Chapter 21
Now
I wake next to Michael as he sleeps peacefully beside me, and I carefully slide off the bed, dress, and tiptoe out of the room.
We fell fast asleep after the lovemaking, and I regretted what happened last night.
Why did I let myself fall into his trap?
The sun is coming up, and I glance around his living room.
This place does not look like someone who moved in a week ago.
His place is furnished, thoroughly lived-in, and fully decorated with pictures of Monica…and me.
I walk over and pick up a framed picture of me strolling on the beach of Lake Michigan.
Monica took this of me last summer.
I looked down and watched the waves move in and cover my feet.
I felt so at peace that day.
Monica and I spent the day together, planning her future wedding, and I was proud that she would never know about the wedding I had. I wore a string bikini top and a white lace cover-up wrapped low on my hips. My skin was freshly sunkissed, and the sun shone on my face, with just the side of my profile showing behind a straw beach hat.
“That’s my favorite.”
I turn around and find Michael standing in the doorway of his bedroom.
“What were you thinking when that picture was taken?”
I don’t answer.
“Where were you going?”
I set the picture down and look for my purse.
“I need my phone.
I need to go, Michael.”
“Monica said you weren’t working today.
Why do you need to go?”
“Because, Michael.
Last night never should have happened.
Why do you have all these pictures of Monica and me, and where did you get them?”
“Monica’s Facebook.
She permitted me.”
“When?”
“When I asked.”
I can see I’m not getting anywhere, so I turn to leave.
“Did I leave my purse in your car?”
“Yes.
But I went out and brought it in.
It’s in the kitchen.”
“When did you do that?”
“Last night, as I watched you sleep.”
“How…never mind,”
I say, looking for my purse in the kitchen.
I find another picture of Monica and me together on our vacation to Hilton Head.
She was still in high school.
I look back at him, pointing at the picture.
“This one’s old.”
“Yes, but it was still on her Facebook.”
I spot my purse and dig for my phone.
I can’t call Tammy.
I’m sure she’s not feeling well.
Not Monica.
I don’t want her to know about this. I decide on an Uber and open the app only to find my phone is dead. Dammit! “You have a charger?”
“Yes.
You can use my phone if you need to make a call.”
“Could you call me an Uber?”
“Jill, please don’t go.
Spend the morning with me.
I’ll make you breakfast.
We’ll talk, and then I’ll take you home…if you still want to go.”
Why’s he so…melodramatic, looking at me with those…eyes?
“Michael, I don’t want breakfast.
I don’t want to stay here.
I want to go home to my house—now.
As far as talking, this never happened.
Monica is not to know about this. It will never happen again, and it shouldn’t have happened last night.”
I don’t believe this.
After all these years, how did this happen? “I should have never agreed for you to come and walk Monica down the aisle.
It was stupid, and I’m ready to wipe this whole thing from my life.”
As I keep talking, he keeps walking closer with that desperate look in his eyes.
The look I didn’t recognize at the wedding.
“What are you doing, Michael? I said I was ready to go home.
Call me an Uber, or I’m going to start walking,”
I say and notice the picture above his fireplace, now with the sun shining through the window.
It’s a large canvas of him and me—the one with him kissing me on the forehead from the wedding shots.
“What’s that doing there?”
He turns.
“Isn’t it beautiful?”
“It’s weird, Michael.
That’s what it is.
What are you? Obsessed?”
“Yes.
I’m obsessed with you.”
He says with no regard.
No hesitation.
“Not psychotically obsessed.
More like…I love you, obsessed.
I’m still legally sane.”
“No, you’re not.
You’re crazy.
You are crazy if you think I’m falling for this.
I think it wasn’t enough for you to have ripped me open, torn out my heart, filled me with fallacies of a family, and then took off.
Oh, no. Somehow, you found out that I got over you. We became just fine, so you’re here to finish the job.”
“Good.
We’re talking.
I’ll put some coffee on.”
He smiles, pulls the blinds up over the kitchen sink window, and makes coffee.
“Wow! Look at the gorgeous sun out there.
Let’s not waste it and spend the day at the lake.”
“Don’t you have a job or something to get to? A woman? A…life?”
“No.
Just want to be here with you.”
“Oh, now I get it.
It’s all starting to make sense.”
He looks at me, smiles, and quirks his brows.
“What is?”
“What’s going on? You don’t have a job.
You think you can sleep with me because I’m a sure thing, park your dick at my house until you’re back on your feet and some piece of ass comes around.
And then zip, you’re gone.”
“Ouch.
That bad, huh?”
He sets out two cups.
“But you’re wrong.”
He opens a drawer, pulls out a magazine, Forbes, and thumbs through.
“That’s my company.
I can run it from here,”
he says, handing me the magazine.
Danforth Jet Center.
Lead by pilots for pilots.
The company is a supplier for Boeing, providing pilot service between Seattle and Gary.
The company is rated as a Fortune 500 company, with Michael Danforth as its owner and CEO.
“Well, you finally capitalized upon the mile-high club. I’m not surprised.”
He hands me a cup of coffee.
“I deserve that.
Let’s sit outside in the sunshine while you chastise me more.”
“Dammit, Michael, I’m serious.”
“So am I.
I’m sure you have a lot to say.
And I need to hear it.”
I follow him outside to a patio, where he pulls a chair for me.
“For you.”
“I need to stand.”
“Okay, I’ll sit,”
he says and takes the seat.
“Spill it.
Because I need to hear, and you need to get it out so we can go on.”
Why’s he so agreeable? It’s taking all the pleasure out of it.
“Okay.
Let’s talk about our wedding night.”
I’ve struck home.
His eyes glaze with sadness, and his chest slightly chokes.
He’s about to cry.
“Yes,”
he whispers.
“I will always hate myself for that night especially.
I’ve done a lot of wicked things to you, Jill.
But that…”
He can’t finish and covers his mouth with his fist.
“I was just a little girl.
Younger than Monica.”
He chokes.
“I can’t imagine having something like that happen to her.
You were my husband.
You were supposed to protect me.
Take care of me. Love me. But you didn’t. You….”
I don’t finish.
His heavy sobs say it all.
“You had your career.
You made it, and I was there taking care of you.
I never complained about wanting more out of life.
I just wanted you to love me. Love us.”
“I know,”
he whispers.
“I never got to experience those things and finish my adolescence.
Yes, I became pregnant, and I had to become responsible and grow up overnight.
You had your time.
Yet, I was the one who suffered.”
“I know.”
His eyes never sway from me as he takes my verbal lashing.
I’m shaking, and my words are full of rage and sadness.
I don’t know if it’s helping or hurting me.
But now is my time to get closure.
“All I wanted was to make you happy, and I thought that would win me your love.
My God, Michael.
For you to think that you were the miserable one.
After all, my efforts were pointless, and I never gave up.
Not once, Michael, did I ever give up. Who left, Michael?”
“I did.
I did, and I’m so sorry for the life I gave you and Monica.
I know I can say it until I’m blue, but I will never stop saying it.”
I turn away.
I can’t look at Michael’s sorrow and don’t know why.
I should be enjoying this.
Finally, I get to say it to his face and not my therapist, who I stopped seeing years ago.
At this rate, I’ll see her again if I don’t get away from him.
He wraps me in his arms from behind and cries in my hair.
He’s trembling—it’s pitiable.
He’s taking this to heart.
Maybe it’s his age—losing time and testosterone.
“Please forgive me, Jill. Please let me know if I can have another chance. Please tell me we can start again. I promise you everything. My love. The moon. The Stars. Our happy ever after.”
We’re both crying.
My insides ache.
Buried hurt for the last twenty years is surfacing—all the pain and sadness and wondering why.
I need this.
I need this closure, and then I can never see him again. I will sleep like a baby—no more nightmares of the past. The air will smell better. The sun will shine brighter, even on cloudy days. Food will taste better, and life, in general, will be better. I can finally look him in the eyes and tell him the pain he put me through, and then walk away like he never existed.
“You want to hear something that is so messed up?”
His eyes are red, and inside, I feel his soul hurting.
I don’t know why.
“Do you remember the last time you used the word try that day?”
He says nothing but continues looking at me with red, watery eyes.
“I was having a happy day…and happy days were hard.
Because it meant holding my breath and living on hope, and it would always come crashing down.
Bad days had no surprises—no waiting for the floor to drop.”
I sip coffee and hold the cup close to my chest.
“It was after your office Christmas party…the moment in your car.”
His eyes lighten a little with the thought.
“That night, we came home, and you told me you wanted to try and how you messed up so much.
I held my breath.
I wanted to believe you.
On a whim, you took us to Florida on vacation. As much as I tried to enjoy us, I was holding onto hope.
You took us to the ocean—the beach. You picked up our daughter…”
My lungs ache with pain, and it’s a struggle to get my words out. “You set her on your shoulders and walked on the shore.
I sat back and just watched with happy sadness. You must have been pretending to fly because you held out your arms, and she did the same.
Your white shirt was blowing in the ocean breeze, and Monica’s sun-kissed, baby blonde hair tossed around her little shoulders.
I watched this tableau of love and wished I really had it. I wished…I wished you could have seen how beautiful you were with her on your shoulders. Because maybe then, you would want it. Want us.”
“I love you, Jill.
I want you.
I want us.
I wish I could go back and do everything right this time.”
“And what would right be, Michael?”
“Give you a wedding.
Surprise you with an engagement ring.
Watch you walk down the aisle to me.
Be there when our baby girl was born.
…love you.”
He takes the cup from between us, sits it on the table, and returns, holding both of my hands.
“I’m not the same man, Jill.
I want to walk with you in the summer sun.
Make a snowman with the first snow of winter.
Sit by the fire on cold nights. Sleep on the beach with you.”
“I don’t think I can do that, Michael.
Because I don’t think those things exist.
Life’s not a book.
You taught me that.
I had to learn to live on faith. Not hope. I can’t take that chance.”
He holds me.
We both cry, and I’m becoming numb.
Do I have anything left? Is this it? Am I empty? Empty of Michael?
He holds my face and kisses my forehead, cheeks, and lips.
Do I feel him? Or once I empty it all, do I fade away? What’s next? “I need to go, Michael.
Please, take me home.”
He presses his forehead on mine, and his eyes search with longing.
“I’ll do whatever you want.
Just don’t shut me out completely. Please.”
I don’t answer because I don’t know how.
I stare into his sad gaze.
He walks back inside, his shoulders holding the weight of the world.
I’ve never seen a sadder exit as he looks back one last time before disappearing inside.
I return to the kitchen, gather my purse and phone, and wait in his car.
I don’t look at him when he gets in, and I turn my head and look out the side window.
But that doesn’t stop him from holding my hand.
And…I don’t stop him.
Am I testing myself to see if I still feel?
“I remember that day.
Monica was wearing a little red dress with polka dots.
She said, “Let’s fly, Daddy.
Let’s fly.”
I turn and look at him.
He’s staring straight ahead.
“She wanted to fly with the seagulls because she thought they were angels.
She wanted to fly to heaven and see the angels.”
I watch a tear run down his cheek and feel an ache of guilt.
He did remember.
He starts the car, and we continue holding hands until we reach my house.
He hasn’t let go.
And I’m not sure I want him to.
There are more questions I want to ask.
And so, I do something stupid. “Would you like to come in—so we could talk some more?”
“Thank you,”
he says, kissing my hand before letting go.
We head inside, and I make another pot of coffee.
It is a beautiful morning; maybe we should spend the day at the lake.
Maybe.
Or perhaps it’s my guilt thinking for me.
I pour the coffee and suggest sitting on the back patio where the sun rises on the horizon.
Nothing has been said about what happened earlier, and I think he’s waiting for me to start.
“Michael, did you ever marry…again?”
“Almost.”
Maybe this was the person who died—the one with the pot roast.
I don’t want to ask, but I need to know if he wanted to marry this woman.
“The woman I found you with?”
“No, Jill,”
he quickly says.
“It wasn’t her.
It was a woman I worked with from Boeing.
We traveled together and shared the same projects.
I thought it was time. Time, I should…commit.”
I get up and begin to leave when he stops me.
“It’s none of my business.
I don’t need to hear it.”
He grabs my arms, and I pull away hard, knocking myself unbalanced.
“Please, I would like for you to know.”
“Know what, Michael? How you wanted to marry another woman? No, I don’t need to know.
I’ve always known that you never wanted to marry me.”
“I couldn’t marry her because she wasn’t you.
All I did was compare her to you.
And in the end, she couldn’t take it anymore.
I failed again.”
“Why? Why would you do that, Michael?”
“Because I would wake up and she…she would still be in bed.”
“Stop it! I don’t care to know.”
“I missed the smell of morning breakfast you would make.
I missed the smell of your fresh shampooed hair, how it would fall on me with your morning kisses and the little notes written on the fridge.
I missed the smell of the fabric softener you used or how you would tell me how handsome I looked right before I walked out the door.
I missed seeing Monica held on your hip as you cooked dinner or did your homework.
I missed the way you served my plate, and you would tell me the stove was hot and not to touch it. The way you made every season special with its décor, celebrating each one. The smell of cucumbers in the summer. The smell of cinnamon in the fall. And Christmas. You made Christmas so magical.”
There’s hesitation, and I don’t know what to say.
Because Michael never acknowledged any of those things.
He just appeared frustrated and unhappy.
“She was none of those things.
And when I would bring them up why she didn’t do those things, it would end with a fight about you.
She’d tell me she was above being a mousy little wife.
And that would make me angry, and I would defend you.
Eventually, I found her stalking you on Monica’s Facebook. She then saw the beautiful, loving wife I had left and wanted to know why. When I told her that I made the biggest mistake of my life, she left, and I never saw her again. You taught me what a wife is and does. What love is.”
Through the tears, a cynical laugh escapes me.
“Well, that makes two of us, Michael.
I was also almost married again.
But you taught me what it’s like to have a husband—and I couldn’t make that mistake again.
It’s a shame because he was a wonderful man. He’s now married to someone else and very happy. And once again, I lost because of you. You have left me with a bad taste in my mouth and a fractured heart. Not broken, I won’t give you that much credit. My heart only beats for one now—myself. It’s too risky to take on more. I can’t be that person you remember. Because I thought that person was why you left us.”