The Private Serials Box Set (2 page)

   “Please, Derrek, sit down. I made your favorite. Beef roast. Just sit.” I was begging my husband to have a meal with me.

   He sighed heavily, but set his briefcase on the ground near the entryway and sat down at the head of the table. I smiled to myself because this was the first hurdle, and we’d already jumped it and landed on the other side unscathed. I walked to his chair, hoping to catch his eyes admiring me in the dress I bought to impress him.

   I was nearly thirty, never had children, and worked very hard to maintain my body. My dress was black, tight, and just a little short. I watched his eyes, hoping they’d roam over me, hoping that seeing him appreciate my form would spark some sort of fire within me.

   He never looked at me. He was focused on his plate.

   “Did you have a good day at work?” I asked innocently, like it was a question I asked him every evening.

   “I suppose. I was busy. Lots of meetings.”

   “Oh, well, hopefully you’ll be able to relax tonight.”

   I picked up the platter of roast and carried it to him, stood there as he picked up the fork and started serving himself. I took him in, looked over his profile. His hair looked a little messy, which was abnormal for him. He was usually put together, always immaculately pristine. His hard day of work must have stressed him out more than he let on. It looked as if he’d run his hands through his hair all day, undoing any styling he’d invested in this morning before he left the house.

   My eyes wandered still lower, along the thickness of his neck. The muscles that ran from his chin down to his shoulders flexed as his jaw clenched. He looked nervous, and I saw his pulse beating rapidly along his throat.

   “Are you feeling all right?” I asked, genuinely concerned.

   “I’m fine, Lena. Let’s just get on with this.” I was startled by his rudeness. He was often cold toward me, removed and stiff, but never rude.

   I was turning away from him, moving to grab the bowl of roasted potatoes, when my eye spotted something down inside the collar of his shirt. Before I could stop it, my finger involuntarily moved to his collar and pushed it aside gently and I saw more of what had caught my eye to begin with.

   “Did you hurt yourself?” I asked, and at the same time, he swatted my hand away from his neck.

   “No, I didn’t hurt myself. Lena, this is ridiculous. I have things to do.”

   My mind swirled with different thoughts and feelings as I tried to process everything that was happening. One thing became abundantly clear in that moment: he was hiding something from me. What I had first spotted and assumed was a bruise along his collarbone, I realized, like a bucket of cold water dumped on me unexpectedly, was a hickey.

   He stood abruptly, the sound of the chair legs scraping against the travertine tile floors sending shivers down my spine, like nails on a chalkboard. I’d always hated those tile floors.

   “Where are you going?” I asked hurriedly, trying to catch him before he made it all the way out of the room. Although, I could guess where he was headed – his office. If he was home and awake, he was usually hiding in there. He knew I had no business being in there, and so that was how he escaped me.

   “Like I said, I have things to do.” He continued out of the room and I set the platter down, following him.

   “What could be more important than having a meal with your wife on your anniversary?” I shouted at him as I followed him through the house, my voice echoing off the walls. I heard him sigh loudly again, but he still walked away from me.

   “Lena, don’t do this.” He had entered his office and sat down at the big chair behind his desk.

   “Don’t do what? Make you dinner? Ask to spend time with you? Why can’t we
try
to be normal or maybe even happy, just for one night? We used to be happy, Derrek. We used to be in love and happy. I just wanted to try and get a little happiness back tonight.”

   He was silent for a moment, shuffling papers around on his desk, avoiding my eyes. He moved those papers around, stacking them on one corner of his desk, and then moved them to another corner. He tapped on his keyboard, stared at the screen of his computer like the answers to all the world’s problems could be found there. One thing he wouldn’t look at was me.

   “You can’t ignore me, Derrek. I’m your wife.”

   “I’m aware of that fact,” he mumbled, sounding angry.

   “What was that mark I saw under your shirt collar, Derrek?”

   “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

   “I think you do.”

   “Lena, please…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t understand what’s gotten into you.”

   “I spent all day trying to think of how I could surprise you for our anniversary, trying to think of ways to get back that spark we use to have between us, and you come home with a hickey under your shirt.”

   “You’re being ridiculous,” he said under his breath.

   “Am I?”

   “Yes.”

   “Then take off your shirt.”

   He paused, obviously not expecting me to say those words. I hadn’t asked him to take off any piece of clothing in months. Perhaps even over a year. I’d have to really think about it to come up with a solid answer.

   “Lena, please, let’s stop deluding ourselves,” he finally replied, finally lifted his eyes to look me straight in mine.

   “I don’t think I’m deluding myself. I know what I saw.”

   “Our marriage, the part of our relationship where we have meals together or spend time alone together, is over. It’s been over for a long time now. You know it. I know it. I’m content with the way things are now.”

   “What do you mean, ‘it’s over’?” I gasped.

   “We haven’t behaved like a married couple for years now, Lena. Out in the public eye, we continue to hold up the image of our marriage, but here – in this house – our marriage fell apart long ago.”

   I agreed with him, knew what he was saying to be true, but I didn’t think it was a lost cause, didn’t think it was doomed. He sounded like it was dead and gone. I just felt like it needed some work – could be resuscitated.

   “So let’s fix it,” I cried.

   “We can’t. It’s too late.”

   “So, what? You want a divorce? You’re going to leave me?” The image of that hickey flashed into my mind. “You’re having an affair?”

   “I am
not
having an affair.” His voice was cold and stone-like. His affirmation was almost like a gust of chilling wind; it hit me hard and made me shiver. “I am, however, going back to the office. It’s abundantly clear I won’t be able to get any work done here tonight.”

   I watched as he stood again and walked right past me, walking back toward the dining room. He retrieved his briefcase and walked toward the front door. When I heard it open and then subsequently slam shut, I felt the loud sounds vibrate through me, and felt a little crack form in the façade I’d been wearing for what seemed like forever. It seemed as if, in one thirty minute window, we’d moved from pretending our marriage was fine to acknowledging its failure, but I was still left wallowing in confusion.

   I walked slowly to the dining room, mindlessly clearing the table, just going through the motions while my mind reeled.

   What were we to do? Just continue on this path of sharing a house but sharing nothing besides? My hands dipped in and out of the warm, soapy water, washing the dishes, rinsing them, and then setting them on the rack to dry. We had a dishwasher, but washing them by hand calmed me.

   I didn’t want a marriage of convenience, but from his words, it seemed like Derrek had thrown in the towel and wanted nothing to do with me. Well, aside from a companion to accompany him to work functions and parties. He wanted to hold up the appearance of our marriage, but drop the charade at the door.

   I saw a tear drop into the dishwater. Not realizing I was crying, the tear caught me off guard. Once I saw the first one fall, however, the rest were not far behind.

   This was not where I wanted to be, wasn’t how I envisioned my life to be at twenty-nine. When I married Derrek, I was sure we’d be happy forever. Sure, I suspected we’d have difficult times, trying times, but I thought we’d work together to get past them. I never would have imagined that one day Derrek would tell me our marriage was over, that the real part – the loving part – had been lost.

   Then there was the hickey he denied.

   Of everything that happened, the hickey was the least of my worries. Well, it would have been if he’d owned up to it. We couldn’t work past a problem if he didn’t admit to it, and I would gladly, at this point, look past any transgressions on his part if he’d just agree to be my husband again.

   I cried because he didn’t want me and I cried because I still wanted him. I wanted my marriage. I wanted the future I’d signed up for so many years ago, and I didn’t think it was fair that someone else could make those decisions for me. Didn’t I get a say in how our future played out?

   My hand slammed down on the counter, suds spraying out around my wet hand.

   “Shit,” I cried through a whisper. Perhaps I shouldn’t have ambushed him with this dinner. Perhaps I should have approached him on a different night, some other time when the pressure wasn’t so high. I should have let our anniversary pass by and tried to talk to him when he was more relaxed and not so obviously stressed. All those thoughts just made me cry harder. I never wanted to have to walk on eggshells around my husband. I also cried harder because I could remember a time when I didn’t have to, when I could go to him with any problem I was having or any emotion I was feeling.

   Once the dishes were clean and the dining room was put back in order, I ambled up the stairs and readied myself for bed, not expecting to see Derrek for the rest of the evening. And I was right. He never came home that night.

Chapter Three

   I woke to the sound of my phone buzzing against the wood of my bedside table. I hadn’t set an alarm and wasn’t expecting to be woken up, so I startled a bit. The buzzing stopped, and before I could reach over to see what had caused it, I must have fallen asleep again because I was awoken by the buzzing a second time. This time, however, the damage was done and I was awake.  A groan escaped me as I rolled over to see who was trying to contact me. I pressed the button on the phone to light up the screen and saw two text messages from Samantha.

**Hey, woman. How did the surprise anniversary dinner go?**

**You’re either still asleep because you’re exhausted from all the sex you and your husband had last night, or because you cried yourself to sleep. Either way, we need to talk. Text me back.**

   I sighed at her intuitive mind. Couldn’t I have just been asleep because I was sleeping? Maybe I went for a run last night and was exhausted from that. I wasn’t really surprised that she’d clued in to what had really happened, but I was more upset that now I was probably going to have to talk to her about it.  Talking about it to someone else made it real. I wasn’t trying to delude myself into thinking I had a perfect marriage, but admitting to my best friend that last night had put some sort of nail in my marriage coffin would be the most real and heartbreaking conversation I might ever have. It occurred to me I would have this real and heartbreaking conversation with my best friend and not my husband, and that, perhaps, was the most depressing and telling thought of all.

   I pressed the buttons on my phone to send a message back to her.

**Same time, same place?**

 It only took a few seconds for her to respond.

**See you there.**

   Years ago, Samantha and I had found a tiny little coffee shop equidistant between our houses, and we’d started meeting there for coffee weekly, or whenever one of us called upon the other. It was nice, all those years, to have something steady and reliable to hang on to – something to look forward to. Sometimes, we didn’t have anything new or exciting to talk about and we just reminisced, laughing about things that happened in college or since. Other times, I held her hand as she told me about her break-ups, or we listened to each other’s work problems, trying to ease the anxiety of navigating the working world as young and independent women.

   I met Samantha when we’d been assigned as dorm roommates our freshman year of college. She and I couldn’t have been any more different. She was outgoing, brave, and brought energy with her wherever she went. Her vitality was contagious, and as soon as we met, I felt the fever she carried with her for life. I had spent my entire life protected from the adventurous spirit she exuded, and when I got a taste of it, I grabbed ahold of her and never let her get away. She taught me how to let go, how to feel free even if I really wasn’t. When I was with her, I could sometimes pretend I didn’t have my father to answer to, or a life waiting for me that I wasn’t sure I wanted to live.

   When I was twenty-four, my father passed away suddenly, and even though I was internally conflicted over my feelings toward his death, she was there for me every step of the way. I didn’t have to explain to her that I was devastated my father was dead, but relieved that I no longer had to worry about living up to his standards for me. His death saddened and freed me all in the same moment. She knew it, understood, and never judged me. Not once.

   Samantha had spent many hours listening to me talk about my marriage. She knew everything about it – the good and the bad. She also had very strong feelings about it.

   She hated Derrek.

   It hadn’t always been that way; he hadn’t always been the spawn of Satan in her eyes. All through college, Derrek and Sam got along really well. We spent countless Saturday nights at his frat house and the two of them never had one argument. She was my maid of honor in our wedding. She was so happy for us – so supportive. However, when the marriage began to change, began to fall into the dark place it seemed to reside in now, she always questioned why I stayed with him.