1. Kat
KAT
Tell me a lie and make it sweet,
Like the vows you made on our wedding day.
Tell me a lie, don’t make it hurt,
The pain in my chest won’t go away.
Don’t tell me the truth, I can’t face what’s to come.
I’ll yell and I’ll kick, I’ll fight it, I’ll run.
Don’t tell me the truth, I don’t want to hear.
Tell me pretty lies with whispers sincere.
T he chill on my skin lingers and flows down my shoulders.
It’s an odd sensation that travels across my arms and I’d like to blame it on the alcohol, but I’ve felt it all day.
From the very start of this morning, before the drinks came easier and easier.
For days , really, I’ve been feeling this strange sensation of not quite being in my own body.
As if I’m not really here. This isn’t really happening to me.
It’s been going on for more than a few days if I’m honest … maybe even weeks, but I’ve been ignoring the signs and whispers, pretending like they weren’t real.
Now that this sickness won’t leave me, I can’t deny it.
Ever since I let the words slip through my lips.
I hate you.
You’re a fucking liar.
I want a divorce.
An ache in my chest prompts me to take a sip of wine.
Letting it slide down my throat, I pretend that it soothes me.
It’s numbing, that’s what it is. That’s what I need.
Tears prick at my eyes, but I don’t let them fall.
Instead a shuddering breath leaves me and I lift up my glass, downing the remaining wine. It’s too sweet for being so dark.
Startled by a sound from the floor above me, the glass nearly tips over as I set it down quickly to wipe under my eyes.
I don’t want him to see me cry; I won’t let him.
But the creak I heard was a false alarm.
I don’t hear the heavy footsteps of him coming down the stairs to our townhouse.
I’m still alone in the dining room, waiting for him to leave.
Left only with bittersweet memories and the constant question: How did this happen?
The thick, dark drapes behind me are pulled shut but even they can’t completely drown out the night sounds of busy New York City.
There’s always a bit that travels through.
It used to bother me when I initially moved here, but now it’s soothing.
It calms me as my gaze drifts toward the empty stairwell, where it lingers.
I shouldn’t be drunk, not when I’m supposed to be preparing to meet with a potential client tomorrow. As one of the top literary agents in New York City, I’m damn good at what I do but tonight, I don’t care.
I shouldn’t have closed my laptop and logged off all social media when I have promotions and advertisements running around the clock for these launches.
I shouldn’t be doing a lot of things.
But here I am, sitting at the head of the dining room table, and I refuse to do anything but watch the stairs and wait for him to leave. The very thought of staring at his back as the front door closes forces me to reach for the bottle.
I listen carefully as I pour the last of the wine into my glass.
He’s packing at the last minute, like he always does, but this time it’s so much different.
He’s traveling for work, but when he leaves from his rendezvous in London, he’s not coming back here.
That sudden realization brings a fresh flood of unshed tears to burn my eyes, but I remain very still.
As if maybe playing dead will hold back these emotions.
“He better not,” I mutter beneath my breath, holding on to my resolve.
I lift the glass to my lips, the dark cabernet tasting sweeter and sweeter with each sip, lulling me into a lethargy where the memory of yesterday fades.
Where the article doesn’t exist. Where the denial of an affair can fall on deaf ears. The picture itself was innocent. But Evan doesn’t have a single explanation for me. He can’t make clear to me why he’s lying, why he’s stumbling over his words to come up with a justification.
What hurts the most is the look in his eyes when he lies to me.
The paparazzi photo is of him with his boss’s wife Samantha, who just so happens to be in the middle of a vicious divorce.
He was with her at 3:00 in the morning in her hotel lobby.
Three fucking a.m. Nothing good happens past 2:00 a.m. He used to make that joke all the time when we first met.
I used to laugh with him when he said it.
There’s only one explanation for that photograph and both of us know it.
Even though he can’t come up with a plausible excuse, he still denies it.
It’s a slap in my face. I’m done pretending like I can forgive him for this.
If he can’t give me his truth, I’m left with my own, which is that my husband is not the man I fell in love with.
Or at the very least, his decisions aren’t ones I can live with.
I suck in a long, deep breath, pushing my phone away as it beeps again with a message from a friend and I lean back in my chair. I don’t want to read it. With the palms of my hands, I cover my eyes, suddenly feeling hot. Too hot.
They keep asking me the same things, but with different words.
Maddie: Are you all right?
Julia: Is it true? It can’t be true.
Suzette: So you went through with it? Is there anything I can do?
Messages from my friends have been hitting my phone one by one, each of them making it vibrate on the table throughout the day.
It takes everything in me to face them, as if they were really here in person asking me all these questions.
I don’t have answers to give them, none that I want to say out loud anyway.
I’m not pushing away my husband because I want to.
I’m doing it because I have to and I don’t have the resolve to speak that confession.
Even I’m disappointed in myself.
My friends want what’s best for me. They only want to help me and I know that’s the truth, but it doesn’t keep me from being angry at the phone as it goes off again.
Heaving in a deep breath, I wish I wasn’t in the big city.
I wish I wasn’t well known. I wish I could hide under the guise of anonymity and just be no one.
More importantly, I wish no one knew. I’d crawl back to him if that were the case.
I’d beg him to hold me every time I cried, even if he’s the one who brought out this side of me.
I’d beg him to love me. He would, I know it. And then I’d hate myself.
You deserve better than this. Another message from Suzette comes through next and I can only run the pad of my thumb down the screen over her words. It’s an attempt to make myself believe it.
Just leave me alone. Everyone get out of my life, my marriage. It wasn’t for them to see. It’s not for them to judge like every fucking gossip column in New York City. It’s not the first time our marriage has been mentioned in the papers, but I pray it’ll be the last.
My knuckles turn white as I grip the phone with the intent of throwing it, letting it smack against the wall to silence it, but I don’t.
It’s the sound of Evan’s boots rhythmically hitting each step as he walks down the stairs that forces me to compose myself.
At the very least I pretend to; he’s always seen through it, though. He knows how much this kills me.
I hit the button to turn off my phone and ignore the texts and calls, squaring my shoulders as I attempt to pull myself together.
I haven’t answered a single message or email since this morning when Page Six came out with an article about our separation.
It’s funny how I only uttered the words two nights ago, yet it was already circulating gossip columns before the weekend hit, blasted all over social media.
I wonder if he wanted this. If that was Evan’s way of finally pushing his workaholic wife to the brink of divorce.
My gaze morphs into a glare as he comes into view, but it doesn’t stay long.
My skin is suddenly feeling hotter, but in a way that’s joined with desire.
I can’t help but to imagine how his rough stubble would feel against my palm as I caressed his cheek, how his lips would taste as he leaned down to kiss me.
A very large part of me wants to savor it.
Our last goodbye kiss. It’s funny how the goodbye kisses are the ones I value most, but I won’t let him kiss me before he leaves this time.
Not when the last things that came from his lips were lies.
My deep inhales are silent, although the heavy rise and fall of my chest betrays me. If he notices, he doesn’t let on as he places his luggage by the front door. My own hands turn numb watching his.
Even if he is only wearing a pair of faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt, he’s still devilishly handsome.
It’s his muscular physique and tanned, tattooed skin that let you know he’s a classic bad boy regardless of what he’s wearing.
My heart beats slower as the seconds pass between us; it’s calming just to look at him.
That’s how he got me in the beginning. The desire and attraction are undeniable despite what he’s done.
He’s the first to break our gaze as he runs his fingers through his dark brown hair and lets out an uneasy sigh.
In response my lips curl into a sarcastic smile, mocking both me and my thoughts.
I’m not the only one to fall for his charm and allure, but I should have learned my lesson by now.
My fingers slip down the thin stem of the wineglass as I smile weakly and force back the sting in my eyes, pretending I’m not going to cry, pretending that I’ve made my decision final. Like I don’t already regret it.
“I have to go,” Evan states after a moment of uncomfortable silence, apart from the constant background hum of traffic.
My blood rushes and I try to swallow the lump in my throat. I focus on the wine, the dark red liquid pooling in the base of the glass. I try to swirl it, but it doesn’t move; there’s so little left.