One Week

by Roya Carmen

  “So I made a new artist friend on Instagram,” I say casually between bites. I don’t know why I’ve decided to mention Eli. Maybe I’m just trying to make conversation, or perhaps I’m feeling a bit guilty. “Paints amazing watercolors,” I add.

  “That’s nice,” he says cutting into his steak. “But I bet she’s nowhere as good as you.”

  I smile — he’s always complimenting my work. When we have new friends over, he’s the first to show them my new pieces on the walls.

  I laugh a little. “You’d be surprised.”

  “So what have you been working on?” he asks.

  I’m doing a still life series, scenes of downtown,” I explain, “Alleyways, doors and windows, and the like. I love the architectural details on that street… so beautiful.”

  He grins. “So that must be why you practically live there,” he teases. He’s right — it’s where I meet my friends for coffee, it’s where I take my walks, where I shop. I love the quaint little stores — they’re so much more interesting than those big box stores which keep popping up everywhere.

  This is nice.

  We’re having a nice conversation, and John looks so handsome tonight. It’s times like these when I can remember us, years ago, when we first fell in love. Before kids, work… life. I see the man I fell in love with. If truth be told, I haven’t seen him much lately.

  But unfortunately, things take a turn when we get to talking about Maeve’s wedding.

  “She has us wearing butter yellow dresses, can you believe it?” I’m saying over dessert.

  John laughs. “But I bet you still look great in it. I can’t wait to see you in it.”

  I smile. “Actually, the color kind of suits me. It’s not that bad, but it’s one of those strapless numbers, and I just know I’ll be worried all night about nip slip.”

  He laughs out loud. “Oh, we should all be so lucky.”

  “That’s the problem with having D cups… you can’t wear those little numbers.”

  He cocks a brow, and a playful smile slowly traces his lips. “Hell, I’m certainly not complaining.”

  I blush a little, and I know I’m being silly. But it’s nice that my husband still manages to make me blush, even after all these years.

  “So anyway, the wedding is the third weekend of September,” I say, reaching for my almost empty glass of red.

  His face falls. “Oh, damn, Gabbie.”

  “Damn what?!”

  “I have a signing that weekend,” he tells me. “In New York.”

  Of course he does. He always does. I feel my blood heating slowly to a boil, and my cheeks flush. He can’t be doing this to me. I don’t ask for much — the least he could do is be there for me once in a while. Now, I’ll be alone at the wedding. Well, at least I’ll have the kids.

  “I’m so sorry, Gabbie,” he says. “This event was planned ages ago.”

  Yes, he’s always sorry. ‘Sorry’ doesn’t mean anything anymore.

  We finish dessert in silence. We leave the restaurant without a word, and the drive home is quiet. There’s an old Céline Dion song on the radio. I wonder if Céline has to put up with this shit. I wonder if she’s married, and remember that I’d recently read in one of those tabloids at the grocery store, the ones I scan while I wait in line, that her husband passed away not long ago. I wonder what it would be like if John died. What would life be like? Would it be worse? Or better? Surely worse. I shake my head. I can’t believe I’m fantasizing about John’s death. Okay, so I’m a bit peeved with him at the moment, but not that peeved.

  “The kids are fast asleep already. They were exhausted,” Anna tells us “How was your night?” she asks cheerfully.

  I plaster on a forced smile. “It was nice,” I tell her as I dig into my purse for my wallet.

  As soon as she leaves, I peel off my boots, and tell John that I’m going to bed – my sexy outfit gone to waste.

  “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s say goodnight to the kids, and then cuddle in bed.”

  I roll my eyes. By ‘cuddle in bed’, he means sex. John is not much of a cuddler. I usually don’t get cuddles unless there’s sex either before or after.

  I trudge upstairs to kiss the kids, and head to my bedroom. I lock myself in the en-suite, and check my Instagram. I told myself I would try to ignore him, but I just can’t. I’m disappointed when there are no messages from him, not even a new post on his feed. I scroll through my camera roll, and find the picture I’m looking for — a photo of Elsie and me. I don’t have a lot of photos with her, and this is my favorite — we’re cuddling on the sofa, and she looks adorable, and I look really nice in a pink fuzzy sweater, despite the fact that my hair is messy and my face is bare.

  I send him the photo, and write a quick message below.

  Since you sent me a photo of you and your dog, I thought I’d send you one of me and my cat. :)

  I don’t feel guilty at all. It’s just a photo of me and the cat. And John is a selfish jerk. So there.

  I wash my makeup off — those smoky eyes are a bitch to clean off. I brush my teeth, and slip out of my dress.

  When I leave the en-suite, John is sitting on our bed, unbuttoning his shirt. He does look kind of sexy... I turn my gaze away and reach into my dresser for the least sexy nightgown I can find. I find the one my mother gave me a few years ago — it’s bulky, gramma-ish, with little flowers. John says that the mere sight of it makes him go soft.

  I slip it on, and John starts laughing. “Oh, so it’s like that, is it?” he says playfully.

  I turn and glare at him. “Yes, it is.” I’m drowning but a smile threatens to escape — the situation is kind of funny.

  He slithers up to me on the bed, and gently runs his fingers through my hair. He sweeps it to the side and kisses the nape of my neck — he knows that’s one of my buttons. Such a manipulator.

  Damn, him. I don’t stand a chance if he’s going to pull these kind of moves. “We’re not having sex,” I say, resolute.

  “Really?!” he says playfully as his hand travels up the curve of my leg and pushes up my flannel nightgown. He gets dangerously close to my sweet spot.

  I close my eyes. I want this, but I don’t want to give in — I’m still so mad at him.

  He pulls the fabric up and over my back, and trails kisses down the curve of my hip where he bites gently. It feels so damn good, and I’m in the mood. I’ve been on the mood all night.

  He reaches for my breasts and cups one in his hand. I arch my back into him and let out a soft moan.

  He’s won. I want this. I completely give in to him; every inch of my skin surrenders to him. But when I close my eyes, it’s not him I see.

  I see Eli’s beautiful face. Those magnetic eyes, and the way I felt when they fixed me. The strong nose, those sensual full lips. And most of all, I see his smile, the way he lit up at my words. When was the last time I felt that special? I can’t remember.

  When John’s hands glide over me, I imagine they’re Eli’s hands. When his lips press against the small of my back, I imagine their Eli’s lips. His hands dig into my hips and he flips me around on the bed. I’m on my knees, and he pulls me in close. When he peels off my black silky thong, I still see Eli. When he enters me, I close my eyes and let my mind wander.

  My husband is not fucking me. A beautiful stranger is.

  Chapter Twelve

  JOHN IS UP EARLY, writing. I’m having coffee and toast when I check my phone. My heart skips a beat when I see a message from Eli.

  Beautiful picture. Thanks for sharing it. Your cat is cute.

  —

  Thank you. Are you a cat guy?

  —

  Not really. More of a dog person, but I don’t hate cats. They just seem very aloof, whereas dogs wear their feelings on their sleeves.

  —

  Yes, if they wore shirts, I joke. For some reason, Eli always makes me feel playful.

  —

  Lol! I had a cat once, a tabby, and she alway
s ignored me. Occasionally, she’d let me pet her. I fed her and cleaned her litter box, and that’s as far as the relationship went.

  —

  And you wanted more?

  —

  Lol! Yes, I did. She was using me!

  I smile, not quite sure what to write next.

  I expect total openness in my relationships, I guess. I don’t like games, he writes. I like people to show me how they feel, to hold nothing back.

  That’s crazy. If I were completely honest and open with him, he’d think I was a crazy woman. If I told him I can’t stop thinking about him, and eagerly anticipate his messages and posts, he’d run away real fast.

  It is rather kind of pathetic.

  Well, at least I realize I’m being insane, so that’s a start.

  I agree, I finally reply.

  I don’t like games either. Honesty is one of the most important things in a relationship. I feel a sudden pang of guilt — what I’m doing right now is not very honest. I should tell John about him. I should stop chatting with him. I should probably end this friendship.

  That was the problem with my marriage, he replies. She wasn’t honest.

  —

  I’m sorry, I write.

  I want to know more. I was just about to end the conversation but he’s reeled me back in with the suspenseful nature of his comment.

  She cheated on me.

  —

  I’m so sorry.

  I cannot imagine what that kind of betrayal would feel like. I don’t even know how I’d react if John did this to me.

  She broke my heart.

  I don’t know what to say. I bite my nail as I ponder my response.

  Well, I think you need to get out there again. When one door closes, another opens, as they say.

  I sound so trite, but I’m just trying to help. And I figure, the sooner he gets himself a woman, the sooner he’ll forget all about me and slowly start to ignore me, which would be for the best. I can’t imagine ever getting bored with him, so he’s the one who is going to have to break my heart.

  Oh, I’m not there yet. She’s ruined me.

  What a bitch, I think.

  Don’t let her ruin you.

  Theo bounces into the kitchen, all smiles. “Mommy,” he cheers. “Can we go to the park today?”

  I’d promised him we’d go first thing in the morning — he’s been wanting to play with his new toy trucks, and that’s the only spot where sand can be found around here.

  I look up from my phone. “Sure,” I tell him. “Just let me get dressed first. Did you and Emma brush your teeth yet?!”

  He scowls and turns on his heel.

  I’m sorry but I gotta go. I’m taking my kids to the park.

  —

  Okay. Have fun! :) Cheers!

  He’s my little secret. I decided to not talk about him to my friends anymore, because I know they don’t approve. And I certainly don’t talk about him to John.

  We DM every day, and video chat when John is not around. I know what I’m doing is wrong, but I can’t help myself. I’m not sure why I’m acting like this. Perhaps I’m lonely. Maybe I’m going through a midlife crisis. The fact that I’m hiding him from John makes me realize that I’m up to no good. But I always justify my actions. I tell myself that we’re just talking, about life, about art — it’s all very innocent.

  We talk about anything and everything. We smile and laugh often. He’s a pretty funny guy — he makes me laugh at the silliest things. I enjoy video chatting with him because he makes the funniest faces, and he does a rather impressive impression of Al Pacino in The Godfather. I’m not as funny as he is, but I manage to make him laugh without even trying. He likes to make fun of my SpongeBob SquarePants pajama pants, and the way I’m always twirling a lock of my long hair.

  Though I’m not the only one with quirks. He has the habit of scratching at his three-day stubble or raking a hand through his hair when he talks about serious stuff, or when I ask him a personal question. I can tell he’s not the sharing type, but for some reason, he shares with me.

  I learn so much about him. He’s a year younger than me, and he was raised in Novi, Michigan, by a single mother, like I was, so we have that in common. He also has a sister he cares for a lot. He fell in love with Clara (who is from Copenhagen) when he was backpacking after college, and he followed his heart to Denmark. He’s been there ever since.

  I know he loves yogurt because he’s always eating it when we video chat. I, on the other hand, hate the stuff. He loves modern folk music, stuff I’m not too familiar with; The Lumineers, Ray Lamontagne, Of Monsters and Men, Ryan Adams. I love when he plays me some of the songs; the music is so intense and soulful, and the artists’ voices are so beautiful. We listen to the music quietly together. We usually don’t look at each other, occasionally stealing a look or sharing a soft smile.

  He makes fun of my music choices; mostly pop; Beyoncé, Meghan Trainor, Rihanna, Katy Perry, and pretty much anything top 40s. The closest thing to folk music that I listen to is Ed Sheeran.

  More and more, I’m listening to his favorite artists and downloading songs from iTunes. I listen to them over and over again, and think about him. I doubt he’s downloading any Katy Perry songs.

  Yet for all I learn about him, it seems I can’t know enough — I want to know it all. When he tells me he’s a Scorpio, I Google astrological signs. I’ve never been much into astrology, but I want to know if Scorpios get along with Cancers (that’s my sign). Apparently, we do — we’re both intense and passionate.

  He tells me he’s six foot one, and I swoon inside. I could tell he was tall from the YouTube video. He tells me he’s recently tipped the scales over one hundred and seventy-five pounds and would like to lose a few. I tell him I’m five foot five, but don’t volunteer my weight — no way in hell.

  He shows me around his loft, and it’s so cool and unique. I feel kind of boring when I show him the various rooms of my classy suburban home. It’s tastefully decorated but nowhere as interesting as his space. Our worlds and our lives are so very different.

  He knows almost everything about me. He knows I collect elephants (I have forty-seven), and that I love bananas and chocolate. He knows I’m an avid reader, and that Grey’s Anatomy and Scandal are my favorite shows.

  Funny enough, it seems that with every new day, we talk less and less and less about our art, the thing that brought us together in the first place. He occasionally shows me his finished pieces, and I show him my works-in-progress, because it seems like I never finish anything lately. He keeps saying that he wants to send me something, something small. I give him my mailing address with no reservations whatsoever. He warns me not to expect anything too soon, that it’ll take him a while.

  And every day, he’s always the perfect gentleman, he never crosses the line. He loves to tease and be playful, even flirt a little sometimes, but he’s always good. And sometimes, I find myself wishing he weren’t quite so good. In my fantasies, he’s so, so bad. The problem isn’t so much what we talk about, the problem is how he makes me feel. He makes me smile at nothing, he makes me nervous, he makes me want to confess my innermost secrets and desires, and he makes my heart flutter and my pulse race. When I chat with him, I lose sense of time and my surroundings. I melt completely into him, and I don’t want to come up for air.

  And when I’m not chatting with him, I fantasize about him, and constantly check my phone. I go through the motions of my daily life; cooking, grocery shopping, laundry, errands, school functions, and the list goes on. But all the while, my mind is full of Eli. Every hour of every day.

  I’m certainly not in denial — I know I’ve gone crazy. I’m crazy for someone who is not my husband, and I realize how very wrong that is.

  John and I don’t fight often, but when we do, it’s usually pretty intense. And I must admit, it generally happens around the end of the month — when aunt Flo visits. I get so emotional when I have PMS, it seems I suddenly grow a back
bone. The rest of the month, I’m pretty easy going and take the good with the bad. Life is not perfect, I tell myself. So my husband is a workaholic, so my daughter is a little pig-headed, so the idiots on the road don’t know how to drive. But come the end of the month, I honk the horn, I scold Emma, and I tell off John.

  We’re both in bed. The kids are already sleeping, and we try to take advantage of this time to talk. Unfortunately, we don’t talk often anymore.

  “Another conference,” I scoff. “Jesus, I can’t remember you ever being so busy, even when you were a New York Times Bestseller—”

  Oops.

  He glares at me over his paper. “I still am a New York Times Bestseller.”

  “You know what I mean,” I try to backtrack, “when your books were selling… better.” What I don’t understand is how he’s attending all these conferences and signings, and yet he’s selling less books. He tells me that’s exactly the reason he’s increased his promotional efforts, to get back in the game. I feel bad for him, I really do. Maybe that’s the reason he’s been so distant. Perhaps he’s depressed because he’s not as successful as he used to be.

  His gaze returns to his paper and he ignores me. He’s peeved. John is the silent-treatment type.

  “I’m sorry,” I try to apologize. “I know things have been tough lately. Nobody is reading books anymore, they’re all watching Netflix. I just… I just miss you. The kids miss you,” I struggle to explain. “And it’s tough for me. I do everything. I look after the kids, cook the meals, I clean the house, I run the errands and buy the groceries, and it’s all so…” boring, joyless, what-is-the-point-of-my-life?… not fair.

  “God, Gabriella,” he snaps. “What I wouldn’t give to be you, I don’t know. You have no worries, no stress. You live in your perfect little cocoon every day, completely oblivious. Do you know how much all this costs?” he barks, waving his arm around. “This giant house, the kids’ private school, the luxury cars, and your designer clothes.”