She bit her lip hard. A drop of blood welled up around her teeth. “But I can't do this,” she mumbled miserably.
He didn't argue nor point out the fact that she already had. I want to get her past this moment, not make her mad. She needs time… understanding. I can give that to her.
“Look, honey, I know. It was a silly rush and we can… slow down.” Lord, give me strength. Now that I've tasted her… Just the thought sent a thrill back to his penis, causing it to awaken; swelling it so it reached for her body again, but cold reality had slammed shut the gates of their alcohol-induced intimacy.
Gasping, Mari slithered off Jack's lap, and in her haste, her knee caught on the aching flesh of his injury. He couldn't contain an agonized groan, though she didn't seem to notice. She began yanking her clothes back on, nearly tearing the fragile fabric in her frenzy to shield herself from what was already done, tears trailing down her face in an endless stream.
“Mari,” Jack began again, but she didn't respond. She sniffled furiously, as though trying to contain the untamable tears.
Giving up, Jack dragged his clothes over his protesting body. Though he quickly slipped his shirt on, it took a bit longer for him to maneuver into his pants, but he eventually managed to do so. Hauling himself to his feet with fierce determination, he paused for only a moment to collect his self, pushing the pain away so he could draw her in his arms. He could feel her tensions ease as she momentarily softened, obviously as affected by his touch as he was by hers.
“It's all right,” he told her, kissing her head tenderly. “Just let me love you, Mari. Let me be part of your family.”
She sobbed. “What will people say?” she forced out. “What will they think? My husband's only been gone, what… eight months? That's not long enough,” she said sadly, as though to herself and then again for him. “That's not long enough, Jack, and people will think –”
“They'll think you're a wonderful, loving woman who deserves to be supported and cared for in her time of need,” he said, refusing to believe anything else. “And besides, it's no one's business but ours.”
“I know, but…” Marithé whimpered, covering her quivering mouth with her trembling hand.
“Honey, what are you so afraid of? What do you think they'll do, shun you?”
“Throw stones,” she muttered under her breath. Her brief acceptance of his comfort ended and her softening failed. She yanked herself from Jack's arms. “And rightly so! I'm horrible and I deserve their condemnation!”
“What?” He didn't know what to say. How do I make her understand? Can't she see how right we are for each other… how we fit together?
“Jack, I… I'm sorry. I can't, no, I won't let you can't take responsibility,” she told him fervently. “Not solely, anyway because I… I… uh - oh, forget it!” she stammered, taking a few steps backwards, adding to the distance between them. “I can't do this, Jack. I can't do this ever again.”
She pulled her cell phone out of her purse and punched at the buttons angrily. Jack stared in shock, and it slowly dawned on him that she was calling for a cab.
“Mari, I'll drive you, I…”
She waved him away, violently swatting at the air as she quickly grabbed her purse.
“Mari…”
“I can't, Jack. I just can't.” She opened the side door and stepped outside. “Yes, hi…” she responded to someone on the other end of the phone, distracted as she pulled the door closed, severing their connection with a finality that ached like a physical wound.
Cursing, his ungainly leg now stiffened horribly and throbbing, he limped after her. He called to her, hoping she'd hear him through the door, but to no avail. Panting slightly from his discomfort, he finally reached the exit, wrenching open the door just in time to see Marithé hop into a yellow cab and zoom away down the street.
Crushed, Jack slammed the door shut and rammed his fist into the wood, bellowing in frustration. From the heights of heaven, pure, burning hell reached out to consume him. Just when I dared to hope… His heart felt like it was being ripped from his chest and unexpected tears fell from his eyes as he wept for the woman he desperately desired. I thought… but no. He shuddered with a heaving sob. She's slipped out of my grasp again.
* * *
Unable to cope with her barely contained emotions, only just hanging on to detachment, Marithé tossed a handful of cash at the cab driver and flung herself from the vehicle with barely a word of thanks. She rushed towards the older, somewhat rundown two-story complex of apartments, wishing she were already in the safety of her tiny two-bedroom unit. Though she was keeping her tears at bay, her cheeks burned in the wind as the breeze licked across her salt-stained flesh, making her skin feel tight.
She fumbled with her keys and dropped them from her shaking fingers. Cussing under her breath, she stooped to retrieve them, managing to hit her head on the doorknob as she straightened. Though her thoughts refused to coalesce into anything like sensibility, a feeling of deep shame and impending doom rolled over and over her. And through it all, Jorge's beautiful dark eyes shone in her mind. How disappointed would he be now? How betrayed would he feel, realizing I've replaced him… and so soon.
But now there was another voice whispering in her ear. It dared to ask the questions she couldn't bear to speak aloud. “So what? Jorge is dead,” the voice insisted. “You didn't betray him nor did you replace him. You simply chose to embrace another good, kind man, a man who loves you.” Is it so wrong to want to be loved? Can I truly love him in return? The voice continued, “Like Jack said, maybe the timing was wrong, but it wasn't the worst thing you could have done. And God knows you were certainly willing enough.”
Wild, swirling thoughts threatened to take her over completely, so to silence them she fitted the key carefully into the sticky lock on the door handle and jiggled it until all the connections caught. Letting herself in, she wrestled the key back out again, with a loud, nerve-wracking series of jingles. At last, the cranky mechanism reluctantly released the key and she dropped it into her purse before securing the door with the dead bolt.
“Are you all right?” A female voice cut into her awareness, making her jump violently. The purse dropped from her hands and overturned, scattering coins and receipts across the worn, brown carpet.
Heart pounding, she raised her head from the mess and met eyes which looked so much like Jack's, they cut deep into her already-bloody nerves. Oh Lord. I forgot Shonda was even here.
“Now I know you're not all right. Why are you so jumpy, girl? Did something spook you? And where's Jack? Didn't he escort you home?”
“He's at his house,” she replied, but offered no more, her voice far from steady. Walking stiffly, she passed Shonda, crossing the length of the tiny living room into the kitchenette where she poured herself a glass of water.
Shonda, of course, was not about to accept such a truncated answer. “How did you get here if Jack stayed home? Tell me he didn't allow you to walk home by yourself!”
“Taxi,” Marithé replied, before burying her face in her drink again. Please, don't ask any more questions. Just go home and let me get control of myself.
“Did you two have a fight?”
If only there had been an argument. “No. Not that.” Her hold on her emotions slipped again and a sob escaped.
“Mari,” Shonda said gently, reaching out to her supportively. Marithé felt the warm touch of her friend's hand, followed by the unexpected comment, “your shirt is on inside out.”
That did it. All the hysterical confusion of thought and emotion, which had been twirling like a tornado in Marithé's mind, finally smashed what was left of her self-control. She burst into noisy sobs, embarrassed, but no longer able to contain her heartbreak. Oh, God! Now she's going to be more determined than ever to know what happened. And when I tell her…
She expected Shonda to leave in a huff, even hoped she would. A pastor's wife shouldn't have to put up with someone like… me. Someone who… even admi
tting to herself what she'd done was too much for her and a new wave of tears flooded forth. That was when the last thing she expected happened; Shonda enfolded her into warm, motherly arms, cooing softly.
“There, there,” Shonda said, patting her on the back. “It's all right, dear. These things can happen. It's okay.”
“I feel so… dirty,” she sobbed heart-wrenchingly. “I'm not good enough… for Jorge… for Jack.” Her voice broke when she spoke the name of Shonda's son. “I… I'm not even good enough for my job. To have done this… you should probably just fire me.”
“Mari, no,” Shonda tucked a knuckle under Marithé's tear-dampened chin and lifted her face. “Not a chance.”
Her lips trembled as she whispered, “But I…”
“You what, dear?” Shonda pushed, hoping to bring the young woman to understanding. “You were a wonderful wife to Jorge? You're a devoted mother to Elena and Andres?”
Marithé couldn't bring herself to look at her friend. Though Shonda held her chin firmly in place, she looked to the side, refusing to meet her eyes. How can she be so kind and after I… I acted like a hussy. She bit her lip, holding back the sob building in her chest.
“I can see by the way you're still grieving that you are still in love with Jorge,” Shonda commented gently. “Of course, it's not wrong to look for a little happiness in life, honey. A good husband would want that for you and Jorge was a good husband, right?”
“The best,” she sniffled. “And now I've gone and…”
“Hush,” Shonda insisted. “No more of this. Mari, dear, I can only guess as to what happened between you and Jack, but I have to say, I'm not surprised. Only a fool would miss the way you look at each other.”
“Oh, Shonda!” Marithé gasped. “Is it so obvious?”
In her concern, she met the compassionate eyes of her friend, eyes filled with understanding. “That you and Jack have such a promising relationship? That y'all are good for each other?”
“It's too soon.”
Shonda sighed. “Come, sit down.”
Tugging gently, she led her to the living room, where a brown suede sofa, heavily stained with juice and chocolate, added another layer of warmth and protection around Marithé's battered soul… along with another layer of guilt. How many times did Jorge and I make love here? Andres was conceived on this sofa. And now, here she sat with another man's semen seeping through the fabric of her underpants, and yet she couldn't bring herself to go to the bathroom and clean up. All she could do was cry.
“I need to be alone,” Marithé finally managed to say. “Please, Shonda. I need to think.”
Shonda smiled softly, patiently. “That you do. But I don't want to hear any more talk of quitting, you hear? You and Jack will work this out. I have no doubt about it.”
She paused until Marithé closed her eyes and gave a grudging dip of her head to show her agreement. Then she added, “Why don't you take off a day or two. You know, to get your head together. Then, when you come back, we'll figure out what's next. But don't expect to be off the hook for long, okay? Because I need you as much as you need this job. Promise?”
Touched by the woman's unending kindness, Marithé gave a watery nod. Taking pity on her weepy embarrassment, Shonda stood. Acting like nothing was amiss, she began to chat about other topics, apparently determined to leave on a positive note.
“The kids were fine. A couple little angels, as always, and they're both sound asleep,” she reported. “We had spaghetti with meatballs for dinner and we played several rounds of Candy Land together, all of which I lost, of course.”
“Thank you,” Marithé replied, taking in a shuddering breath.
“I'll see you on Tuesday,” Shonda ordered in her sweet, authoritative way, reminding Marithé of her promise. Then she walked out the door, shutting it softly behind her.
* * *
Jack had spent a rough night, alone and desolate after Marithé's devastating retreat. Leaning against the kitchen counter, the sounds of his coffee pot percolating to life filling the air, he tried to make sense of what happened. He'd tried to cope with his sense of loss all through the night, and like the hundreds of times he tried, he once again failed. Our difficulties are supposed to teach us, move us, but what am I supposed to be learning from all of this? And only one thought came to his mind, one thought he unconsciously spoke aloud. “That I'm unlovable.”
“Why are you unlovable?” Mike asked as he entered the house from the side door, Sam in tow. In his despair, lost in contemplation, Jack hadn't processed the sound of the spare key he'd given to him as it unlocked the door, giving the two men access to his house.
“What are you two doing here?” Jack was stumped. “Especially you, Sam. Are you sure you want to be playing psychologist when you've got issues of your own.”
“Now that my meds are working, I'm improving,” Sam replied. “They released me from the hospital and I'm working through my shit. I'm better, though not quite 100% yet. So now it's your turn. Besides, your mother called us. She can be one persuasive lady.” As he spoke, Sam set a plastic bag with identifying markings which told Jack the contents were delights from Shipley's doughnuts. Jack's stomach growled with anticipation.
“How did – oh right,” Jack voiced, realizing the answer to his question before he finished asking it. Mom was watching the kids at Marithé's place. Shit. Well, that explains the multiple voicemails and 500 text messages she sent me.
“She was worried,” Mike shrugged.
“Well, she doesn't have to be,” Jack replied tersely. He reached into the cupboard to pull out a coffee mug. Shaking it at his friends, he silently asked if they wanted some as well.
Sam raised his hand in a halting gesture before indicating the Styrofoam cup he'd set next to the pastries. “I'm good, but thanks for the offer.”
“I'm not,” Mike grinned. “I'll gladly take the largest cup you have.”
Jack couldn't help chuckling at his friend as he reached back into the cabinet, shuffling around until he found the large mug Mike had given him last Christmas. “Now I know why you bought this for me.”
“Hey, you had to have at least one good coffee cup,” Mike teased, taking the offered mug from Jack.
“What?” Sam jumped into the conversation. “I gave him a coffee mug too.”
“Yeah, I know,” Mike playfully punched Sam in the shoulder. “Like I said, he needed a good one.”
“Mine was good,” Sam pouted. “It even had our squadron logo.”
“Dude, stop being such a girl,” Mike jokingly scolded him as he held his mug out for Jack to fill.
“Do you need sugar or creamer?” Jack asked as he reached for them to add to his own coffee.
“Nah, I like it black, but thanks,” his friend beamed and then, grabbing a kolache from the opened Shipley's box Sam extended to him, he went to sit down at the kitchen table.
Sam plucked a glazed doughnut from the box, collecting his Styrofoam cup from the counter, and joined Mike at the table. Before taking a big bite from the sweet bun, he asked, “So what happened last night?”
Is he really going to make me say it? “You don't know?”
“No,” Sam replied. “Your mom just called, saying you weren't answering your phone and would I mind coming over to check in on you.”
“Yeah, me too,” Mike remarked. “No sooner had I hung up with Shonda and Sam called. We decided to meet up and drive together.”
I wish she hadn't done that! Jack dragged a large hand down his weary face, leaning against the counter. “Sorry. I don't know what she was thinking. I mean, it's not like either of you live in town and with the traffic, it must have taken you hours.”
“Relax, bro,” Mike responded. “It's no big thing.”
“Right, sure,” Jack's annoyance bled into his tone. “You both have enough going on in your own lives. You don't need my mother calling you, asking you to blow sunshine up my ass.” I'm going to have to talk to her about this. I can't have her meddli
ng this way.
“Jack,” Sam gave him a leveled look. “You'd do it for us and we're happy to do it for you.”
Jack finally acquiesced and reached for a plump kolache. I may as well tell them. I mean, they certainly don't look like they plan to leave any time soon, plus… if I don't tell them, I'm sure Mom will. “You both know how I feel about… Marithé…”
“Yeah, you love her,” Mike answered easily as Sam bobbed his head in agreement.
Jack sighed, shuffled roughly towards the table, his cane still in his bedroom where he'd left it, and dropped into a chair, joining his friends at the table. He took a hearty chomp on the end of his kolache, biding his time as he considered what to say next. Adding further to his delay, he took a gulp of his coffee, washing the pastry down.
“Well, Marithé and I went out on a date last night,” he began.
“No fucking way!” Sam exclaimed with a bright smile. “Dude, that's great.”
“Not so great,” Jack retorted. “I mean, it was… We had a wonderful time together, but we drank a little too much wine and then…” he made a motion for the two men to make their own conclusions as to what culminated at the end of the date.
“You mean… did you have sex?” Sam inquired, too shocked to be diplomatic or sensitive in his questioning.
Jack nodded. “Yeah, and it was… so much more than sex. I mean, we connected in ways… Ugh!” They don't want to hear this, not about Marithé anyway. Especially not Sam! “Who's being a chick now?”
“Come on, bro,” Mike tried to reassure him. “It's us. You know you can tell us anything. We're cool.”
Jack regarded Sam with appraising eyes. I know I can tell Mike anything, but what about Sam? Should I really be telling him that I took his best friend's widow to bed with me? “Look, it doesn't matter. She ran out, calling a cab to take her home and she hasn't responded to my calls or text messages.”
Justifying Jack (The Wounded Warriors Book 2) Page 13