She Without Sin

by J. P. Barry

  Long story short, Jillian decided to surprise me when I was in New Orleans. The front desk clerk recognized her, willingly handing over my room key–no questions asked. Had Kelly and I not been in bed together, the unexpected visit would’ve been welcome, but unfortunately that’s not how the situation turned out. The odd thing, the thing I should’ve dug deeper into, was the fact Jillian refused to acknowledge the occurrence. She left without uttering a single word, and when I finally spoke with her–several days later because I’m a jerk, and too scared to face the harsh reality of infidelity, she acted as if nothing happened; business as usual. Not wanting to address my fault, rock the preverbal boat, I played along, promptly breaking things off with Kelly, who wasn’t thrilled over it. A fight of epic proportions and a hefty payoff later, my grandfather arraigned for the dirty little secret to go away. Since that day, I haven’t seen or heard from her again.

  My new assistant, Don, a homosexual man, promptly began work the following day. However, not everything which grew from the error in judgement turned out bad. Something valuable came from the imprudence. I realized how much I truly loved Jillian and didn’t want anyone else. When her affairs came to light, I showed no reaction, though inside a piece of me died each time.

  “You’re right. I should’ve forced you to open a dialogue about it. I should’ve owned what I did. I can’t imagine how you must’ve felt. Well, actually, I can. Probably the same way I did when I found out about your indiscretions, but we’re not talking about that. We’re discussing how I hurt you. I’m a therapist. You’re my wife. I should’ve known better. I’m sorry, Jill. From the bottom of my soul, I’m sorry.” I paused, making sure our eyes remained locked. “Please, believe me. If I could do it all over again, I swear I wouldn’t have touched her. You’re my everything, whereas I never gave a damn about her, and never will. I failed you, and in turn, out of hurt and anger, you struck back. I deserved that, but I’m willing to leave all this in the past if you’re willing to as well. I love you, Jill. Tell me how I can prove that to you. Whatever it takes. Just, please, think about this before we pull the trigger on terminating us.”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible, Nick,” she replied, still maintaining eye contact–a durable indication her heart and mind were searching for a solution to our current dilemma, but was struggling to do so.

  “I do. We withdraw the petition for divorce, and go back to square one–remembering why we fell in love in the first place. We do that by getting to know the other again. Perhaps take a vacation, or simply go out on a few dates. Whatever you’re comfortable with. We’ll actively put our best foot forward by taking time off work. It won’t be easy, but the station can survive without you, and the needy, emotionally wounded people of the world will be just fine in my absence for a little while. I’ll find another shrink to cover the show, and place the second part of the book tour on pause. Our sleeping arraignment can stay the same–you in our room, me in the guest room, but instead of passing the other in the hallway without a word, we talk. We make a point of it to set time aside each day to open an active, calm dialogue. Many conversations will be rough and uncomfortable, others not so much, but if we want this, we’ll get through the bumpy patch together, better for it. If in three months we can’t seem to move on, we can re-file with the courts, and pick up where we left off. In the interim, we go slow, and rebuild, together. Do you want this, Jill? Do you want us?”

  “A half hour ago you were ready to strangle me, Nick. Why the sudden change of heart?” Her head tilted to the right; left eyebrow raised. She had suspicions I was up to something, and maybe I was, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t speaking the truth about wanting to give the marriage one more shot.

  “If something still hurts, that means you still care. This is killing me. Seeing you cry–I just can’t, Jill. Never could. You know this. Tell me you’re not in any form of pain, and I won’t believe you. This isn’t us. We’re better than the way we’ve been acting to ourselves and each other.”

  “I hate what we’ve become.” She sniffed, leaning into my chest, waiting to see if I’d embrace her or not.

  Wrapping both arms around her waist, I held her tightly. “Me too, babe. Come on. Let’s go home. Tomorrow is a new day. We’ve got a lot to sort out.”

  “Okay,” she replied with a deep sigh, accepting my touch.

  Exhaling deeply, I wasn’t sure if we’d be able to work things out, but I was sure the part of me that loved her still existed. Only time would tell if we were all in, or not. That would have to be enough for now.

  Chapter Two

  Jillian

  Tiny flecks of gold breached the plantation shutters inside the master bedroom, casting shadows on the ivory Egyptian cotton comforter. In last night’s haste, I’d forgotten to completely shut them. Rolling on my side, Nick laid sleeping on his back. One arm positioned above his head; the top sheet draped carelessly over his waist, exposing his chest and legs. Despite the shit storm we were currently in, he was still the most brilliant, handsome, devastatingly attractive man I’d ever known. Perfectly cropped salt and pepper hair complimented deep olive skin. Bright emerald eyes and a killer, megawatt smile added to the allure. Based off thick biceps, tree trunk toned thighs, six-pack abs, and deep inguinal creases, one would never guess he was close to fifty years old. He’d always been a sharp, classy dresser, but now armed with a wallet full of his own money, his style, untouchable. His laugh–heart stopping.

  Standing in the lawyer’s office, an entire host of sentiments crashed together in one loud mental explosion. The sharp one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn taken in a matter of thirty minutes caused emotional whiplash. I supposed, if I really thought about it for a hot second, deep down, buried beneath years of hurt, spite, and anger, I didn’t want this divorce. Neither did Nick. When he called for a truce, relief rose to the surface. The tough as nails exterior always worn, comfortably dropped. At the heart of the matter, I wasn’t anything at all like the media portrayed me. However, with most celebrities, two personas existed, always, side by side. On air, Jillian Winters was a bitch. Rough, hard, unrelenting, powerful, and unstoppable. Off air Jill was quiet, reserved, and most times, scared of what might be. Years ago, Nick often referred to me as his ‘shy fierceness.’ A total oxymoron, but rather fitting.

  After apprehensively leaving the lawyer’s office, we decided to have a quiet dinner back at the house. Nick ordered in from our favorite Italian restaurant–a place we hadn’t gone to in forever. Between time restrictions, work commitments, and the overall breakdown of us, who had the will or want to share a meal? In fact, I couldn’t remember when we sat at the table and did anything together. As foreign as it felt, tonight we did. Honestly? Most of the conversations sucked. They were uncomfortable, but never-the-less, necessary. Sitting over coffee, I realized if we could get through the first of what would probably end up being many ugly discussions, we’d be okay. There’d been no yelling or screaming like in the past, only talking and active listening. Words were absorbed and processed, not ignored and unheard. Nick wasn’t wrong about the affairs as punishment. A large part of me wanted to wound him the same way he’d destroyed me. Make him experience the tearing ache inside his heart. Truthfully, I had no emotions or feelings for any of the men I’d been with. They were warm revenge bodies in retaliation of Kelly, the office slut. The thought of her made my stomach clench in disgust. After each tryst with the flavor of the moment, I’d loath myself over the act committed. A tiny part inside would temporarily feel satisfied I’d struck Nick where it counted, but when the emotion left, I’d returned to a state of empty, revolted I’d sunk to such a new low. That behavior wasn’t who I was, nor what I stood for.

  Cleaning up the kitchen, setting the timer on the coffeemaker for morning, Nick approached from behind, firmly taking hold of my waist.

  “You’re so damn sexy,” he murmured, pressing hips into my behind. “This is against the rules, I’m aware, but I can’t help myself, babe, mainly beca
use I don’t want to. If you’re not comfortable, I’ll stop. Just say the word.”

  “Nick,” I whispered, breathy, caught somewhere between wanting to give in and being unsure if this was the best move. Five hours ago, we sat in an attorney’s office ready to call it quits, but agreed to give us time to work through things. However, that didn’t mean jumping into bed together after months of separation and quarreling. Inhaling to regain composure, his heady smell invaded leveled sense, clouding better judgement.

  “I’m sorry, Jill. You’re not ready, and that’s more than okay. I understand. With time, I hope we can find our way back to being intimate, not just sexually, but in other aspects too. Meanwhile, I’ll patiently wait, because you’re worth it, and deserve better than me acting like a pig,” he replied, kissing my bare shoulder, taking a step away, providing ample personal space.

  In a split second, ill-informed decision, I pivoted, grabbed hold of his wrist, pulling him back, crushing our lips together. The physical contact reminded how much I missed his touch. Like teenagers, we went at it all over the house, finally ending in our room. How the day could start at a divorce lawyer’s office and end in bed with the man you wanted to murder less than a day ago, blew my mind.

  “Where are you, Jill?” Nick asked, quietly turning on his side. Thick fingers reached out, stroking my thigh.

  “Right here,” I replied.

  “I’m aware,” he chuckled. “What I meant was, what are you thinking about? Talk to me.”

  “Work,” I lied, because I didn’t feel like opening Pandora’s Box so early in the morning without coffee.

  “I see. Would you like to unpack that bag a bit more? Please, Jill. Let me in.”

  Propping himself up on his right arm, he made direct eye contact, raising one perfectly manicured brow. I hadn’t had this much of his total attention in ages. It was too nice of a feeling to spoil.

  “It’s nothing serious. Speaking with Topher later about taking time off will royally suck. He’s such a control freak douchebag. I’m also waiting on Liam to send tonight’s copy, which I’m sure will be chockful of changes I’ll have to deal with five minutes before we go live. It’s a never-ending string of bullshit drama, but it will be worth it. Sometimes I miss being a nobody beat reporter. It was easier. I enjoyed myself more. You’re well versed in how it goes,” I partially fibbed with a smile. There were many times I wished to return to my old Network. Far less politics and stress, and considerably more freedom.

  “Well, Mrs. Winters. First and foremost, you are not, and never have been a nobody. However, it appears you’re in a state of deep distress. As your personal therapist, I strongly encourage you to follow physician’s orders, allowing me full ability to use questionable techniques to shake the station from your mind,” he growled, playfully, diving under the covers.

  The moment, a perfect way to start any random day, was interrupted by the sound of Nick’s phone ringing.

  “Ignore it. The doctor is out, and doesn’t give a damn about anything that’s not in this bed,” he said, not coming up for air. I would’ve let things go if it wasn’t for my cell joining in the party.

  “Hold on a second, Nick. This could be important,” I replied, scanning the new text from Liam Stevens, my producer. I could only imagine what I looked like, because I felt every ounce of color drain from my face the moment I read the words. A hot, creepy, prickling sensation crept up my spine, settling at the base of my neck.

  “What’s going on? What is it? Everything okay?” Nick slid his back against the headboard, reaching for his reading glasses, taking the device from my hand. “Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me,” he hissed.

  “Read the entire article, please, so we can get it over with in one fell swoop,” I requested, rubbing my temples. I stopped skimming the piece—if one could even consider what was written that—immediately after appraising the headline. A headache and heartburn slammed together immediately.

  “Divorce rumors surrounding self-help author and podcaster, Doctor Nicholas Winters, and his wife, Jillian Winters, host of The Bottom Line, were confirmed yesterday as the two were spotted entering the law office of celebrity attorney, Charles Downey, separately. Insiders say the two have been at war for months because of Mrs. Winters’, who’s been dubbed ‘a winter that never thaws,’ infidelity, explosive personality, money hungry ways, and deep-rooted desires to do whatever necessary to remain in the spotlight. The two went in, but weren’t seen exiting. Calls to their representatives have gone unanswered, but our insiders suggest the two are definitely done,” Nick read. “There’s more, but you’ve got the gist.”

  “Screw me,” I hissed.

  “Okay, okay. Deep breath, babe. It’s a rag paper. Yes, people read them, but the validity of reporting is almost always called into question. As for whom their insider is? I have no idea–it doesn’t matter anyway. If we find out, what’s the plan? We attack them? No. Come on now. You and I’ve been quiet about our lives to friends and family. It’s also highly doubtful anyone in the law office yesterday said anything to the fake press. Chances are there is nobody leaking information—just some scumbag reporter who followed us and snapped a few crappy pictures. This will blow over. We have people we pay a lot of money to handle things like this. Let’s get up and dressed. I’ll call Nate. You reach out to Jack. They’ll tell us what the next step is,” Nick instructed, calmly.

  Getting off the bed, I headed to the walk-in closet, grabbing at the first matching outfit.

  “These assholes are going to destroy my marriage and career,” I mumbled, angrily.

  Approaching from the left, Nick took firm hold of my shoulders. “Look at me. Focus on only me. Screw the world out there. It’s just us, here, in this room, together. Let go of the control you’re trying to hold onto because we both know there’s nothing to grab hold of. This is out of our hands. It’s part of the life we live. Something we were aware of the moment we signed up to become celebrities. There will always be lies, stories, and rumors. It’s all white noise. As long as we know the truth, and remain steadfast with our priorities, we’re good. Trust my lead, Jill. No one is going to ruin our lives, unless we let them. Don’t fight me,” he instructed, tilting my chin up. Once eye contact was established, he continued.

  “Inhale, slowly through the nose.” Softly, he counted to four. “Hold it.” Another four second count. “Exhale from the mouth.” We did this a handful of times before my body unclenched. It didn’t matter how often Nick assisted in the calming down process, there was a certain level of awestruck over his talents. He could quiet the roughest seas in the matter of seconds. “All better?”

  “For the moment,” I replied, knowing damn good and well the panic would return. When was the question.

  “That’s my girl. Go take a hot shower. That will help relax you further. We’ve gone through this before. It will be all right. As for your show and ratings, stop worrying. You have the number one news program on air. Even if people hate and are judging you, they’re still tuning in every night, and will continue to do so because you’re an incredible, insightful, fair, honest anchor,” Nick soothed, putting on a pair of gray slack, and a fitted V-neck sweater, before exiting the bedroom.

  Truth was, we had endured quite a bit of tabloid speculation over the years, but to have to deal with this crap hot on the heels of attempting to work on our marriage seemed potentially damaging. I wasn’t stupid. Armed with the knowledge last night’s lustful roll in the hay was what one might refer to as a ‘honeymoon phase,’ the house of cards, held together by cheap glue, placed on a foundation of quicksand could fall at any point, but Nick made a strong point. We both employed people to put fires like this out. Anecdotes, fabrications, and buzzes went with the territory. Plus, he didn’t appear too terribly upset by the article. Why should I?

  Shampooing my hair, thoughts wandered back and forth from Nick to the current media shit show. Things with Nick had been rather fairytale-like, even during dark times, and even with h
is family despising me. He’d always been my rock, beacon of light, and hope in any storm. Shortly after we married, my parents passed away in a horrific car accident. With no brothers or sisters, I struggled with loneliness and abandonment issues. I clung to Nick, often begging him to promise he’d never leave. As a therapist, I suppose he understood, because each mini breakdown was greeted with strong, loving, compassionate arms and words. Without him by my side, I doubt I’d have ever been able to move past the tragedy.

  As for the Winters family, the moment they laid eyes on me, they wanted me gone. Condescending tones, hushed whispers upon entering rooms, side eye looks, and passive aggressive statements were the cornerstone of my relationship with all of them, except for his grandparents. I’d never be one hundred percent sure if they cared for me or not, but if they didn’t, they never showed it. The only time I came in handy for Tag and Miranda was when they’d want me to pull strings at the station so one of them could push their political agenda live on air–which I never did. It wasn’t my job to broker interviews. Quite frankly, I never fully understood how Nick fit in with the lot. Of course, they shared physical resemblances, but personality wise–night and day.

  Even after I obtained my current position hosting my own primetime news show, the Winters still thought little of me, often stating I was only offered it because of my married surname. Not the truth at all. In fact, I wanted to use my maiden name of Locke instead, but Topher Robbins, the station owner, insisted I didn’t. Yes, luck and Nick played a large role in my career, but aside from a quick introduction to Liam Stevens by Nick at a launch party for one of Nick’s books, I did the rest.

  Because I’m a Winters, viewers expected me to side with Nick’s family and their party affiliation, but that’s not how I operate. Right or wrong, I deliver information to the public free from bias. If that meant ruffling feathers, so be it. It wasn’t my place to change minds. It is my job to inform, to uncover all aspects of a story, and convey the findings to whoever tuned in. They could put the pieces together and form their own opinions. However my audience utilized that information was on them–free will. Being so many networks held strong allegiance to specific sides, my take and style quickly earned the station the highest ratings they’d ever seen, but in order to keep the pace I was going, other aspects of life had to take the backseat–for one, Nick. He’d done the same with his career as well, but I couldn’t control that. I could only take responsibility for me and my actions. Tonight, I’d do the show, and put in for immediate time off. In all the years I’d been there, I never missed work, even when sick as a dog. I’d worked through migraines, the stomach flu, and common colds, all without compromising quality of performance. If they said no, I’d pitch a fit, threaten to quit. Besides, Liam and my assistant, Lyla Marx, could use a vacation as well.