Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Tatiana
Noah and I say goodbye to Jazz outside on the porch while Ulysses carries her suitcase to the car.
I tear up when I hug her. “I’m going to miss you.”
She sniffs as she hugs me back. “Me too.”
“You’ll be busy,” I say when she lets me go. “You have rehearsals for your audition.”
“Will you come? You’ll bring me luck.”
“To the audition? Of course.” I hold her at arm’s length. “Oh, Jazz, where do I even start to say thank you for everything you’ve done for us?”
She shakes her head as she blinks back tears, managing only a wobbly, “Don’t.”
Ulysses closes the trunk. “Ready?”
Concern flickers in her soft, blue eyes. “Tatiana…” She bites her lip.
“What is it?” I ask with a coaxing smile.
“If you need me…”
“I know where to find you.”
She waves a hand. “Just call me.”
I wrap my arms around Noah from behind and pull him against my knees. “You can count on that.”
“For anything.”
“You too.”
“Just…” She gives me a pained look. “Take some time out and relax with your family.”
“I promise.”
Turning on her heel, she rushes to the car and gets in without looking back. Ulysses gets behind the wheel. When he pulls off, Noah waves. Jazz lifts her hand in a quick greeting before ducking her head.
A car with guards follows. I’m glad Dante decided to send a few men with her for protection.
Jazz doesn’t belong to any of the families involved in Dante’s organization, but the mere fact that we’re close could put her in danger.
If people tried to harm me, they may also try to harm my friend to get back at us.
The worry gnaws at me, but I keep up a smile for Noah’s sake. We wave until the cars clear the gate, and then a hollow emptiness descends on me. I got used to having Jazz around. I’m going to miss her presence, but she has her own life to lead.
“Come on.” I bend down and kiss the top of Noah’s head. “Let’s go back inside.”
He turns around and looks up at me. “I’m going to miss Jazz.”
“Me too, sweetheart.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s a bit fresh for swimming. How about we finish building your Lego plane?”
His face lights up. “Can Daddy help?”
I steer him inside. “Daddy has left for a meeting, but when he gets back, you can ask him if he’ll have time later.”
“Okay.” He skips ahead of me. “I’ll finish the yellow part. You do the white.”
“That’s not fair.” I chase after him and tickle his sides when I catch him in the playroom. “The white part is the most difficult.”
He giggles. “We’ll leave it for Daddy. He’s clever. He can do it faster than anyone else.”
“In that case, I’ll do the red.”
Noah settles on a small chair behind the play table and tackles his part in earnest. He’s good at following the instructions. The recommended age for this set is from eight, but he quickly got the hang of it.
I do my part less enthusiastically, my mind on Jazz and how empty the house feels without her.
When it’s time for Noah’s morning snack, I install him at the kitchen island counter and take a seat opposite him. Emily, who’s rolling out dough for a pie, cut up some fruit for him that’s waiting with a glass of water on the counter.
My mom used to say idle hands are the devil’s tools. With nothing but time on my hands, I can’t stop thinking about the questions I have concerning our marriage and my amnesia.
While Noah eats his orange wedges, I glance at the new phone that lies at my elbow. Dante programmed his number as well as Reino’s and Ulysses’s on the phone. I added Jazz’s number. Other than that, there are no other contacts.
Why didn’t Dante transfer my apps and messages from my old phone?
Why give me a clean new phone? Unless I lost my phone when I disappeared.
If someone had taken me, they would’ve destroyed it to ensure it couldn’t be tracked.
Yes, that makes sense. It won’t surprise me if the data isn’t backed up to the Cloud.
Dante wouldn’t let any information, no matter how trivial, float around space where his enemies or law enforcement agencies could get access to it.
I pick up the phone absentmindedly, unlocking it with my face ID before scrolling through the apps. Except for a few photos I snapped of Noah, Jazz, and me in theater costumes and a video I took of Jazz singing one of the songs, the photo gallery is empty.
I hover with my finger over a social media app.
I’ve never been big on social media. For security reasons, when Leander and I were still living with my parents, my father forbade us to have accounts.
Dr. Chad advised me not to do this, warning me that it could be counterproductive to the healing process, but in an impulsive bout of curiosity, I open the app and type my name in the search field.
Nothing.
I open another app and get the same results, not that I expected to find anything. My parents prohibited my friends and school from taking or posting photos of me. My picture was even excluded from our yearbooks.
Hesitating, I open the search engine app. I’ve done a search on myself in high school, which had come up empty. In another spurt of impulsiveness, I type my name in the search bar and press enter.
A few headlines with my first name pop up, but none of them is about me.
Just as I thought.
I’m about to close the search engine when an idea hits me. It’s a bad idea. I know it instinctively. Yet I can’t stop myself from typing Dante’s name.
A list of headlines appears, all from gossip sites and magazines. The top one shows a photo of him in a tux with a beautiful blonde on his arm. The caption says they were attending a fundraiser.
Something twists in my stomach. I go hot like when I have a fever.
I should stop, but my fingers seem to have a will of their own.
They click on link after link, opening one article after another with photos of Dante, whom the media nominated as the most eligible bachelor in the city, with different women at his side.
Each one is prettier and more glamorous than the last. He’s not photographed with the same woman twice, but they’re all blond.
Wow.
He obviously prefers blondes. I touch my wheat-blond hair that hangs over my shoulder. I’ve never wanted to change my hair color, but I have a sudden desire to dye it brown or black. The bruise that spreads through my chest can only be attributed to jealousy, and I’ve never been the jealous type.
I didn’t think seeing Dante with all those gorgeous women could hurt so much, but that’s only because I’ve never seen him with anyone else.
When he worked for my father, he was single.
We got together soon after he returned two years later.
But there was the in between, the four years I can’t remember.
And damn, how it hurts.
Is that what our trust issues were? Is that why he didn’t elaborate? Did he cheat on me? Or did he sleep with countless beautiful and elegant women after we’d broken up?
It doesn’t matter if he did it after we left each other. My heart doesn’t recognize the fact that dating other women as a single man would’ve been his right. My heart, which has only ever beaten for one man, doesn’t break less.
“Mommy,” Noah complains.
I give a start, almost dropping the phone. Closing the search engine quickly, I smile even though everything inside me is tearing apart. “What is it, sweetheart?”
He holds up his hands. “I’m sticky.”
“Here.” Emily hands him a paper towel. “Would you like more water?”
He wipes his hands and hops off the chair. “No, thanks. I’m not thirsty anymore.”
I get to my feet, feeling heavy and numb and nauseous at the same time. “Let’s go wash your hands.”
For the rest of the day, I restrain myself from opening the search engine on my phone.
I go through the motions, helping Emily with the chores and taking care of Noah, but the ache remains in my chest. I can’t stop thinking about those photos, how devastatingly handsome my husband looked in each of them, and how those gorgeous women stared up at him with intimate and secretive smiles that didn’t escape the paparazzi cameras.
I do my best to distract myself, teaching Noah the alphabet and playing a new board game with him.
After I’ve put him to bed, I pour myself a glass of wine and have a long chat with Jazz on the phone.
She complains about her messy roommate but refuses my offer to come back and stay with us for longer.
When a pause falls over our conversation, I dare a question I should probably not ask. “Did Dante cheat on me?”
She’s quiet for a moment.
My heart starts thumping. “Jazz?”
“Honestly, Tiana, I don’t know. But isn’t that something you should ask him?”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s a private matter.”
“Are you all right? Did something happen?”
I force a laugh. “I was just curious.” Wanting to change the subject, I say quickly, “Tell me more about your plans. Are you going to stay with your insufferable roommate, or are you going to look for a new place?”
“I don’t know yet. She’s a bit intimidated by the men watching our door.” She snickers. “Maybe she’ll move out, and then I can look for someone who’s not a hygiene hazard.”
I cringe inwardly. “Sorry about the men. Dante just wants to make sure you’re safe.”
“I know.” She sighs. “How much influence do you have over your husband?”
Laughing, I admit, “I’m not sure. Why?”
“Can you ask him not to put Reino on guard duty at my door?”
“I knew it! There’s something between the two of you.”
“Um, yeah,” she says in her actress voice. “Hatred.”
I laugh some more. “He doesn’t seem like a bad guy.”
“Trust me, Tiana. He’s bad news. Besides, I kind of have a crush on the director I’m going to audition for. I’ve always admired him.”
“That sounds like a fan crush. Don’t mix business and pleasure. You know that’s a recipe for disaster.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to have sex with the man just so that everyone can say I got the part—if I get it—because I slept my way to the top.”
“You will get the part. There’s no one more suited for the role than you.”
“Thanks.” She makes a kissing sound. “That’s why you’re my best friend. You always know what to say.”
We chat for a while longer while Jazz goes through her nightly beauty routine.
When we hang up, I have an urge to do something physically strenuous that will take my mind off the images that run on a loop through my mind, something like swimming a hundred laps in the pool or spring cleaning, but I don’t want to leave Noah alone in the house, sleeping in his bed.
He may wake up from another nightmare and call for me.
And the house is clean. The cupboards are tidy. There’s nothing to organize.
Jittery and edgy, I opt for a warm shower to relax me, and then I curl up in front of the television. After hopping channels for an hour, I give up and go to bed.
Dante doesn’t come home. He sends a text message to let me know he’ll be working through the night and that I shouldn’t wait up.
I believe him.
If he says he’s working, that’s what he’s doing.
But the devil on my shoulder keeps on whispering whatifs in my ear. I can’t even bring myself to reply to Dante’s message, too scared that I’ll say something I may regret later.
Not a few seconds pass before my phone lights up on the nightstand. I ignore it, deciding not to read Dante’s messages because they only leave me more agitated. Two more beats, and my phone starts vibrating.
I reach for the phone in the dark. Dante’s name flashes over the screen.
I’m hesitant to answer, but he’ll worry if I don’t take his call.
Clearing my throat to dislodge the lump that has settled there, I swipe the button. “Hey.”
His deep voice comes over the line. “Did I wake you?”
I prick up my ears, listening for an intonation of guilt, but there’s only concern. “I’m in bed, but I was still awake.”
“I couldn’t call earlier.”
“That’s all right.”
My heart screams that it’s not all right, but I don’t want to be that wife, the one who checks his every move and demands explanations for each second of his absence because I’d hate it if he did the same to me.
“You didn’t reply to my text message,” he says.
“I didn’t think it was necessary.”
“It’s always necessary.”
I keep my voice upbeat. “Okay.”
“Tatiana.”
If I’m smiling, it’s because I hope he can hear it. “What?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I pull my legs up to my chest. “Jazz left today. The house feels empty.”
“She can visit.”
“I know.”
“Call me if you need anything.”
“Does that mean you’re in the city?”
He hesitates for no more than a beat, but it doesn’t skip my attention.
“Yes,” he says as if he didn’t want to admit that.
He’s in the city but he can’t come home? The hurt that won’t let up becomes a dull, pulsing ache that, with every beat of my heart, falls like a hammer in my chest.
“Are you safe?” I ask after a moment.
His tone softens. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Where will you sleep?”
A longer pause follows before he says, “At the condo.”
I’m not sure why, but my stomach drops. “Oh.”
“I’ll be busy until the early morning hours. I’ll probably get no more than a couple of hours of sleep. It’s better if I’m closer to the office.”
“Oh,” I say again, wanting to bite my tongue for sounding so stupid. “Be careful.”
“Go to sleep, darling. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“See you,” I say before hanging up.
For a long time, I sit on my side of the bed in the dark. What matters is that we’re together now. I keep on telling myself that. Yet it’s not enough. The insecurity is too big, eating at me like a vulture picking a bone clean of its meat.