One Week

by Roya Carmen

  I realize this is it. This is the last time I’ll ever see his lovely face, ever hear his soft voice, ever get to touch him, and smell him, and taste his lips. This is the end.

  “This is it, I guess,” he says. He doesn’t sound like himself. His voice is too monotone, it has lost all its music and liveliness.

  “I guess,” I say, wanting to cry and struggling not to. “I noticed that you blocked all my accounts last night.”

  He shrugs and stares at his feet. “I’m sorry about that… I was angry.” After a beat, “But it’s the way it needs to stay, doesn’t it? Zero contact?”

  God, I don’t think I can do this. I know I can’t do it like this — without tears, pretending that we’re both fine, and that everything will be okay.

  I finally give up and let go.

  I let the tears fall, and I nod. “Yes, it’s the way it needs to be. I promised John.”

  Eli takes me into his arms, and I press my tear stroked face against his chest and hold on for dear life. I don’t want to let go.

  “This way… you don’t need to say goodbye,” he says. “I’ve already done it for you.”

  I cry harder. “This hurts.”

  “I know,” he says.

  “It hurts so much.” I press myself harder against him, as if I could somehow disappear into him, become part of him.

  “What did you write?” he asks. “On that piece of paper, yesterday.”

  The messages were meant to remain secret, but we both know we’ll never speak again.

  I pull away, wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater, and look up at him. “I wrote, ‘In a perfect world, I’d never have to say goodbye to Eli.’”

  He smiles.

  God, I’m going to miss that smile.

  “What did you write?” I ask.

  “Be happy, my beautiful Gabriella,” he says.

  I rest my head against him one last time.

  “I mean it, Gabriella,” he says, his words not quite broken but cracked a bit. “I want you to be happy. I want you to go back to your beautiful family, and love your life. I don’t want you to forget me completely, but I do want you to forget me a little. Think of this week as just a fabulous week, the kind of week most people never experience, and think of our friendship as something that was just what you needed when you were going through a hard time. Think of us as an amazing chapter in your life, but now you need to turn the page on us.”

  My heart sinks. “I don’t want to turn the page on us.”

  “It’s what you promised,” he reminds me. “Do it for your family.”

  He’s right. I know he is. I need to get myself together. This is over. The sooner I face that, the better. I pull away, even though every cell in my body wants to cling to him. “You’re right,” I say. “Everything you said… we were perfect together, and I’ll always remember you, but we both need to move on. I want you to be happy too, Eli. If anyone deserves happiness, it’s you. I know you’ll fall in love again.”

  He shoots me a sweet smirk. “If I ever get out of the studio.”

  I laugh. “Yes, you need to get out of the studio.”

  “Promise me you’ll never stop painting,” he says.

  “I promise. You too.”

  He smiles. “I promise.”

  “I’ll probably stalk you,” I admit. “I’ll see all your beautiful paintings. All of them.”

  He laughs. “Me too. I’ll probably stalk you too, until the day I die.”

  I bite my lip. “Bye, Eli.”

  “Bye, Gabriella.”

  My gaze clings to his as I walk away. His expression breaks me — he looks so wrecked. I can’t let him go as the distance grows between us.

  I bump into a small elderly woman. I apologize profusely, and turn to see Eli laughing at me. This little adventure has come full circle, and it ends just like it started, with me almost knocking over a little old lady.

  I wave goodbye, and I don’t look back. I want to remember him just like that. I want to remember his smiling eyes, his beautiful face, and most of all, his laugh.

  Part Four

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  THE FLIGHT BACK HOME IS LONG. I can’t focus long enough to read a book or watch a movie on my tablet. I don’t eat a thing. I doze off once or twice, and I rearrange the photos on my phone in folders. There’s a young mother and baby boy sitting next to me, but thankfully he’s an angel. Big brown eyes study me curiously, and I shoot him a few smiles. He usually grins in return. He is precious, and reminds me of Emma when she was this age. That seems like an eternity ago now.

  My mind is full of Eli. I just can’t wrap my head around the fact that we’ll never see each other again, never speak to each other again. I play my ‘sad love songs’ mix on my phone — Adele’s heartbreaking voice brings me back there, to Copenhagen. I remember our time together, but not the big things, not the boat tour or the walks in town, not Nyhavn… none of that. I only remember the small moments; him painting my toe nails, stealing potato wedges, teaching me how to ride his scooter, cooking together, playing Scrabble, kissing up high in the sky at Tivoli Gardens, watching movies, and cuddling with Floyd on his big comfy bed. I also remember the things that make my heart ache the most; the feel of his mouth on my skin and his arms around me, his soft words in my ear, and those amazing eyes.

  When we finally land, I’m completely spent. I follow the crowd to baggage claim. I wait patiently and watch people scramble to get their bags. I’m tired but I’m in no hurry. I still feel numb.

  I catch a glimpse of Emma and Theo, and my heart skips — I’ve missed them so much. They run in my direction, huge smiles all around. I bend to take them in my arms. I hold them tightly and never want to let them go. As great as my week was, nothing beats this — nothing beats being with my kids. My eyes fill with tears as I realize how much they’ve missed me. I’ve been so selfish, I now realize. “I’m never leaving you again.”

  “Did you have fun?” Emma asks. “Do you have lots of pictures?”

  “Did you bring us souvenirs and treats?” Theo is quick to ask.

  John laughs. “Theo, that’s a bit rude.”

  I pinch Theo’s sweet little cheeks. “Let me look at you.” He looks more and more like his father every day.

  John plants a soft kiss on my cheek. “Welcome back.”

  He grabs my suitcase and before long, we’re on our way to our car. The kids are curious and want to know everything.

  When we get home, we order some Chinese take-out, and I tell them all about my trip — not everything about my trip, obviously. I leave out all the small moments, the special moments. I pretty much leave Eli out of it — it’s like he was never even there. The kids are still young, and not the age to ask, so what about that friend you were with? What’s his deal? Thank god I don’t have teenagers on my hands.

  I tell them about the beautiful colors of Nyhavn, Tivoli Gardens, the Little Mermaid, Christiania, Paper Island, the stunning architecture, and the food. I also go on about all the cool bistros, and the shopping. I show them photos from a special folder I’ve put together — basically I’ve removed all photos of Eli — they don’t need to see him, and neither does John. I know John and I are never going to speak about this trip again. We’ll pretend it never happened. And the kids will vaguely remember the time when Mommy went on a trip all by herself to Denmark to take some pictures she could use as inspiration for her paintings.

  The kids are ecstatic when I dig out their treats; chocolate frogs, bags of chips, refrigerator magnets, keychains, and a Little Mermaid for Emma, identical to the one Eli gave me but smaller. I also give Emma the colorful purse. For Theo, I have the toy car and the old watch I bought in Christiania. John gets the flask and a small Daim chocolate bar.

  I save the best for last. They go kind of crazy when I pull out the giant Daim bar. “Sorry, the wrapping’s a little ruined… I got caught in the rain.”

  “That doesn’t seem very fair,” John jokes. “They get the
big one, and I get this tiny one.”

  I reach for the chocolate bar, and swipe it out of his hand. “Well, if you don’t want it, I’ll have it.”

  He laughs as he fights me for it. It’s a bit of a struggle, but he gets it back. Then, he surprises me with another kiss on the cheek.

  I sleep in the guest room. I tell John I’m exhausted, and want a good night’s sleep.

  Corrie is actually early today, arrived here even before I did — I’m typically the first one here. “Dish, girl,” she quips. I bet it’s because she’s itching to get all the juicy details about my trip. In her defense, I haven’t given her much via text.

  I can’t help but smile. They’re all sitting around me, eagerly anticipating my words. I tell them about everything, show them all my pictures. They don’t seem to care about the gorgeous buildings and boats of Nyhavn, or the twinkling lights of Tivoli Gardens. They drool over photos of Eli, and awe over photos of Floyd. Their mouths water over the food selfies I took every night at dinner. When I tell them that Eli cooked all those delicious looking meals, Corrie trills, “That’s it. You need to move over there with him,” she says. “Bring the kids. John? John who?”

  The girls laugh but I don’t think it’s funny at all. I’m putting on a brave face, but they have no idea how hard this is for me. The pictures don’t convey how close Eli and I got. We got under each other’s skin, and that doesn’t just go away. So as much as I tell them the sex was great, they’ll never understand that it was so much more.

  “So about the sex,” Kayla says with a smirk. “Can you elaborate a bit more?”

  I laugh. “God, I want to so badly, Kayla, but I don’t think it would be fair to Eli.”

  “Oh, c’mon,” Corrie breaks in. “He won’t know. He’s all the way in Denmark. You’ll never see him again. Don’t leave us hanging, girl.”

  I smirk. “Sorry… I can’t.”

  Maeve chimes in. “Let it go,” she says to Corrie. “I think it’s disrespectful to Eli to talk about it.”

  Corrie rolls her eyes. “Yes, Mother Teresa.”

  “Just tell us this,” Kayla asks. “Was it romantic, or dirty?”

  I shake my head — they just won’t let this go. A playful smile traces my lips and I feel myself blush. “Both.”

  “Was he kinky?” Corrie asks. “I love kinky men.”

  I smile. “Well, that’s nice to know, Corrie, but… I’m not saying anymore.”

  “Okay, last question,” she says. “How many times?”

  I smile wide. “I… I don’t know. I lost count.”

  They all cheer and hoot, even Maeve. The customers sitting next to us shift their heads, and I turn crimson.

  The first week back home is fine. It doesn’t hit me straight away.

  This is the end of a chapter, as Eli said, and I’ve turned the page. It wouldn’t be fair to John and the kids to dwell on the past, to dwell on Eli and not give them my full attention. I’m busy with the usual routine and catching up with laundry and cleaning. The refrigerator is almost bare, and I replenish it. I bake muffins and make bread. I try not to think about Eli, but he creeps up in my brain at the oddest times. I tell myself that if I keep busy, I won’t think about him too much.

  I can’t hang the elephant painting in my studio — it hurts too much. Nor can I put the paperweight or the little mermaid on my desk, as I’d planned. I hide the painting in the storage closet in my loft, and I store the mermaid and paperweight in a box, and keep it next to the painting. They’ll always be there… memories that I can’t handle. Perhaps one day, I’ll be able to look at them again, and not hurt.

  I copy all the trip photos onto a USB storage key, and store it safely in a box on my bookshelf. There’s always the cloud too — they’ll live there forever. It hurts when I erase all the photos from my phone, but I know that if I don’t do it, I’ll be too tempted to look at them, and I’ll never move on, never forget him.

  “Tonight, it’s just the two of us,” John says. He raises his glass of wine. “To us.”

  “To us,” I echo, raising my glass to his.

  We’re tucked in a cozy corner of our favorite restaurant. It’s a Tuesday night and very quiet. A fire burns in the corner — it’s electric, but still a nice touch. The decor is modern, tasteful and soothing; crisp linens and neutral colors. It’s so quiet here, and it’s so unlike home, where toys, socks, and books litter the floors, where there’s always too much clutter, no matter how often I attempt to purge and organize.

  I dig an artisan cracker into the melted brie between us. “It’s nice to have a quiet night, once in a while,” I say, “and it’s nice to not have to cook.”

  He smiles. “We should do this more often.”

  “Yes,” I agree.

  Conversation has been stilted ever since the trip, but he seems to be trying. It’s completely understandable. How is a man supposed to deal with something like this? His wife goes off for a week, and he knows she’s been with a man she cares about. And she’s probably still thinking about him.

  “I’m moving on,” I tell him. “I’m focusing on us and our family.”

  “Me too,” he says.

  “I really want this to work,” I go on. “Eli is the past. You’re the future.” I think this might be the first time that I’ve uttered Eli’s name since I came back. I just want John to know that I’m trying too. He’s not alone in this.

  He smiles. “Thank you.” He gazes down at his plate and goes quiet. I’m not sure if he’s hurt or just plain sad, but the joy I used to see in his eyes long ago, is gone.

  Our entrées arrive; filet mignon, potatoes and salad for him, and scallops and pasta for me. We dig into our meals without a word. It tastes as delicious as I remember — this is one of my favorite meals here. I tend to always order the same thing. There’s something to be said about familiarity, about knowing what’s ahead. There’s a comfort in that.

  We indulge in dessert and coffee, and take a long walk downtown because the night is gorgeous. All in all, it’s a wonderful date.

  When we get home, the kids are fast asleep. John quickly pays Anna. She thanks us, and is out the door in a flash.

  John shoots me that look. That look that tells me he wants me. We’ve been together so long, we communicate with looks only. I know his ‘I’m mildly irked’ look, his ‘I’m right’ look, his ‘I’m exhausted’ look, and his “I don’t want to talk’ look, and so many others. And I definitely know his ‘I want you’ look.

  We’ve been sleeping in the same bed again for a week now, but we haven’t made love. We haven’t actually had sex since before Valentine’s Day, since a few days before I found out about Amanda. I try not think about her now. She’s gone. I try not to think about Eli either. He’s gone too.

  Chapter Forty

  I REACH FOR JOHN’S HAND. He still sends shivers through me, with just a touch, with just a look. I want him. He’s not always the easiest man to be with, but I’ve always been strongly attracted to him. And despite what he’s done to me, and what I’ve done to him, that hasn’t changed.

  He leads me up the stairs, and I follow eagerly. We haven’t even taken off our jackets or shoes. I’ve dropped my purse on the floor, and locked the front door.

  We quickly check in on the kids. They’re both so adorable when they’re asleep. As soon as we step into our bedroom, John closes the door quietly behind us. He pushes me against the door, and presses his hot mouth against mine. It feels nice to kiss him, familiar. He tastes like coffee and the crème brûlée we shared.

  I’m turned on, and I want him. I miss his touch. I slide my hands over his strong shoulders, and slide off his jacket. He mimics my actions, and my spring jacket falls to the floor. I reach for my shoes, but he stops me. He slides his hand under the skirt of my dress, and trails a finger along the lace edge of my thigh-high stocking. “Leave the shoes on.”

  I reach for his button shirt and undo it slowly, all the while staring right into his striking eyes. John h
as amazing eyes too. Eli’s are a unique shade of blue and green, whereas John’s are a stunning bright blue. They sparkle like the Mediterranean Sea.

  He leans down and presses his mouth against my collarbone. He licks softly. “I’ve missed you,” he breathes into my skin. I think about Amanda then. I don’t know why I’m letting her in. I wonder if he’s kissed her exactly like this. I blink her away.

  I close my eyes and try to enjoy his touch. It feels foreign. I suppose it’s been so long. How strange that my husband’s touch should feel so odd. He claws at my hips and swiftly spins me around. My face is pressed against the door. He pulls my hair over my shoulders and kisses the back of my neck, just like I like it. I wonder if he’s ever kissed her nape too, hoping she’d like it as much as I do.

  Stop it.

  When his hands reach under the skirt of my dress and toy with the lace of my panties, I feel desire for him. I want him. I don’t care about the past. Now is all that matters.

  I pull from him. “Let’s go on the bed,” I whisper.

  I kneel on the bed, still completely dressed. This is how I want it. I don’t want to make love — I want to fuck. “Take off my panties.”

  He inches closer, and pulls me against his groin. I can feel his hard-on, and I love it. He digs into my dress and obliges. “God, you’re so fucking sexy, Gabbie,” he says quietly. The slow pull of the flimsy fabric against my sex makes me wet. He loves to take his time — always has. He pulls the panties slowly over my stiletto pumps, one at a time. I bury my face on the bed, and arch my back. I’m his tonight and no one else’s. He slides a finger along my sex, teasing me. I close my eyes, think about Eli, and imagine him there behind me. I open my eyes and try to forget him. He doesn’t belong here.