Authors: Wendy Corsi Staub
Tears are meant to be shed in private.
He quickly shifts gears. “I’ve got another call,” he tells Peter. “Gotta go.”
“Okay. Good luck tonight.”
“Good luck? With what?”
“The last hurrah. I know it’s not easy to say good-bye, Ben. Even the second time.”
It’s time,
Carlos decides, holding the piece of jagged glass in his hand.
He has to do it now, before she comes back.
Three strikes and you’re out . . .
God only knows what fresh hell she has in store for him next.
God.
Please forgive me, Jesus, for what I’m about to do.
He’s never been a particularly religious man. Raised Catholic, he stopped attending mass as soon as he left his mother’s house. But the Catholic doctrine is ingrained: all those years spent in CCD, and reading the Bible with his mother, and sitting in the pew on Sundays listening to Father Joseph’s rambling sermons . . .
Carlos knows right from wrong. He knows that taking a life—even your own—is a sin. He believes in heaven and in hell.
But surely when there are extenuating circumstances . . .
Surely, it’s better to die a relatively quick and painless death on your own terms than to suffer torturous death on somebody else’s.
Surely, it’s better to take your own life than somebody else’s.
Yes, he did consider the prospect of using the wedge of glass as a weapon against his captor.
But only briefly, before discarding the idea.
After all, he remembers what she said the day he tried to overpower her.
Even if he manages to incapacitate her, or kill her—where would that leave him?
Still chained to the wall, alone in the dark dungeon to either starve to death or die of thirst. She’s already given him an agonizing taste of what that would be like.
No, thank you.
He holds the glass in his right hand, allowing the tentative index finger of his left to identify the sharpest edge. He presses it into the padded flesh of his fingertip just to see what it’s like.
It doesn’t hurt.
He presses harder, then moves his hand, slicing his fingertip with the makeshift blade.
Now there’s pain, but nothing unbearable. This bodes well for what’s to come. He bears down and can feel blood from the cut, warm and sticky, running into his palm.
Okay. Not so bad. He’s ready. He can do this.
He moves the sharp edge to his left wrist and reflexively closes his eyes—not that it matters. There was only darkness before; now there’s simply more, the same unrelenting degree of darkness.
It’s a wonder he hasn’t lost his mind, living a pitch-black existence interrupted only by the nightmarish glare of a flashlight beam when she visits.
Even if she doesn’t kill him, she’s not going to let him go. He can’t bear the thought of another hour, another day, in the dark . . . let alone the remainder of a life that wasn’t all that great even before this happened to him.
He presses the sharp edge into his flesh, then hesitates.
Maybe he should pray first, for real this time. Just in case there’s hope for his soul. Just in case he’ll be borne away from this hell and into heavenly light.
“Forgive me, merciful Father, for I have sinned,” he whispers, tears squeezing from his closed eyelids as he digs the blade into his wrist, slicing into the vein.
This time, there is pain. Explosive pain, and blood, so much blood, running over his fingers . . .
He sinks back onto the filthy mattress and waits for the blackness to give way to the light at last.
Gaby was glad Ben suggested a new restaurant for tonight—someplace they’d never been together. Someplace she’s never been at all, actually.
The place is tucked away on a cobblestone street downtown in the meatpacking district, just a block from the southern tip of the Highline, a long, narrow park that runs alongside the Hudson River, built on an abandoned elevated rail line.
Back when they were married, she and Ben occasionally strolled down the Highline on a weekend afternoon and wound up having a late brunch—or early dinner—in this rambling neighborhood of cobblestones and converted warehouses; wine bars and construction awnings and camped out paparazzi.
If tonight he’d asked her to meet him at one of those restaurants—
their
restaurants—she’d have had to say no. Too many memories.
But apparently he wants to avoid them as well.
The restaurant occupies the ground floor of one of the industrial buildings that are so plentiful in this part of the city. The enormous open space has the requisite exposed brick, high ceilings, pillars, and windows that extend from the wide-planked floor to the beamed ceiling high overhead.
The hostess is a skinny, anemic-looking young woman with thick eyeliner, a pierced eyebrow, and long, straight hair parted in the middle. She’s wearing a pair of short shorts with clunky mid-calf snow boots—obviously, the height of fashion.
“I’m meeting—”
“Name?”
“Gabriela Duran—wait, you mean my name, or his?”
All but sighing, Short-shorts asks, as if addressing a toddler—or an idiot, “Who made the reservation?”
“He did. Ben Duran.” Ordinarily, Gaby wouldn’t be the least bit intimidated by a hipster hostess with an attitude, but she’s feeling vulnerable tonight on every level.
“Not here yet. Do you want to be seated or wait for him?”
“I’ll wait.” Then, on second thought. “No, I’ll sit.”
“Are you
sure
, Mrs. Duran?” she asks with exaggerated patience.
“I’m
not
Mrs. Duran. And yes. I’ll sit.”
The expressionless girl shrugs, grabs a couple of menus, and leads her through the crowded room to a cozy table by the window. She tosses the menus down and leaves without a word.
Gaby settles into one of the empty chairs and self-consciously wishes she’d chosen the other one. That way she’d have her back to the adjacent table for two, where a man is also facing an empty seat.
He gives a little wave. She waves back before realizing that he’s actually looking at someone behind her. His date must have arrived, and by the look on his face, he’s thrilled to see her.
Wait—not his date. It must be his wife. The woman is tremendously pregnant. He jumps up to greet her with a kiss and pulls out the empty chair for her. Gold wedding bands glint on both their hands. Their happiness radiates.
A lump forms in Gaby’s throat. She and Ben were once like that.
Now Ben is looking for happiness with another woman, and . . .
Well, to be fair, she’s looking for the same thing with another man, isn’t she?
She might even have found it. The potential for it, anyway. Ryan texted her again late this afternoon, wanting to make plans for the weekend. She agreed to see a movie with him on Saturday night. By then she’ll have the closure she needs and be back in the right frame of mind, ready again to move on in a new relationship.
“Hey, sorry I’m late.”
Ben at last. He’s wearing a suit, straight from the office, carrying the black leather bag she gave him that last Christmas . . .
Not their last Christmas together, though. How well she remembers the unbearable holiday season that kicked off just days after Josh’s funeral. And then there was another Christmas after that, one more joyless Christmas, before they separated.
But the last Christmas that really
felt
like Christmas was when she was pregnant. She merrily braved the hordes of holiday shoppers, unbothered by her enormous belly and bulky winter coat, searching for just the right bag to replace the worn canvas satchel Ben had been carrying to work.
So he’s still using the leather bag. There’s a part of her that’s surprised to see it.
Then again, why wouldn’t he use it? It’s not a particularly sentimental gift, hardly on the same level as the ruby earrings he gave her that same Christmas. She wouldn’t dream of wearing them now; they’re tucked away in her jewelry box along with her wedding and engagement rings. She isn’t quite sure what she’s supposed to do with them. Keep them? Sell them? Give them away?
“I tried to get a cab,” Ben tells her, putting his suit coat over the back of the chair and sitting across from her, “but you know—rush hour. Midtown. So then I took the subway, but . . . of course there was a delay. Stalled train ahead, or something like that. You look good.”
He tacks that last part on as if it’s part of the metro traffic report, and it takes a moment for her to react.
Glad she happened to wear one of her new dresses to work this morning—and glad she stopped in the ladies’ room to put on mascara and lipstick—she says, “Oh—thank you. So do you.”
“You’re saying that because I shaved. Yet another reason I was late.”
“You shaved for me?”
He nods. “In the men’s room at the office. I haven’t done that since . . . well, it’s been a long time.”
“You didn’t have to do it on my account.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind about razor stubble?”
She shakes her head, smiling faintly. “Still not a fan.”
The waiter appears to pour water into their glasses and asks if they’d like to order wine.
Ben orders a bottle of Argentine red without consulting her, then belatedly, as the waiter leaves again, asks Gaby, “That’s okay, right? The Malbec?”
“It’s fine. I love Malbec.”
“I know. I remember. Hates stubble, loves Malbec.”
“That’s me.” She sips her water and notices that he’s not wearing a watch.
He always used to wear the Movado she gave him for his birthday the year they were married. It was a beautiful watch, and expensive. Not Rolex-expensive, but still . . .
Did he lose it? Sell it? Put it away, as she did the jewelry he gave her? Why hasn’t he replaced it with a different watch now? She wants to ask him, but of course she doesn’t.
She looks away from his wrist and notices that the couple at the next table are sharing a bottle of Pellegrino and appetizers. They’re talking, laughing, probably planning for all the things they’ll do when the baby comes.
Are they speculating about whether it’s a boy or girl, or do they already know the sex?
When Gaby was pregnant, she and Ben had opted to be surprised. He’d guessed boy, she’d guessed girl. She’d secretly thought she might be disappointed if she was wrong, but she wasn’t. The moment she held their son in her arms, she felt an overwhelming rush of—
“Gaby?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re staring at those people.”
“Oh, I—sorry.” She shrugs. “I just . . . I thought I knew them, but . . . I don’t. So how’s work?”
He pauses, but only for a second, then goes with her conversational shifting of gears. He tells her about the building he’s designing and an upcoming conference he’s attending. Then he asks about her job, and whether she’s acquired anything interesting for her list.
“Nothing that you’d—oh, wait, remember that book I took a chance on last year? The one Ellen hated?”
“The one about the silent film star and the nun?”
“That’s the one.” She hesitates, surprised he remembers. She only told him about it back then to make conversation during a stilted dinner out one night when they were supposed to be working on their marriage.
“Did it get published yet?”
“Not only did it get published, but it hit the
New York Times
list last week.”
“That’s fantastic!”
The waiter shows up with their wine, and Ben lifts a glass to her. “Here’s to you and your best seller.”
“And to you and your building.”
Clink.
Drink.
Silence.
Ben clears his throat. “I’m really happy things are going well for you. And you’re so—I mean, you look amazing.”
“Oh, that’s just the wine talking,” she quips, and he smiles.
Then, serious again, he clears his throat. “I guess you’re seeing someone?”
Ryan. Right. She nods.
“Did you meet him online?”
She wishes he hadn’t asked that, wishes she didn’t have to answer. Then, realizing she’s free not to, she asks, “Can we talk about something else?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Are
you
seeing someone?”
“Not that,” he says, without missing a beat, and tilts his head at her, wearing a faint smile. “What else can we talk about? We’ve covered work. And books . . .”
“Not all books.”
“Enough books for my taste.”
“Sports?”
“No!” He holds up a hand like a traffic cop. “If you know what’s happening in the game, don’t tell me. I’m recording it at home.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “You still do that?”
“Yeah, and sometimes I make it all the way home without someone ruining it for me.”
“Trust me, I have no clue what’s going on in the game.”
“Trust me—I believe you.”
“Hey! I follow the Yankees.”
“Since when?”
“Since—I always followed them. Just not as rabidly as you.”
“How about your new boyfriend? Is he—”
“We’re not talking about him.”
“Oh, right.” Ben sips some wine.
“And he’s not my new boyfriend.”
“Okay.”
“He’s”—she holds back the word
just
—“someone I’ve been seeing. I’m sure you’ve been seeing people, too.”
Ben shrugs.
Does that mean that he is? Or that he isn’t?
Of course he is. He’s on InTune, remember?
But they’re not talking about that, and they’re not talking about Ryan. They chat on about other things. She asks about his brother and sister-in-law and nieces; he asks about Jaz and several other cousins. They order food, discuss movies and music, and then the appetizers arrive and the waiter pours more wine, and Gaby forgets that she was ever uncomfortable; somehow forgets that they’re not still married, until . . .
The couple at the next table catches her eye again as they stand up to go. The husband is solicitous of his hugely pregnant wife as she uses both hands on the tabletop to hoist herself out of the chair. They laugh together as they walk away, the husband’s arm around her.