The Last Exhale

by Julia Blues

  Dear Reader:

  What happens when two people struggling in individual marriages decide to seek comfort in each other? Chaos, intrigue, drama, and ultimately, clarity. Sydney is married but not happy. She realizes that she made a mistake and was actually a rebound for her husband after losing the true love of his life. Brandon loves his wife but cannot understand why she has turned away from him—both physically and emotionally. When the two of them join a local gym around the same time and Sydney mistakes Brandon for his twin brother who teaches her daughter, they connect and then start making excuses to be around each other. That never works, especially when there is an instant physical attraction.

  The Last Exhale is a novel that many will be able to relate to. When a marriage is on the rocks, some often find it easier to turn to a third party instead of trying to work things out with the people they promised to love throughout eternity. Julia Blues examines how things can fall apart when the realities of life intervene in a seemingly perfect situation. When illness, death, stress, and natural evolution change people. It is a riveting, engaging book that will bring many to the brink of tears in several scenes.

  Thanks for supporting the authors of Strebor Books. As always, we strive to bring you amazing stories from prolific authors. We appreciate the love. You can find me on Facebook and Twitter @AuthorZane, on Instagram @planetzane and you can join our text service to be aware of upcoming titles and events by texting Zane to 51660.

  Blessings,

  Publisher

  Strebor Books

  www.simonandschuster.com

  This book is dedicated to marriage.

  This book is also dedicated to Barbara & Gary Williams, Sr. Thirty-nine years of marriage and counting. May you continue to be a walking, talking, living, breathing testament to what marriage is all about.

  Thank you, Mom & Dad.

  1

  SYDNEY HOLMES

  My hand shakes as I unfold the letter.

  I know the words by heart because I wrote them. Wrote them six years ago on the eve of my wedding day. Wrote them to my husband to tell him I wasn’t going to meet him at the altar the next morning.

  I made a mistake.

  That night, I should have gone to his hotel and slid the letter under his room door like I had planned. Should’ve done that and taken the taxi to the airport, hopped on the flight I purchased a ticket for the night before, and flown to another life where nobody knew my name. Should’ve done all of that, but I didn’t.

  “Mommy, are you crying?”

  I stuff the letter back in the shoe box, toss a worn pair of shoes on top of it. Shove it under the bed just like I did my heart when I stood in front of family and friends and God and promised to love a man for the rest of my life who I couldn’t even love at that moment.

  Before my son can see my face, I grab a tissue off the nightstand. “No, honey. Mommy’s not crying. It’s my allergies.” I blow my nose to emphasize my lie.

  I knew the moment the doors opened and I placed my feet on freshly sprinkled rose petals that I was making a mistake. My heart begged me to turn around, save myself before committing to a lifetime of insecurity. But my right foot betrayed me, then my left. Moments later, there was only a breath standing between us. I closed my eyes as his lips touched mine. Deep down, I prayed that when I opened them, it would have all just been a dream. A really bad dream.

  It wasn’t.

  Almost seven years later, I’m still hoping to wake up and realize I’d been placed in the Guinness Book of World Records for the longest uninterrupted nightmare.

  My son stands in front of me, stares me in the face to see if I’m really telling the truth. “Your eyes are red.”

  I pick him up and sit him on my lap. “Well, that’s what they do this time of year, EJ. Let’s just pray you don’t grow up to be allergic to everything like your mother.”

  He shakes his head so hard it makes me feel like I have a bad case of vertigo, then runs his tiny finger down my nose. “I don’t want to be allergic ’cause it makes you look bad.”

  Wow. I don’t know if I should be insulted or laugh at his truth-telling innocence. I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. Bags under my eyes large enough to incur an overweight baggage fee. There’s nothing laughable about my image. I put Eric Jr. down and pat him on the butt. “Go tell Kennedy it’s time for bed. I’ll be in to check on you two in a minute.”

  “But I’m not sleepy, Mommy.”

  I give him the look of looks, one that lets him know I mean business tonight.

  He shuffles out of the room, yelling for his sister to go to sleep before she gets in trouble. Just like him to threaten his sister with his punishment.

  Kids.

  I go in the bathroom, grab a rag, and saturate it with cold water. Lay it over my eyes until it loses its cool. Rewet it with more cold water. Then I add a few drops of the liquid that promises to take the red out, let it marinate behind my eyelids. I do my best to get rid of any evidence of breakdown. Not that my husband would notice anything is wrong, I’m just not in the mood to tell any more lies. This might be the one night I set the truth free.

  “Mom.” This time, my daughter comes barging in the room yelling at the top of her lungs. “EJ just squeezed all my toothpaste in the trash.”

  “Kennedy, calm down. I’ve told you, no one can hear you when you yell. Now, what’s the problem?”

  Why do these kids insist on working my nerves tonight? Don’t they know I’m near my breaking point? Don’t they know that if either of them so much as sneezes, I will walk out that door and not look back?

  My daughter repeats her distress and marches down the hall to their bathroom to show me the evidence. “See.” She points to the trash. Pink gel with a ton of sparkles is splattered all in the trash and on the floor.

  “Eric Thomas Holmes, Jr.,” I call out. No response. I look under the cabinet and hand Kennedy a new box of her favorite toothpaste. “Brush your teeth and get in the bed.” That seems to settle all her problems for now.

  Heavy footsteps climb up the stairs. “What’s all this noise up here?” the man of the house questions.

  I tell him, “Your kids doing what they do best.”

  He pulls a smaller version of himself from behind his back. “This one was hiding under the dining room table.”

  I point to EJ’s room door. “Bed. Now.”

  He scurries to his room like a dog with his tail tucked between its legs in its moment of chastisement.

  “I’ll have them asleep by the time you get downstairs.” My husband kisses me on the forehead, tells me, “The dishes are done and I left the DVR up so you can catch up on your shows.”

  I stare at him momentarily. Do my best to convince my conscience that I did the right thing six years ago by not giving him that letter. And for a moment, it works.

  I wink at him. “I’ll be up shortly.”

  2

  SYDNEY

  Downstairs, I stare at a blank TV screen. Can’t bring myself to scroll through the list of recorded shows. I’m so overwhelmed with my life, overwhelmed with the decisions I’ve made that have brought me here. It was my choice to keep dating Eric when I knew something was missing. I’m the one who chose to say yes when he proposed. And now I’m here, with two kids added to the equation.

  In a way, it pisses me off that he can’t see how unhappy I am. How can he claim to love me and not feel my pull in another direction?

  Movement in my peripheral draws me from my thoughts, puts my attention on Forrester, our tabby cat, as he rolls over in front of the fireplace. He’s so big, rolling seems to be all he can do. I watch him as he stretches his paws from the Atlantic to the Pacific, looks up at me, and lets out an exasper
ated yawn as if he’s overworked and underpaid. He gets up, turns around, plops back down, shuffles until he finds the perfect position to drift back into the wonderful world of chasing birds and squirrels, and probably indulging in steroid-filled Thanksgiving turkeys at will. The vet says he’s severely obese, but if Forrester could talk, he’d have a different story to tell.

  Watching him makes me think about my own life. Forty is a few blocks away, and I have no idea the last time I’ve had a genuine smile cross my face. This is not the life or marriage I imagined for myself. I always saw myself married to a man I’d travel the world with and create so many beautiful memories to share with our children and our children’s children. Now, all I want to share with Kennedy and EJ is not to get married.

  This is the bed I committed to when I agreed to take Eric’s hand in marriage.

  And this is the bed I have to lie in.

  • • •

  Long after the shows have gone off and my tears have dried, I make my way back upstairs.

  I look in on Kennedy and EJ before heading to my room. Both of them are knocked out. When the kids are asleep or sick, I swear they’re perfect angels. When they’re awake, well…

  As I open the door to the master bedroom, Eric staggers out of the bathroom. He says, “I was just about to come down and get you,” his voice groggy.

  “Why? You know how my insomnia can get.”

  He looks at the clock on his nightstand. “And you know how you don’t like to get up in the mornings.”

  It’s a few minutes after one a.m. In less than five hours, my world of wife and motherhood begins again. Sleep is the only time I feel like it’s just me. I always dream I’m someone else, married to someone else, living somewhere else. Anyone but me, and anywhere but here. Sometimes, I swear sleep knows this, which is why it hides from me.

  I go to the bathroom to empty my bladder before hopping into bed. I lean over and give Eric a goodnight kiss. His lips linger a little longer than mine. I pull away. “I don’t like to get up in the mornings, remember?”

  He rubs a hand up my thigh, suddenly wide awake. “What’s a few more minutes?”

  What’s the point of avoiding this? Eric’s manhood will spend the next few hours throbbing against my backside anyway. I shrug and let him kiss me again, let his tongue dance around mine until I feel the familiar tingle traveling down south. Eric’s always been a good kisser. Had he not kissed me the way he did on our first date, I might not have gone out with him again.

  My gown is lifted over my head and my breasts are sucked to erection. I rub my hands along a broad, muscular back, try to massage away the roughness of his skin. “We’ve got to get you some more exfoliant,” I say.

  “Mmm hmm,” he mumbles with my nipples in his mouth.

  The teasing way he licks my nipples makes me forget about exfoliating his back and focus on the wetness accumulating between my thighs. I let my legs ease open as his pelvis inches closer to mine. He eagerly slides into my womanly haven. His penetration has always sent my arousal to the umpteenth notch. I rock my hips to his rhythm, feel the groove he creates. Just as my eyes begin to roll their way to the back of my head, I feel warm liquid dripping down my thigh.

  A few minutes indeed.

  Luckily, I didn’t marry Eric for earth-shattering bedroom skills. He does just enough to get my fire started, get me into it, but quickly douses my flames the moment he gets his jollies.

  I turn on my side. He makes sure his alarm is set before scooting up behind me. He plants a tender kiss on my shoulder. “Love you, Syd.”

  Tonight, I can’t form my lips to say it back.

  3

  BRANDON CARTER

  I’m lying in bed.

  The sound of water dripping from a recently shut off shower draws my attention to the woman I married nearly a decade ago.

  I watch her through the cracked bathroom door. Her movements are calculated, methodical. So matter-of-fact. She gathers drenched jet-black coils, squeezes as much water out as she can, smoothes them into a ponytail with her hands. Braids up twelve inches of frizz, wraps it around itself until it can’t wrap anymore. Forms a knot at the back of her head.

  My warm feet find their way from under the covers and hit a cold floor. I wince at the change in temperature as I move to the space to join the love of my life.

  I wrap my arms around her waist, lips touch her naked shoulder. I whisper, “Morning, love.”

  She moves away from my embrace.

  I cut the faucet on, rinse my mouth out with water, then reach for my toothbrush. My eyes watch my wife through the mirror as she brushes down resistant frizz. She sees me looking at her, but deliberately keeps her eyes from making contact. I swish water and toothpaste around in my mouth while debating if I should tell her about our reservations for the night. Maybe things will be different.

  She grabs her body oil, heads into the room. Leaves me in this space alone. Reminds me of how I’ve been feeling in this marriage as of late. Every morning, I awake with the hope things will be different. And every morning, I’m hit with the reality that nothing has changed.

  I cut the shower on, put my mental anguish on hold. Step under the water headfirst, let the hotness beat against my bald head until I feel my scalp burn.

  Rene’s shadow reenters the bathroom before she does. Her presence makes the water feel Antarctic.

  I can’t take this anymore. The shower door swings open. I find myself standing on the outside, dripping wet, standing in front of my wife. “What’s happened to you? What’s happened to us?”

  Still avoiding eye contact, she looks down at the bath rug.

  “Enough with the silence, Rene.”

  Her stance is defiant, eyes on mine.

  More silence.

  We stand.

  We stare.

  “Nothing, Rene? You have nothing to say?”

  Her eyes travel down from mine, give their attention to the area below my chest. She blinks, walks out of the bathroom with not so much as one word, but her look of disgust tells me everything.

  All of a sudden, I become self-conscious. Grab a towel, wrap it around my expanding waistline. I follow behind her. “It’s my weight, isn’t it? I’ve gained a few pounds, I get it. But that doesn’t deserve this.”

  Rene’s lips part, a heavy sigh thrusts out. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Brandon.” She shakes her head and walks down the stairs to the kitchen.

  My footsteps continue to mirror hers. “You haven’t said much at all lately, so I fill in the blanks where I see fit.”

  She walks over to the sink, looks back at me, stares at me while she rinses out a glass. A lot is written across her face, but I can’t read anything. Can’t break the code. Need Robert Langdon to come in and read her like he did The Da Vinci Code.

  “Tell me something, Rene. Tell me my breath stinks. Tell me I’ve gained weight. Tell me you’re no longer happy. Just tell me something.”

  She just stands there, looks through me.

  Inside the refrigerator is her lunch. I pull out the container of Caesar salad with garlic shrimp on top I made for her last night. Put it in her bag. Do that to gather my thoughts before I lose it and say some things to my wife I’ll never be able to take back. I push her packed lunch to the side and stare at my wife. “What happened to us, Rene?”

  Lips I haven’t kissed for too long to remember tell me, “Nothing.”

  Her response isn’t enough for me. “Do you still love me?” If she says yes, I’ll fight to make this marriage work. If she says no, I’ll give her hell. Either way, I have work to do.

  She grabs her lunch, says, “Thank you,” and heads for the garage.

  Still wrapped in nothing but a towel, I watch her get in the car. She lets her eyes dance with mine long enough for me to see a glimpse of light behind them, a hint of a twinkle. It gives me hope for the future.

  For now, my questioning is sufficed.

  • • •

  The security alarm chirp
s, signals I’m no longer home alone. Keys hit the countertop with a deafening thud.

  “How was your day?” My warm lips try to give life to hers.

  She takes off her shoes, carries them upstairs with her. Not in the house a good two minutes and her silence has already spoiled the atmosphere.

  “Your bath water should still be warm. I’ll get your wine,” I yell up after her.

  Sometimes, I wonder who’s the wife in this marriage. Running bath water, fixing lunch, sending out holiday cards, doing the grocery shopping, washing clothes, changing the linen, paying the bills. The list goes on and includes working a full-time job. It hasn’t always been like this. Three out of nine years of marriage is long enough, though.

  Not only is the bathroom door closed, it’s locked.

  I lightly tap on the door, put my ear against it.

  Nothing.

  I tap again.

  “I’ll be out in a minute,” she says in an exasperated tone.

  “You don’t want your wine?”

  “Said I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Throwing the glass of red wine against the door is very tempting. Very. I take it back downstairs and pour it down the drain instead.

  While I wait on her to come back down, I go ahead and empty out her lunch bag. Put the dishes in the sink. According to the clock on the microwave, we have less than an hour to make our reservations. Doubt we’ll make it. Wish I hadn’t made them after all. No need in trying to prove my love and devotion to the woman whose finger I put a ring on and stood before God and pledged forever to.

  She comes into the kitchen wearing a robe with frayed edges and a hole underneath the arm. An obvious romance killer. Her deep-set brown eyes search for her nightly drink.

  I tell her, “Poured it out.”

  “Told you I was coming right out.” She reaches up and grabs another glass from the cabinet, pulls the bottle from the fridge and pours her own drink. Takes a sip with closed eyes. “How was your day?” She shows a little interest in my life.

  “Could’ve been better.”