One Week

by Roya Carmen

  When he leans in for a kiss, I turn, and his peck lands on my cheek. “I should tidy the kitchen,” I tell him as I stand slowly, still in shock. “I’m not feeling well at all.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Was it the wine?”

  Red wine occasionally doesn’t agree with me for some reason, but I’ve found a few kinds I like that don’t seem to cause any trouble. “Yeah, I think so,” I say, absentmindedly wiping the kitchen counter.

  Who is she?

  How long has this been going on?

  What does she look like?

  Is she blonde? Skinny?

  It’s how I picture her for some reason.

  How many times has he fucked her?

  Does she know he’s married with kids?

  She has to, the man is famous… it’s right there on his fucking Wikipedia page.

  Fucking whore.

  I load the dishwasher. It’s one of those tasks I’ve done a thousand times, it doesn’t require conscious thought. “I’m going to lie down in my studio,” I tell him. It’s usually where I go when I want a little peace and quiet — it’s quiet up there in the loft. The kids don’t venture up there too often. There are no toys, no television, just a desk and sofa, an easel, and my art supplies and books. Elsie, on the other hand, is always there. I think she likes the quiet too. When she’s up there, the kids don’t bother her. I think she also likes how warm and bright it is up there. She loves to bask in the sun streaming through the windows. It is a quiet bright airy space… our little haven.

  I kiss Emma and Theo. “Daddy’s going to put you to bed tonight, okay? Mommy’s not feeling well, so I’m gonna go lie down upstairs.”

  Emma’s brows knit together. “Will you be okay?”

  I smile. “I’ll be fine… too much wine.”

  “Alcohol is bad for you,” she tells me, matter-of-factly.

  “I know.”

  “Love you,” Theo chimes in. His sweet little voice tears at my insides.

  I’m crying by the time I reach the stairs to my loft.

  How long has this affair been going on? Weeks? Months? Years?

  When did they meet? Where?

  Do they make love? Or just fuck?

  I want all these questions answered. But I can’t even bring myself to look at him to ask them.

  I lie on the sofa, in tears, face down on the cushions. My whimpers can barely be heard — I’ve always been a quiet crier. I don’t cry often, and when I do, I don’t want anyone to know — it’s my little secret. I’m no attention-seeker, and certainly not a drama queen. I hate drama. I hate this.

  Elsie, who had been snoozing in her cozy cat bed, knows something’s up. She inches closer, and comes to see me. She sniffs my elbow, and I turn to look at her. She settles her white paws on the edge of the sofa, leaps up and snuggles up close. She nudges her sweet little nose up against mine. Her whiskers tickle my face as she licks the tears off my cheeks.

  A smile curves my lips. “You’re coming with me,” I tell her. “When we get a divorce.”

  I can’t believe I’ve uttered the word ‘divorce’. This is a taboo word for me — just the thought of it gives me hives. I don’t want a damn divorce. But I don’t want a fucking cheating husband either.

  We can’t get a divorce — we have two small kids.

  Fuck. When did my life become such a fucking mess?

  A divorce would tear our world apart. I can’t imagine it: the kids being shuffled back and forth between the two of us, like freakin’ boomerangs. They’re too small to understand — a divorce would break their little hearts. And what about all the wonderful years we’ve shared? John has always been such a great husband — he’s been my real-life prince. And we’ve always had passion, which is a precious and rare thing.

  It’s just been these past few months…

  It all makes sense now… the constant travel, and his distant behavior. I should have known. The affair must have started months ago.

  I stroke Elsie’s back, and she purrs loudly.

  I try to think about it logically. Where would I go?

  Damn it, I wouldn’t go anywhere. He’s the one who’s cheating, so I’d kick him out obviously. But the kids would miss him so much. They’d wonder why he was never here. I could always tell them that he has to go on business trips, lots of business trips.

  Was it so bad, what he did? I ask myself.

  Yeah, it was. He’s a dog.

  But I’m not completely innocent either…

  I’ve been so distracted and busy carrying on with some guy on the Internet, I didn’t even notice my husband was having an affair.

  At least, I had the decency to end it. I can’t help but laugh at the irony of it. Here I was, feeling so guilty, so torn up about my relationship with Eli — just words, really. A few laughs, and lingering gazes… and words. That’s all. And all this time, John was sticking his dick in some other woman.

  I grab a box of Kleenex from my desk, pull a tissue, and blow into it loudly. I’m a blubbering mess, but Elsie hasn’t left my side. My throat hurts and my eyes sting.

  How would John react if I confronted him? Would he deny it, and tell me I’m crazy? Would he concoct some completely feasible excuse? He is a good storyteller, after all. Or would he own up to the truth? He owes me that. After all the years we’ve shared, it’s the least he owes me.

  I make myself a cup a tea while I ponder our situation further. Why should this affair destroy our marriage? Four lives are at stake here. This isn’t just about me.

  And maybe this thing is just a meaningless fling… just sex.

  Perhaps it’s just my way to make sense of all this, to take the easy way out because it’s all too much for me to deal with. I’ve always had a hard time confronting problems head-on. I tend to skirt around them, tuck them in a little box and ignore them. It’s the reason I wasn’t on speaking terms with my mother when she died.

  But there’s no ignoring this one. It’s too big.

  I decide to confront John. If he denies the affair, it’s over. If he tells me the truth, I’ll give our marriage a second chance.

  It’s that simple.

  I’ve just been going through the motions these past few days. A million questions rattle around in my head. I haven’t been able to eat, to sleep. I think about Eli. I want to reach out to him, but I know that’s not the answer, that would just be adding more fuel to this hot mess.

  Life has been wheeling along as usual; errands, school runs, kids’ activities, dinner on the table, bedtime tuck-ins. Every single night is spent in my loft, ‘working’. Crying, more like. John has been holed up in his office too, as he’s been these past few months. I wonder if he’s talking to her, if he’s chatting with her. I don’t want to know.

  I’ve been avoiding the confrontation, but I know I can’t go on like this. I’ll die if I do. There is so much anger in me, I feel like I might explode. I thought I’d wait a day or two before I confronted him, to calm down. But I’m not calming down. My anger is as wild and alive as ever. I know I need to do this now.

  He’s sitting on the old worn plaid loveseat, the one he just can’t get rid of — it’s an eyesore but he fears he won’t be able to write ever again if he gets rid of it — he’s superstitious that way. He’s tapping away on his laptop when I quietly slip into his office. The kids are already in bed, and it’s pretty late. He seems surprised to see me — I don’t ordinarily venture into his office this late at night. I’m typically fast asleep by this time. I inch closer, and I sneak a peek. He’s writing — no naughty chatting or pornography — he’s just working.

  “Can you take a break?” I ask. “We need to talk.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  HE DOESN’T WRITE ANOTHER WORD. He sets his laptop on the rustic coffee table. It’s a mess as usual; scattered papers, pens, and an empty cup of coffee. “What’s up?” he asks. He knows that something’s not right. “Is it the kids?” he asks, concern etching his features.

 
I shake my head. “No, no, no. The kids are fine,” I tell him. “This is about us.”

  He clears his throat and lies back on the loveseat. He doesn’t say a single word, almost as if he knows what’s coming.

  “I…” I start, but the words are stuck in my throat. This is so much harder than I thought it would be. “I… I need to talk about something,” I start again. “About a week ago, I was looking for a pen…” My voice is shaking. “I was looking for a pen, and I couldn’t find one for the life of me. Anyway, I know you always have some in your satchel, and I don’t usually snoop in your stuff, I swear.”

  His face falls. He knows where this is going.

  “Anyway,” I go on. My voice has settled, and I’m really doing this. “Anyway, I saw a Valentine’s card and a Tiffany’s box. I assumed it was for me, but then…”

  I don’t need to say more. It’s obvious where this conversation is going.

  He’s speechless, and the expression on his face says it all. The last time I saw it was when he learned that his Nanna died of a heart attack at the age of eighty-six. He’s heart-broken.

  “Tell me what’s going on,” I beg.

  His gaze lingers on the wall in the distance, straight ahead. There is a collection of photos on the wall; him at various events, posing with famous authors and fans, and covers of his books sitting next to their NYT Bestseller listings. But I know he’s not seeing any of that.

  “It just happened, Gabbie,” he says softly. “I’m so sorry.”

  He still can’t look me in the eye.

  “Who is she?” is the first question out of my mouth.

  “Her name is Amanda.”

  The name cuts me. Before, she was a nameless thing. Now she’s a woman with a pretty name.

  “How did you meet her?” I ask.

  “It was at the signing in London last spring,” he says. “A year ago.”

  “Is she British?” I ask. If the woman has a sexy British accent, it’s game over. Seriously, how am I supposed to compete with that? I lost my Latino accent a long time ago.

  He finally looks at me. “No, she’s from New York state,” he tells me. “I swear, Gabbie, I’ve never… I’ve never done this before.”

  I don’t know why, but I believe him. Maybe it’s because I want to believe, maybe it’s because it’s the truth. His eyes seem so sincere, and his words ring so true.

  “So is she one of your groupies?” I ask. I am not done with the inquisition — nowhere near done.

  He shakes his head. “No, she’s an author. She writes psychological thrillers.”

  “What’s her full name?” I demand.

  “Gabbie…” he whispers. His eyes are pleading. “You don’t need to know…”

  “What the fuck is her name?”

  He swallows hard. “Amanda Tucker.”

  What the…

  The name is familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. I think hard. She’s an author, so perhaps we’ve met before, but I don’t recall. No face pops up. Maybe I’ve read one of her books… And then it hits me. I know her. I’ve read one of her novels. And I liked it. I have no idea what she looks like. A wave of nausea hits me hard, and I get the sudden urge to vomit all over his precious loveseat, his laptop, and him...

  “Do you love her?” I ask softly. Such a cliché question, I’m disgusted with myself. I’m such a cliché — bored middle-aged plain housewife, betrayed by her handsome successful husband, cast aside for a younger more exciting woman.

  He doesn’t answer fast enough. “Do you love her?” I ask again, but this time, I practically scream it. Do you fucking love her or not?

  “It’s complicated,” he says.

  I spring from the couch.

  Wrong fucking answer.

  He reaches for me, and grabs my wrist forcefully. “Sit down, Gabbie. I’m not done.”

  I sit, flustered and unsettled.

  “I don’t love her like I love you,” he explains. “You’re the love of my life, Gabbie. We’ve been together forever. You’re the mother of my children. You’re everything to me. But her…”

  “But her, what?!”

  “She’s under my skin,” he says.

  He might as well have reached into my chest cavity, and ripped my heart out. I know exactly what he means… he’s crazy about her. I know because I’ve felt it myself. With Eli.

  “So it’s not just sex?” I ask, hoping he will tell me it is.

  He shakes his head again. And again, he doesn’t look me in the eye. “It’s a bit more… it’s not love, but I’m… pretty caught up.”

  My heart sinks. He’s being so honest, so open with me. I’m not surprised. He’s always been like this — he wears his emotions on his sleeve. This secret must have been killing him. I can almost see the relief on his face. This is why he’s not been himself lately, why he’s been acting so strange. I should have known.

  “So what you’re saying is that you’re very attracted to her, and you have feelings for her?” I ask, still not sure what this woman means to him.

  “Yes, I’m attracted to her, but do I love her? I do, sometimes, and I also hate her. I can’t explain it…”

  “You hate her and you’re sleeping with her?!” I say, flabbergasted. It’s not so much a question as it is a statement. This, I don’t quite get.

  He stares at the floor, at the green area rug I got him a few years back. “She plays with me,” he says, “she pushes me away. She says we can’t do this, and I agree. But then she seeks me out again, tries to seduce me, sends me pictures…”

  “Wow,” I say, speechless. I get it now. They must have this whole love-hate thing going on, and the sex must be off-the-charts. I hate this fucking woman. She gets off on this, I’m sure. She doesn’t give a shit if he’s married with kids. I fucking hate her. I don’t even hate John anymore, just her.

  John is quiet, and I’m suddenly livid.

  “This woman sounds like a real winner,” I deadpan. “I hope the sex was worth it because she’s completely ruined your life.” My voice cracks, and my words are broken. “I... h-hope the sex was the best you’ve ever had because now you’ll be losing your wife over it.”

  He falls to his knees and sinks into me. He lays his head on my lap and clings to me. He’s crying now. “No, Gabbie. You can’t do this.”

  “I’m not doing anything,” I say. “You’ve done this to yourself, John.”

  He’s completely broken when he lifts his gaze to mine. “I don’t think I really love her, Gabbie. You’re my only one. I don’t want to break up over this.”

  “Well, you should have thought about that before you stuck your dick in that whore.” I push him away, and struggle out of his hold. I dash out of the room, and he chases me up the stairs. But he doesn’t catch me. I slam the bedroom door in his face, and lock it.

  “Gabbie, c’mon,” he whines and punches the door.

  “Settle down,” I scoff. “You’ll wake the kids.”

  “I’ll end it,” he says quietly.

  I don’t respond, and a few long seconds later, I hear the scuffle of his feet as he trudges down the stairs.

  I exhale a breath of air as I lie down on our bed. It’s neatly made, as always. My gaze travels across our bedroom, dances over the antique armoire we got at that auction, and the expensive bedroom set we bought five years ago, the perfectly coordinated throw pillows, and the framed artwork over the bed, specifically created for this room — everything is so perfect. Looking in from the outside, our home, our life is the picture of perfection.

  I swore that I would give him a second chance if he was honest with me. And he was… too honest, some might say. He could have told me it was just sex — I would have never known any better. It was more than sex, but perhaps not love. Something complicated, in the middle. She was excitement, she was a challenge. She was a flash of color… temptation.

  I get it. He’s a man. And she’s a whore. I get the attraction. I’m dying of curiosity. A little voice in m
y head is screaming as I reach for my phone. Don’t do it, Gabbie! Don’t do it! it screams, but of course, I ignore it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I TYPE ‘AMANDA TUCKER’ in the search engine, and just as I’d expected, pictures pop up, and also a Wikipedia entry. It doesn’t take me long to find her. I click on her Wikipedia photo. She’s nothing like I’d expected. I was picturing a skinny blonde, dressed like a hooker, but she looks so conservative. She actually kind of looks like me; long thick dark hair with auburn accents, olive complexion and brown eyes. She wears a tasteful black blazer, but even in the conservative outfit, you can tell that she’s an attractive, sensual woman. She has that sweet innocent look that some women have, like she could do no wrong.

  Innocent, my ass. Home wrecking bitch.

  I obsessively stalk her, not taking in the information fast enough, tapping feverishly on Google entries. She’s also a NYT Bestselling author. Of course. My husband couldn’t just step out on me with an ordinary woman. He had to do it with a famous, successful beauty.

  She’s thirty-one (four years younger than me). She’s divorced, and has a five year old. Who goes out, and fucks other men with a five year old at home? In addition to writing, she rides horses, and loves mountain climbing.

  I quickly move on to Twitter, her Facebook page, blog interviews, and finally, the most heartbreaking one of all, Instagram. It’s full of quirky selfies, and the tips of her auburn locks are light purple, and in one photo, I spot two tattoos, and in another, nails painted in a rainbow of colors. She has pigtails in another photo, and wears a huge mood ring. Now I see the wild playful side of her. I can totally see the attraction. I want to vomit all over my phone.

  I won’t get over this. I know I won’t. There is no way in hell that I can stand by him every day, knowing he’s done this, knowing he’s been with this woman. It’s impossible for me to pretend nothing’s wrong. Even if he breaks it off with her, I’ll always wonder if he’s still with her, riding a horse, or climbing a mountain, or slapping her ass as he fucks her from behind. There’s no fucking way he’s getting away with this, with no repercussions, no consequences.