difficult.”

  “Has he been in my apartment?”

  “Don’t get so fussy,” she says. “I assure you that he never entered.”

  “What are you trying to prove?” I ask. “Do you want my attention? Fine! I’ll answer all of your stupid phone calls from now on! Now order your affiliates to stay the hell away from my apartment.”

  I hear her laugh, refusing to take my words seriously. It ignites something fierce in me, something that breaks me down at the knees, sends me plummeting to the floor in a bundle of quivering limbs. I can’t win with this woman.

  “This is stalking,” I say, wishing the words were knives I could drill into her. “You know that, right? Stalking is a crime, Vivian. How long have you been sending strange men to watch my apartment and snap photos of me?”

  Vivian hesitates for several seconds, unresponsive. I wonder where she is during this call. Sitting in her car a few blocks from my apartment? Or in bed with a tray of breakfast atop her lap, reading her morning paper, sipping her tea. Business as usual.

  “Cassandra, I’ve already admitted to my indiscretions,” she finally replies. “Calvin is the only employee I’ve ever sent to your apartment. I have no idea whomever this mysterious photographer is and my intent was never to frighten you.”

  “Really? Are you sure about that?” I ask. “Because you’re doing a crappy job of not scaring me!”

  “I love you,” she confesses in a timid tone. “You’re the only thing I have left. I can’t lose you again.”

  “Vivian, what are you talking about?” What I hear next is a dial tone. No answer to my question. I sit for several minutes, holding the phone to my ear and staring blankly at the floor.

  “Cassie?” Sasha calls from the hallway before poking her head into my room. It takes a moment to compose myself and put on a smile phony enough to fool Sasha.

  “Hey, you awake?” She knocks several times before I face her.

  “Yeah,” I say after turning off my phone and tucking it beneath my pillow. Sasha enters, wearing her frilly nightgown and robe, her bedhead hair in blonde tatters.

  “I'm heading down to the campus café to pick up some much needed caffeine. You want me to pick you up a decaf?”

  I need this casual small talk, to keep her from noticing my disheveled state.

  “Yeah, decaf is fine with a blueberry scone,” I reply.

  “Cool. Oh, I was also thinking we could drop by Shelley’s to scope out some dresses for the gala tonight. I’m thinking of matching halters with pearl accessories. Or maybe sapphires. My birthstone sucks. Who the fuck wears topazes anyway?”

  I nod to appear complacent.

  “I’m showering first,” she says. “You don’t mind, right?”

  I shake my head.

  “No, just um…leave me some hot water.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she replies before slinking away. Moments later, I hear the water shooting through the faulty pipes in the walls. I gather what’s left of my calm and saunter back into the living room where I’d left the box.

  My hands lay splayed atop the box, trembling from the anticipation of what to expect inside. If I don’t do this now, Sasha is bound to hijack the experience from me altogether and swipe the box away before I have a chance to see for myself.

  I peel back the layers of wrapping, tearing my nails into the crème paper after removing the decorative red bow. Inside, beneath four layers of crepe papering is a red, sequined cocktail dress, one-shouldered and made from rayon
, sure to be very formfitting once I try it on.

  I remove the skimpy dress from its box to examine it. Beneath the light, it’s exquisite. The attached price tag explains why.

  “Five thousand dollars!” I exclaim. “Jesus Christ, Vivian.”

  “What’d she do now?” Sasha replies from behind me. She stands in the doorway, detangling her damp hair with her fingers, donning a blouse and jeans and smelling of her favorite butternut cream body wash. She glances at the dress dangling from my hands and her eyes widen.

  “Holy shit! That dress is gorgeous. Is that an Herve?” she asks. I shrug as she swipes the garment from my hands, fawning over the damn thing like it’s a long lost twin separated from her at birth.

  “Oh, I haven’t seen one of these bad boys since Daddy cut off my allowance.”

  “Sas, it’s just a dress, not the cure to mankind,” I say.

  “To you, maybe.”

  “If you like it so much, why don’t you wear it?” I say.

  She inspects the interior, checking the price and clothing tag.

  “Damn,” she replies. “It’s a size three. I won’t even get this thing past my knees.”

  “Sasha, you’re not fat,” I say.

  “Too fat to wear this dress.” She shoves the dress back into my arms, whirling away from me in a huff of frustration. “If I’d only started eating granola sooner.”

  “Well, I'm not wearing it either way,” I say. “I'm sending it back.”

  “That’s not what this letter says,” she replies after reading the piece of stationary that arrived with the box. I seize the letter from her hand so fast that she blinks several times to adjust her eyes to the motion.

  The letter is written in familiar eloquent handwriting. Vivian. Beneath an assortment of aesthetic floral designs is a brief note addressed to me from her, casually asserting:

  Your dress for the gala.

  Tailored specifically for your body only.

  Wear it tonight with your hair up…just the way Adrian likes it.

  --Vivian

  I grasp the note tighter, crumbling it in my fists, repelling the impulse to shriek aloud. Sasha watches intently, assessing me as if she fears I’ll explode.