by Carmen, Roya
The Girl He Loves
Roya Carmen
Contents
Copyright
BLURB
The Girl He Loves
Preface
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Part II
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part III
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Part IV
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Part V
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
A note from the author:
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Roya Carmen
The Ground Rules - Excerpt - Chapter One
Copyright
The Girl He Loves © Roya Carmen, 2019
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. Copyright property of the author. No part of this content may be reproduced or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes without prior written permission from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and locations are either the product of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is purely coincidental.
Cover design, formatting and illustration: Calico Images
Editing: CKMS Media
Poetry: Camille Saville
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BLURB
The Girl He Loves
Book One - Orchard Heights Series (standalone)
Some secrets are meant to be discovered.
Mischa Lombardi is odd. Pragmatic. Perfectionist. Neurotic. Diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder at the age of eleven, she can’t remember being any other way.
Thankfully, with the assistance of medication and therapy, her life is well under control. Some might even say it’s perfect: a beautiful husband, her sons Trevor and Tristan, a fabulous condo, work she enjoys and great friends.
Yet she’s still extremely fragile. It’s the reason she always guards her emotions very carefully. And unfortunately, nothing can help her when, by chance, she discovers her husband’s secret — Ava, a beautiful young woman. She was so sure she knew her husband, but now she desperately needs to uncover the truth.
It’s no surprise when she becomes obsessed with Ava, with every trivial detail of her life; her friends, her beautiful mother, and most of all, her gentle and sweet father. Driven not only by curiosity and obsession, but also by jealousy and lust, she heads down a turbulent path as she sets out to uncover everything about her husband’s secret life and all the mysterious people in it.
The Girl He Loves
“Stalking is such a strong word. I prefer Intense Research of an Individual.” - Girl from Paris - Tumblr
Preface
Betrayal; lying, cheating, deceit, breaking a confidence or a promise. Betrayal destroys relationships, it stomps ruthlessly all over them and then sets them ablaze. It is a loss, a knife to the heart. It is enough to drive anyone crazy, off the edge. Betrayal has consequences and the power to veer our life’s path.
If we let it.
Part I
Perfection
1
I close my eyes for just a second. Not a moment longer. I inhale a deep breath. I tap my mug three times with the tip of my manicured nail.
Then I drink.
My morning coffee is a ritual I can’t do without. It’s my ON switch. Without it, I can’t forge ahead. Lots to do today: daybooks and ledgers await me. They call out to me with a welcoming smile. Sort us out, they plead. Make us look pretty. Make everything fit. Just as it should.
I have a few dozen clients, but today, only two will fill my day. I glance over at my TO DO list: it’s full and precise, everything is accounted for. I like numbers. I get off on order. Nothing turns me on more than balancing an Income Statement.
I enjoy my coffee while I peruse my list.
7:30 AM Morning Routine
8:30 AM Breakfast/Tidy (Avocado toast, six pecans, almond milk, apple, medication)
9:00 AM Coffee
9:05 AM Forgers account
11:05 AM Gym
12:30 PM Lunch with the girls (Ruth’s — BLT and Caesar salad, coffee and water)
2:00 PM Romano Account
3:00 PM Mollie
3:15 PM Tidy/snack (raspberries, ten cashews, one slice of cheese)
4:00 PM account overviews/organize/list
5:00 PM Prepare Dinner /homework
6:00 PM Dinner (Lasagna, bread, salad, vitamins)
7:00 PM Clean/make T and T’s lunches
8:00 PM TV/laundry
9:00 PM Free time
11:00 PM Bedtime routine
11:15 PM Bed
I cross ‘Coffee’ off the list. I set out my books, laptop, and pencils at perfect angles. Just so. My cell phone is nestled in my purse, a few feet away, lest it distract me.
I get to work.
About an hour in, I rise to stretch, as is usually the routine. I cock my head to the left, then to the right, and all around. I arch, hands on my lower back. I pace my office, check out the going-ons outside. Wicker Park is a bustling neighborhood — there are always people to watch. And here in Orchard Heights, we’re smack in the middle of it all. With its spacious lofts and old world charm; brick walls, high ceilings and vintage touches, Orchard Heights is one of the most in-demand condo residences in this neighborhood. It used to be a candy factory in the old days, but was refurbished into residential lofts in the seventies.
I stare at the art on my walls; vibrant abstracts on large canvases done by a local artist. Brian and I spent a small fortune on them, but I just had to have them. I loved the clean lines and meticulous strokes. The seventies-style sofa in my office is streamlined and adorned with two matching cushions at either end. They are positioned just so, and when they’re not, I know one of the boys have sat on my sofa. Mollie also likes to curl up on it, always nestled in the same spot, right next to the left cushion.
The books on my spotless glass coffee table are pretty. They are not meant to be read, they are meant to look good. Tristan loves to pick them up and flip through them. I’m not sure if he does this to get on my nerves. I highly doubt a thirteen year-old boy has any interest in the History of Chicago, or Fashion Through the Ages.
He’s just like his dad. He loves to play and tease. Trevor, on the other hand, is more like me; a little serious and very organized, but loves a good laugh once in a while.
I smile when I spot it. I’m grinning but my heart also beats faster than it should. I walk over to my bookshelf and stare at
it for about three seconds before deciding to restore the order. In a moment like this, I always entertain the possibility of not doing anything, not adjusting, not making it right. What would be the worst possible scenario? A book out of order on my shelf. The world would go on. No one would die. I know this. Lord knows, Brian has repeated it to me enough times. I know it, but I can’t help myself. It’s a compulsion, an urge stronger than anyone can imagine. I need to make it right.
The book is conspicuous, much larger than its neighbors, a non-fiction book nestled in romance fiction, its spine turned towards the back of the bookshelf, the edges of its pages visible. It makes me breathe so fast, puts me on edge. It’s an itch I absolutely need to scratch.
When I finally take the book and return it to its rightful place, spine outward, I breathe easier. I smile at the thought of who could have been messing with me today. Brian or Tristan? They think I’m funny. They think having a serious psychological disorder is something to laugh at.
When it’s anything but.
* * *
I have the fastest shower humanly possible following my workout. I dry my short bob straight. I don’t look at my reflection while I dry, I watch the people behind me. I love to listen in on other’s conversations — always have. I’m such a creep.
I don’t have any friends at the gym. I go in, do my thing, and leave with a wave goodbye to whoever is at the reception desk. Everyone but me seems to have friends here. I always see women chatting like old friends, and it makes me a little envious.
I stare at my reflection; dark bob, green eyes, square face, heart-shaped mouth. I’ve seen it a thousand times before. It’s of no interest to me. I just pretend to look at myself, but really, I’m spying.
The two middle aged women; early forties or so, are oblivious. They’re getting dressed, back into their day clothes. They’re letting it all hang out, asses on display and breasts flopping. I don’t understand this — I envy their lack of self-consciousness. I don’t stare of course. I wouldn’t want them to think I’m a weirdo. I am, but I don’t want them to know that. Even if they are complete strangers.
One is dark skinned with a short crew cut, the other is fair, with greying blonde hair and glasses.
They start off with the weather. Spring is finally here. It’s about time. The winter has been rough. Crew cut says she’ll need to buy a new lawnmower to mow her lawn. Glasses says that stuff is so expensive. I wonder why they’re worrying about such things. Don’t they have husbands? If I had a lawn, I’m sure Brian would be the one mowing it. Crew cut says she fell last time she was working in the yard, and she can’t handle falling, with her bum knee and all. Glasses says she’s noticed the knee scar, and always wondered.
I want to see the scar, but I don’t want to be obvious. I glance quickly. I see it… it’s kind of horrendous. Crew cut explains it was from a surgery to remove a tumor a few years ago. I feel so bad for her. She says she’s really self-conscious about it when she goes to the beach on vacation. I want to jump in and tell her not to be. Her and Gerald apparently enjoy going on vacation. So she is married after all. Gerald, be a man and mow your lawn.
“Gerald always says to me, ‘Look at all those huge three-hundred pound heifers in thong bikinis at the pool, and you’re worried about your scar.’ I guess he has a point,” Crew cut says.
I cringe a little.
“Oh, I know,” Glasses says. “I see them too when we go to Aruba. Don’t they have no shame. They shouldn’t even be allowed on the beach.”
Crew cut laughs out loud.
My jaw hangs. I’m shocked. These women are horrible. I want to punch them in the face. What can I do to rectify this situation? I believe in karma, and Glasses is about to get hers.
I turn and walk over to her. “I’m sorry,” I say sweetly. “Is your name Miranda?”
“No,” she says, confused. “Why?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. You look exactly like an old friend of my mother’s. I’m so sorry… you just look exactly like her, and you must be about her age… sixty-ish?”
Her mouth drops and she’s speechless for a few seconds. “Uh, actually… I’m forty-three,” she says. She looks completely devastated.
I smile inside. “Oh, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean anything… never mind.” I walk away and pack up my stuff. Take that, you fat-shaming bitch.
“Sixty? Seriously?” Crew cut says. “You don’t look a day over forty, Kelly.”
“Thanks, Sarah,” Kelly says, but I can hear the anguish in her voice.
My job is done.
When I get to Ruth’s Diner, Abigail and Gretchen are already there. Abigail is a vision as always, tall and slim, about five inches taller than me, beautiful and ethereal.
She waves a hand when she spots me. Her and Gretchen are sitting in a booth, facing each other. Gretchen hasn’t seen me yet. Abigail rises to greet me with a hug. Today, she’s wearing a long flower patterned dress with tall black boots. She always dresses very feminine, and wears her long blonde hair in waves — she looks like a woman in a renaissance painting.
I lean down to give Gretchen a hug. “Don’t get up.” I slide next to her. Of all my friends, Gretchen is the most like me, a little uptight, with similar fashion tastes. We favor cute pencil skirts, pretty heels and frilly blouses. But we differ when it comes to our hair. Her long hair is often braided, curled, straight, worn in a bun or a loose up-do. It always changes. Occasionally, she dyes the ends… blue, purple, red. Mine on the other hand, is always in a straight bob…. chocolate brown.
Gretchen glances at her watch. “Twelve-thirty exactly,” she teases.
Abigail smiles. “Isn’t it great to have a friend who is so predictable?”
I laugh. “What? I like to adhere to my schedule. So sue me.”
The waitress rounds the corner and asks us for our drink orders.
“What about Claudia?” I ask. “Where is she?”
“She’s not coming,” Abigail turns to the waitress. “I’ll have an iced tea, please.”
“A glass of water with ice, and a coffee, please,” I add.
“Just a glass of water for me,” Gretchen says. “Thank you.”
“Why?” I ask as soon as the server leaves. “Why couldn’t she make it?”
Abigail sighs. “She’s in bed, crying.”
“What?”
“I went to her place to talk and tried to convince her to come for our weekly lunch, but she wouldn’t budge. She said she’d eaten a pint of Oreo ice cream already.”
I’m so curious, I could burst. “What happened?”
Gretchen finally puts me out of my misery. “Jake has been cheating on her.”
“Really? But he seemed so nice,” I say, devastated for my friend. “And they haven’t been together for long at all.” Sometimes you think you can read people, but you just never know.
“I know,” Gretchen chimes in. “We all liked him.”
The server comes back with our drinks. I take my coffee black. I close my eyes for a second. I take a deep breath, and tap on the mug three times. My friends don’t even notice me doing this. And then I take a sip.
Abigail orders the spinach white omelette. Gretchen gets the avocado chicken burger, and I order the BLT with a Caesar salad, just as planned. I don’t even flip open the menu.
“How did she find out?” I ask, riveted. I want all the juicy details. I feel bad about this. I shouldn’t be taking any sort of pleasure in my friend’s misfortunes, but I’ve always been insanely curious. It’s one of the issues we try to work on in therapy. By ‘we’, I mean Eva and I. Or Dr. Russell as I sometimes call her. Dr. Russell has been my therapist for years. I’ve had a few over the years, but she’s been with me for quite a while now.
Abigail raises her glass of iced tea to her lips. “She stumbled on Jake’s Messenger app.”
“Well, she didn’t exactly stumble on his Messenger,” Gretchen chimes in. “She suspected something and she knew his phone password. She saw him input it o
nce.”
“Why was she suspicious?” I ask. I need to know more. I need to know everything. It’s a compulsive urge. I hear Eva’s voice: Take a breath and ask yourself why you need this so bad?
I ponder the question. Because I’m bored as fuck, and I need excitement.
Abigail digs into her omelette. “Jake had been acting distant lately, blowing her off with lame excuses, cutting phone conversations short, standing her up for dates,” she tells me. “And they hadn’t been having sex much.”
“So anyway,” Gretchen says, taking over. “She went on his Instagram because he’s always on his phone, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. She was about to turn off the phone when a message notification came in from his Messenger app. It said, ‘Miss you, baby. Come and warm me up after work.’”
“Holy shit,” I blurt out, loud enough for the people next to us to turn their heads. “Sorry,” I mumble.