Breathe

by Lauren Jameson

  I was fairly certain that I wouldn’t ever receive one of these gestures from Tom. Yes, Bernadette was mistaken.

  But another thought formed in my mind as I worked my way through the afternoon. What if . . . what if . . . ?

  No. Tom wouldn’t do that. Tom loved me.

  “Hi, Devon.” One of the senior lawyers chose that moment to walk by. Though quite possibly paranoid, I was convinced that she gave me a pitying glance, barely masked by her small smile. That was what settled my mind.

  Begging off early with the excuse of a headache, I hurried down to my car.

  I would just go home—the home that I had not yet moved into, actually—and see Tom. Once I saw him, all of this silliness would fly out the window, I was sure.

  And, I thought as I looked sideways at the Magnifique bag on my passenger’s seat, maybe I could model my new slip for him.

  • • •

  I almost felt as if I should ring the doorbell. Tom had given me a key the previous week, after we had decided that my moving my meager belongings into his place was a sensible idea, but I hadn’t yet used it. I suspected that I’d been clinging to my independence—I loved my little studio apartment, the one that I’d already given notice for, but Tom had pointed out that it wasn’t nearly big enough for two people. Plus, his was closer to the office.

  A shorter commute just made sense, after all, even to me. Sleeping in two separate rooms when we weren’t having sex did not make sense, and never would, no matter how many times Tom told me that it would provide better sleep for both of us. The mere thought made me grind my teeth together.

  I would rather have a less than perfect night’s sleep, with my partner by my side, than the alternative—sleeping down the hall from each other like a couple who had been married for far too long.

  I wasn’t going to give in on that issue.

  Sighing heavily, I once more squelched the urge to knock at this place that was now supposed to be my home, and instead turned my key in the dead bolt. I had to fiddle with it, the way you do with new keys, before the lock gave way.

  “Hello?” I didn’t raise my voice. The apartment was dim and quiet, and though I hadn’t expected his presence—he was at a lunch meeting—I almost felt relieved that he wasn’t home, that I didn’t have to ask the difficult question.

  I could take a few minutes to orient myself. Maybe sit down and think of some ways to brighten up the utilitarian bachelor’s apartment, so that it felt warmer and more welcoming to me.

  Before I was even out of the entryway, I heard it. Faint at first, but steadily growing louder, and unmistakably coming from the direction of the bedroom.

  “Oh. Ohhhh.”

  Confused, I cocked my head at the sound of the female voice and took a few steps down the hall. Then, when Tom’s voice joined in the chorus of sex sounds, my mouth fell open, and I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach.

  Tom was indeed home. He was home, and unless I was very much mistaken, he was having sex with another woman in the bedroom where I, his longtime girlfriend, was rarely permitted to sleep.

  Bernadette had been right.

  Adrenaline shot through my veins and made me feel sick. Suddenly intent on ferreting out the second piece of evidence to back up the riot of feelings that was surging through me, I scanned the apartment until I saw it wadded up on the floor beside the couch.

  A bag from Magnifique—the tissue paper ripped by eager fingers. Feeling as if I was going to throw up, I picked up the bag and shook it out.

  Whatever Tom had purchased the day before was gone—probably on the floor of his bedroom—but the receipt was still there.

  Four hundred twenty-three dollars for a bustier, garter belt, and stockings, all size extra small.

  Extra small. Well, that definitely wasn’t me. Tears of humiliation sprang to my eyes and clouded my throat as I stared at the area of carpet around the discarded bag. There, right out in the open, were more details that I couldn’t ignore. A single nude-colored pump, with PRADA stitched into the sole. Two wineglasses, a film of red still coating the bottoms.

  That was it. I was done.

  For a moment I thought that I might fling open the door to the bedroom, might confront them both and be self-righteous in my indignation.

  But I couldn’t gather up the courage. No. I knew myself, and I knew that I was more the kind of woman to apologize for disturbing them than to rain hell on their cheating heads. I had been raised that way, to be proper and polite at all times, and it was a tough habit to shake.

  In the end, with rage and unfairness and humiliation all warring through me, too many emotions to deal with, I did the only thing I could think of.

  I scribbled a note that said—very properly, of course—my good-byes, and left.