"I look what?" I sound much more defensive than I planned.
"You look, um, nothing. You ready? I thought we would warm up with some sparring and then move on to some holds. How does that sound?"
"Fine. I'm fine with whatever." I pull my jacket over my head. Zach hesitates, but moves from the wall and heads toward the middle of the room to set up. We've been working with the pads so Zach slides them over his forearms and waits for me to join him on the mats. I stand in front of him and get into position. By now I know how to set my legs—feet slightly apart, knees bent—and I instinctively pull my hands up and ball them into fists.
"Come on, champ," Zach teases. "Show me what you got." I know he's trying to make this fun even if he senses I've come into this session with other things on my mind. He's like this with the kids, always joking, but today it only makes me tense up.
I start slow with a couple of cross body punches that land my fist squarely in the center of the pad. Zach is braced, legs in a wide stance, but still bouncing a bit. He knows that even my hardest punch isn't going to knock him off his feet. I'm at even more of a disadvantage today having a belly full of wine. I have that dizziness that comes with just a tad too much alcohol, but I don't let that stop me from hitting the pads. Zach counts with a steady, "One, two. One, two." And I'm doing alright keeping up the pace despite the thoughts that keep swimming in my head about Paul and his double life, his lies, and my broken heart.
The rhythm of the punches and the effort it takes to move my arms forward lulls me into a trance. My body knows what to do instinctively now which gives my brain free rein to run through every ugly scenario with Paul. I can feel the sweat starting to trickle down my back and between my breasts. Before long it's in my eyes but I don't make an effort to wipe it away. I'm sure I smell like a winery, but Zach says nothing. He stays remarkably quiet even as my punches become more solid, fueled by my anger and the only outlet for my all-consuming rage. I know I'm still not close to hurting him, but his face has begun to mirror my concentration and with every punch he lets out his breath in that short staccato way that tells me he's feeling the contact on the pad.
I'm grunting now, something that I would never, ever do during these training sessions. I have tried to keep my dignity around Zach, at least during warm-ups. But today, my emotions are getting the best of me and I'm having trouble keeping it all from coming to the surface—having difficulty not letting all of the anger bubble over. And then I can't hold it in anymore and burst into tears. Loud, ugly tears that begin to stream down my cheeks as I gasp for breath.
To Zach's credit, he doesn't freak out; he slowly lowers the pads and stands absolutely still for a second. His face registers first shock and then an emotion that I recognize as pain. In the next second he has the pads off and his arms around me as I crumple to the floor, my knees hitting the mats with a thud. He's making the shush noise that my mother uses to soothe me as I sob uncontrollably into his shoulder. Normally I would be mortified at all of this—at how vulnerable I have become here and at how snotty I have made Zach's shirt—but when I open my mouth to apologize, he shushes me again. We sit rocking on the floor for what feels like forever, until I can pull myself together enough to quiet the sobs down to whimpers.
"What if someone comes in?" I croak, suddenly aware of the proximity of the studio door to my breakdown in progress. I can only imagine how this will look to the soccer moms and how little time it will take for word of this to spread.
"We were going to work on holds, right?" Zach asks, seemingly unconcerned about the possibility of someone finding us crumpled on the floor. "I think this counts."
We sit like this until my tears stop, the only sounds my intermittent sniffling and Zach's steady breathing. Finally he shifts a bit and pulls his face back to look at me. The urge to turn away is overwhelming—I am an ugly crier at the best of times and this was certainly not one of them—but I let him look directly at me. He takes the hem of his T-shirt and lifts it toward my face, giving my cheeks and nose a wipe. It is the same thing I've done a million times to Charlie and Noah. It's effective but mortifying, especially when I see the copious amount of moisture I've left all over Zach's shoulder. But he doesn't seem to mind as he strokes my hair softly like a parent would and then plants a kiss on my forehead.
"Do you want to talk about it?" His voice is soft and low and I can't help but imagine this is how he would talk to a toddler. I shake my head. There is no way I can tell Zach about my betrayal. I know his wife did something similar to him, but I have no intention of discussing it with him today. Or ever.
How did I not see that Paul was doing this to me?
"No, I'm fine now," I lie. I'm better, sure, but I don't think I'll ever be fine again. "I should really go."
But Zach doesn't let me go. Instead he tightens his arms around me and rests his head on top of mine. I can feel him exhale and become aware of the thudding of my heart pressed so close to his.
"We've still got time left in the session. And I don't have anything else scheduled for today. Maybe we could take a walk to get my favorite all time feel better cure."
I tilt my head back to get a look at his face and see the corner of his mouth working into a smile.
"What's your feel better cure?" I ask, taking the bait and feeling my own mouth begin to turn up into a smile to answer his.
"Tequila."
18
Julia
And this is how I end up at Mamacita's three hours later. Zach's in a clean shirt—my one condition before we left the studio. A request I regretted as it required him to pull the tear-soaked one off over his head, revealing the hard-packed muscles of his chest and abdomen. I managed to keep from reaching out to run my fingers over the divot running down his belly, but just barely. The walk in the sunshine helped a little even though Zach's arm kept brushing mine as we navigated the tight sidewalk. The electric jolts were unexpected, with all the rage I'm carrying around now who would have thought there would be room for anything else? But the attraction is definitely there and a few drinks in it doesn't seem to be going away. We order pitchers of margaritas and keep our glasses full. We're still drinking when happy hour starts and use this as an excuse to order another round.
By the time the twinkling lights come on, I am well on my way to drunk. Which should fully explain what happens next, still in my workout clothes with my cell phone shoved in the tiny zipper pocket in the back. Concerned that my parents might call with a kid emergency, the pants pocket seemed like the responsible choice. Not that any part of this situation is actually very responsible. At least this is what Cassie tries to tell me when I accidentally butt dial her on a ladies’ room trip.
Discovering that my pants were repeatedly shouting at me would have been disconcerting under any circumstances, but my tequila-addled brain had a much more difficult time than usual figuring out the source of the voice and the logistics of freeing my phone from the tiny pocket. My explanation of events puts Cassie immediately in the car and on her way to Mamacita's. Not twenty minutes later she walks through the front door of the restaurant.
Cassie’s eyes widen when she sees us. Zach's arm is slung over my shoulder and two empty pitchers of margaritas sit in front of us. Those same eyes narrow to slits when she sees the third full one delivered by our perky waitress.
Zach stands when he sees Cassie marching toward our table. I've neglected to tell him about my tendency to accidentally drunk dial my friends when left alone. In all truth it had slipped my mind as soon as I left the bathroom and caught a glimpse of Zach stretched out in the booth. The logo for Winston Martial Arts had fit so perfectly across his pecs that any memory of my Cassie conversation had gone whooshing from my brain. Come to think of it, all memory of Paul had whooshed out as well. The NOT PAUL is nowhere to be found and in its place there's only the warm feeling that came over me when Zach smiled his slow smile and scooted over to let me slide in next to him.
And I've neglected to tell Cassie that Zac
h and I would be sitting on the same side of the booth. She points a finger at my seatmate and jerks her head to the side. Zach's instantly on the other side of the table. Their conversation is too low for me to hear over the music the restaurant has piped in, but I can see their mouths moving in time with the Latin beat.
"I'll leave you two ladies alone." Zach nods and wanders aimlessly toward the bar. He seems much more in control of his arms and legs than I would have imagined. Maybe because he's bigger than me he can handle mid-day margaritas better. Or maybe I've been monopolizing the alcohol.
And I did have that head start. Wine and now tequila all before sundown.
"What the hell, Julia?" Cassie hisses. "Care to fill me in on this little adventure?" She actually looks a bit angry. "You know I'm all for you and Zach getting together, but this isn't exactly what I imagined. You're lucky that I didn't have to work tonight and that I'm not on call. How were you planning on getting home? Or were you not planning on going home?" She shoots a sideways glance at Zach's muscular back.
I bite my lip. Today hasn't been about planning at all. Lately nothing I have planned has worked out quite the way it should. This, of course, should not be funny, but gets me giggling. The utter absurdity of all of this is more than I can handle. I try to contain it, but Zach's miracle feel better cure has taken over. I don't feel better, exactly, but right now it doesn't seem to matter. The ridiculousness of this whole situation is the only thing I can think about. And then the giggles spill over.
Cassie's hands move to her hips and she adopts her sternest face. Lips pursed, brow furrowed she looks surprisingly like my mother. Maybe seeing Francine's angry face so many times in high school has permanently altered Cassie's brain. This gets me to thinking about my mother. What would Fran do in this situation? WWFD? Fran would die of mortification.
"Julia! Can you pay attention for one minute here? How much have you had to drink?"
I consider this for a moment before answering. "Not sure." This starts another round of giggles. I rest my forehead on the table.
"Are you kidding me?" Cassie is indignant now. "It is four o'clock. How long have you and Mr. Martial Arts over there been drinking? Is this how all of your self-defense classes are going to end from now on? With drinks and same siding in a restaurant booth?"
I consider this. Ending every workout session with drinks is probably a bad idea even if today it seemed right. And now Cassie's thinking that my afternoons with Zach are all play. Which is probably what plenty of other people have been thinking too.
But I'm not the one who’s been fooling around.
No, that would be Paul, my cheating dead husband. Now I'm indignant. The anger starts to come back up and even if my rational brain tells me it isn't Cassidy who deserves my fury, the alcohol and my bruised heart take over.
"Are you kidding me?" I demand, my head snapping up from the table. "Like this is what I have been doing every Friday afternoon!" I gesture around the room, making several of the neighboring tables turn to watch the spectacle. "This isn't a normal day, Cassie. Today isn't normal at all." And then the tears start again. I glare at Cassidy and then let my head fall back to the table with a thunk.
"Honey, what is happening here?" Cassie slides in next to me. She brings her face close to mine and rests her head on the table. We are almost forehead to forehead now and she looks more than a little frightened. "You're like some sort of manic-depressive fitness instructor. You came to happy hour in your workout clothes. Obviously something is very, very wrong. Zach says you didn't tell him anything. Tell me what's wrong, Jules."
I take a deep, ragged breath. I know Cassie; she won't give up until she gets the information she wants. Now she waits patiently as hot tears flow over my cheeks and splash on the tabletop.
"He cheated," I whisper.
"What?" Cassie asks, her brow furrowing in concentration. "Jules, I can't hear over the music."
I try again. "He had a mistress." I pull the words out from the middle of my churning belly. Saying it out loud makes it more real, the words slimy and bitter in my mouth. Cassidy's look of confusion doesn't change. She continues to stare at me as if she hasn't really heard me.
"Who had a mistress, Jules? Zach?"
I force myself to sit up, shaking my head. "Not Zach. Paul. He was screwing some twenty-two-year-old."
"Paul? Your Paul?"
I nod. Yes, my Paul. Perfect, amazing, horrible, cheating Paul. The father of my children and holder of my heart. The man I trusted to keep my feelings safe. The one I never expected to break my heart twice—first by unexpectedly dying and then even more spectacularly with his secret life. This must be just as unexpected for Cassie because she's now in full denial, her mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. She reaches for Zach's abandoned glass and fills it to the brim, margarita sloshing over the side. She lifts the glass to her lips and drinks the whole thing down and then fills it again.
"You're sure?" she asks. I nod again and she drinks some more.
"I called David and he confirmed it," I confess, the reality still sinking in a bit.
"Son of a bitch!" Cassie spits out, more loudly than she had planned, I imagine. A few more tables turn to look at us. "How did you find out?"
"His laptop. I used it today for the first time. There's emails and..."
Cassie's face falls.
"I think we're going to need something stronger than this." She motions to the margaritas. "Where is Zach?" Almost on cue he appears at the edge of the table. I am hoping he couldn't hear our conversation, but my embarrassment doesn't last long. Cassie has him headed back to the bar and when he returns he's carrying shot glasses and a bottle of tequila.
19
Julia
I wake to a mouth full of sand and a splitting headache. For a second I can't place the room. Where the hell am I? Where is Paul? And where are the boys? Shouldn't they be running around here somewhere? As my eyes adjust to the morning light I'm thrust back to reality. I recognize the pillows on my living room couch. I slept on the couch? All signs point to yes and the fact that I'm still dressed in workout gear reminds me of the facts from yesterday. The affair and the subsequent drinking all come rushing back. I groan, making my head hurt even more.
"Ah, there's my girl."
I manage to boost myself up just high enough to see Cassie perched at the island in my new kitchen. She's got her hair piled high and her glasses on. I notice she's also wearing one of my T-shirts and somehow looks chipper despite last night's tequila. She has Paul's laptop open and is feverishly typing away.
"Do you have to hit the keys like that?" I bury my head under the nearest pillow. "What are you up to anyway?"
"Super sleuthing. How much of this stuff did you look at?"
"What stuff? I barely even opened it. I found the emails but I didn't have the stomach to go looking any deeper." I don't mention that it was really more my heart than my stomach that kept me from finding out more—that my heart is still a problem in this investigation.
"Then we need to decide how much you really want to know. The nitty gritty? All the details or are we looking for a more holistic picture?"
"Did you just use the phrase 'holistic picture' to refer to my dead husband's affair? It’s like I'm at one of your work seminars."
"You should be thanking me for my skills, Jules. I am sorry to say that from my very low level digging it looks like Paul was quite the son of a bitch. Without my clinical detachment we would both be in a big puddle of angry tears right now so we need to decide how much of a filter you want, especially if this computer is staying here. Is it? Maybe this should come and live at my house for a little while."
As much as I want to agree with Cassie, I know I won't be able to let her keep the laptop. I close my eyes. In reality, I don't want to know any of it. I want to be able to go back in time and not have even opened that first email. But it's too late for that now. Now is the time to pull myself together and get to the bottom of things. My future and my
sanity rely on me having a real, true picture of my past so I let out a long breath and slide onto a seat at the island.
"I need to know everything. Tell me what you've found so far."
I lean in and angle my face closer to the screen. I have to hand it to Cassie, with very little information to start she has managed to discover quite a bit in the time I was passed out on the couch.
"Starting here”—she points to Paul's secret email account—"I managed to get her name and enough to get going. I'm no expert, but luckily Paul's little friend is no stranger to social media. This girl has every kind of account. I've also got some stuff from the company website. Then there's the emails. Did you read all of these?" Cassie is trying to be clinical, but at the mention of the emails I can tell she is less comfortable than she's letting on.
"I only read a few," I confess. "Then I went straight to David."
"Speaking of David. He's been calling and texting nonstop. Your phone has been going crazy. You might want to just let him know you're okay."
I sigh. I don't want to open the door to communicating with David about this again. No way. Maybe after I have some more information from our little spy mission I'll need him to confirm or deny things, but for now I want nothing to do with him. And even after I asked for time to sort things through he's trying to force the issue.
"Dave knew and he protected Paul. Even now he's protecting him and I can't deal with that. Right now I want information. Unfiltered information."
Using the magic of the Internet we are able to discover quite a few things about Kelly without ever leaving my kitchen. Paul's mistress is the kind of girl who likes to broadcast everything to her social media "friends." Normally I would find this funny in a sad sort of way, but today I'm slightly thankful that Kelly is an over-sharer. Even if it's making it hard to deny that Paul was very much a part of her life.
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