Chapter 18 – Sudden Deat #2
“There's more,” Larry interjects, closing his laptop.
“You have to complete the league's good conduct program and attend six months of ongoing addiction recovery. They want you to get a handle on this before it destroys not only your career, but your life. If you refuse, termination of your contract is on the line.”
“And you have to issue a public apology within twenty-four hours. No excuses, just accountability. After that, there'll be interviews and appearances to demonstrate that you're fixing it. No repeats. Zero tolerance. You have to stop drinking and partying.”
“Your call, Jaxson,” Coach barks.
The room falls silent again, all eyes on me.
Outside the window, the world keeps moving as if nothin g earth-shattering has happened.
This meeting has sucked the wind out of my sails.
They're making an example of me. As hard as that is to face, I've still not been able to reach Melly, so the worst is yet to come.
“Whatever I need to do to make this right, I'll do,” I declare.
Coach taps the table twice. “Make it so, team.”
[End of Flashback]
I issued a public apology the next day, with the PR team helping me write and polish it. I was humiliated, but it was no less than I deserved.
I order an Uber from the airport, and the ride home feels endless.
The closer we get, the less snow there is on the ground.
The driver, a Titans fan, recognizes me.
He doesn't mention the train wreck that is my life, but he fills the silence with talk about the hockey season, the weather, and the canceled flights.
It's nothing but white noise that barely registers. All I can think about is Melly.
Before long, he stops in the circular drive at my front door.
It's been so long since I've been here, I feel like an interloper.
I tip the driver and step out of the car.
Without looking back, I approach the keypad and punch in my access code.
Sighing in relief as it disengages and the door snicks open.
At least she hasn't changed the locks .
Inside, I drop my bag as the silence hits me like a gut punch. The house feels… wrong… empty.
“Melly?” My voice echoes ominously down the passageway.
I move faster, calling her name again. “Melly!”
Walking through the great room, I notice that her favorite blanket is no longer in its usual spot on the couch.
There we would snuggle up and watch TV under it.
The kitchen is spotless, like the rest of the house.
Her grandmother's antique cookie jar and cake plate have disappeared from the kitchen island.
“Melly!” My voice rises when she doesn't answer. I tell myself she's probably just in the shower and can't hear me.
Swallowing hard, I head down the hallway.
Each step lands loudly on the hardwood as I pass the gallery of framed photos lining the walls.
Sunny beach trips. Ice-skating with Melly, bundled up against the cold.
Our wedding day, her grin wide while I buried my face in her hair.
I trace her features on the photo, lovingly, achingly.
Her smile in each one feels like a memory slipping through my fingers.
I open the bedroom door and slowly walk in like I'm headed to the gallows. “Melly,” I whisper. “Please be here. ”
The bed is perfectly made, as if no one has slept in it for weeks. A thin film of dust coats the dresser. My clothes inside it are undisturbed, but hers have been cleared out. With shaking hands, I reach her closet doors. Only her wedding dress remains, along with a few lonely hangers.
My breath hitches as I pull the dress into my arms as if it were her. I press my face into it, fingers brushing the veil in a gentle caress. Our wedding photo flashes in my mind, of her smiling at the camera while I held her, unwilling to let go.
Why did I let her go?
Tears sting behind my eyelids and will not be held back.
Where are you, Melly?
Her cellphone sits on the bedside table. For one fragile moment, I convince myself she must still be here if her phone is.
But when I pick it up, the truth crushes me. There are missed calls and texts from Mandy, but nothing from me. Line after line of poison. She's mocking my wife, bragging about being with me at Christmas. She set out to hurt Melly, and I gave her the ammo.
I texted Melly before the press conference to let her know I was making a public apology and that she was part o f it. I called repeatedly, but she never picked up. None of these are on the logs.
I take out my phone and call Melly again.
But it's Mandy who answers, laughing. "Hey, Jaxson." She's not nervous or surprised, but amused.
My stomach drops when I recognize her. "What's going on? I have Melly's phone in my hand. How are you answering it?"
"Oh, honey," she croons, "You still don't get it."
"Don't get what?" I bark, my grip tightening on my phone. "Answer me!"
"Isn't it obvious, darling?" she sneers. "Every time your conscience bothered you, and you'd send her a message or try to call, they went to me. I changed the contact names. Sent a few messages."
"That's not funny, Mandy," I say. "You're lying."
"I wish I were," she says, "Every message you sent?
All the late-night apologies. After rolling off of me, you'd go to another room to call or text her with your sniveling words of love that mean nothing to anyone.
You think if she'd actually received any of them after months of ignoring her that she'd even wanted to hear from you? "
"What are you saying? "
"I'm saying exactly what you think I am," she snickers. "When I felt you slipping away, I changed her contact in your phone. So when those apologies started coming through, she never got them, and I doubt she would even want them since they came after you and I had slept together. Every time!"
"You changed her contact on my phone?"
'That's right, lover boy, she never got anything from you. And after you sent your messages, I sent mine to her real contact. She knew every time we made love. I even sent her photos," she laughs.
"We never made love, Mandy. It was just sex."
"Whatever, making love or sex, your wife had a front row seat. I made sure of it."
"You're sick," I choke out.
"And you've got to be the dumbest man alive to think that you wouldn't damage your relationship with your wife by screwing around on her, even under the guise of ‘open marriage.’"
Now I feel sick.
"Oh, and that text from Gord ? Also me." She laughs again, sharp and tinkling.
"How was I supposed to spend Christmas with you if you were with your wifey?
I'm sure it would've been awkward anyway, seeing as you two hadn't spoken in months.
What would you even have talked about? Your girlfriend? You can thank me for that, too."
"Gord never sent me that message?" I rasp, phone pressed to my ear as my pulse roars in my head. My hands shake, and my chest tight with pain.
"That's right, honey," she purrs, delighted. "It was me. I get what I want, and I keep it."
"Call me when you're ready to admit that Melly's finally gone," she adds. "I'll be waiting."
Her laughter cuts off as the line goes dead.
My head's a mess. I don't know how my life devolved this badly, how I let it come to this. I brought a viper into our lives, and I can feel the venom working its way through everything.
I gave Mandy the power to destroy my marriage, and she used it.
I need to apologize to Melly, to see her in person, to talk face-to-face, to say the words out loud. Desperately wishing I could take it all back, every choice, every mistake. This is my fault. Pushing her into this is something I regret more with every breath I take.
My stomach lurches. I barely make it to the bathroom before everything comes up. After rinsing my mouth, I tear through the house as if I can somehow change what I already know is true .
My steps falter at her reading nook. Her chair, the one she used to curl up with her books, has vanished, and the lamp is missing. The shelves are bare.
Her skates, trophies, and costumes from years of competing have disappeared. All traces of her here have been wiped away.
It's then that I realize that Melly's lost to me. She's completely erased herself from my life.
Struggling to catch my breath, I stumble aimlessly into the kitchen and reach to get a glass of water.
On the counter sits an envelope waiting with my name written on it in Melly's handwriting.
For one foolish beat, hope flares in me before extinguishing when I open it.
Inside are divorce papers. A bright pink sticky note clings to the front.
It reads,
“This is what cheaters deserve.”
Tears streak down my face, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore. Something small and heavy slips from the envelope and clinks on the kitchen tile.
Her wedding rings.
I drop to my knees, desperately grabbing them. I clutch them so tight, they dig into my skin. The silent house swallows my broken sobs. And in the emptiness, the we ight of it all settles over me. I curl on the cold floor, finally understanding what it cost me.