Chapter 2
SIX MONTHS AGO
Washington, D.C.
Nora
Everything blurs behind the tears filling my eyes. I’m not sure if it’s the sound of the slapping of skin, the things I hear him saying, or just the heartbreak of seeing it. Again.
It’s all of it. Information and emotion overload.
Matt asked me to come by sometime today after lunch to sign the documents for our joint trading and banking accounts, he says the signatures have to be updated every quarter, so he lets me know when they are ready and I stop by to sign them.
I had an errand to run before lunch, so I thought I would surprise him by showing up a bit before to see if he wanted to go to the new restaurant down the street from his building.
He’s an attorney with a group that handles government contracts.
Because of his father’s high status and influence in D.C.
, he works for one of the most powerful firms in the city.
His receptionist’s desk in the office in front of his is empty, but I hear voices behind the big frosted glass doors that lead to his office, so I’m not sure if he’s in a meeting. I slowly and quietly open one of the doors a crack to make sure he’s alone before I go in.
He’s not alone.
Found his receptionist. Bent over the front of his desk, skirt bunched around her waist, and Matt pounding into her from behind.
His suspenders are sagging on his thighs, and his pants are open just far enough in the front to let his dick out.
The tie I bought him for Valentine’s Day is thrown over his shoulder.
Of course, she’s slim and petite.
Then I hear a man’s voice, not Matt’s, in the room. “We need those documents signed and sent over before the end of next week or the points decrease rapidly after that.” That sounds like his brother.
Is his brother in there with him? While he’s having sex with his receptionist? Then I see the green light on his phone; he has his brother on speakerphone while he has a little mid-morning delight.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got her fully trained. She’s coming in this afternoon to sign everything.” His voice is choppy from his movements, and it makes me want to vomit.
Trained? Like a dog? Is he talking about me?
The voice over the speaker fills the room again. “You better keep a tight grip on that leash; I don’t think she’s as stupid as you like to think.”
My heart breaks in two and falls to the pit of my stomach. Surely, they aren’t talking about me.
The woman who smiles at me every time I come to the office and happily makes small talk with me if he’s busy lets out a small moan, and Matt cups his hand over her mouth.
“All it takes is showing her attention and telling her how pretty she is. I’ve got to go.
” He lets go of her hip to tap the button on his phone and picks up his pace, the slapping getting louder and faster.
Looking away, I quietly close the door, but I hear him grunt his release as I do, sending bile up the back of my throat.
This is the second time I’ve walked in on him with another woman.
The first time, he begged and pleaded, telling me it was a mistake, that he was drunk, and promised it would never happen again.
This is my fault for hoping a cheater wouldn’t cheat again. But what did the conversation between him and his brother mean?
How do I go back from this?
I can’t.
Looking down at the box in my hand with the name of his favorite pastry store in elegant script across the top, I set it on his receptionist’s desk and walk to the elevator.
As I watch the numbers over the elevator door tick off my descent, I wonder what the statistics are in relation to catching your fiancé with another woman. If I’ve caught him twice, does that mean, statistically, that there are maybe two women I don’t know about for each time I’ve caught him?
Four for each time?
More?
Holding my hand up to look at the large diamond on my finger, it sparkles and winks at me like the whore it is.
Every time I question the sincerity of his professed feelings for me, I look at the ring that must have cost him a fortune.
Surely, he wouldn’t be marrying me if he thought so little of me.
He would keep his dick in his pants if he truly loved you.
Obviously, based on what I heard, he thinks very little of me.
It’s funny how a piece of jewelry, no, the price tag for a piece of jewelry can act as a placeholder in lieu of genuine feelings and actions. Is that who I’ve become? That doesn’t even include the expensive condo we live in. He paid for that too.
My Grams would be so disappointed in me. In the few times I’ve thought of leaving him, I’ve wondered how hard it would be to separate myself from him. Even though we aren’t married yet, in the past two years we’ve combined everything we have.
Or maybe he’s just combined me with everything he has. Like another possession.
The only thing I have that doesn’t have his name on it is my SUV, and that’s only because it’s older, and it was the first adult thing I ever bought for myself after my Grams died with the little bit of money she left me.
He let me know he wasn’t interested in my ‘old’ car when we moved in together.
In fact, he tried relentlessly to replace it with something of his choice.
I feel like such an idiot.
The self-loathing is like a film of slime settling over me, it fills every nook and cranny of my self-esteem. I don’t want to feel this way anymore.
I don’t know how the fuck I’m going to do it, or where I’m going to go, but I’m done. Since Grams is gone, I don’t have to worry about where I go. I’m free to do whatever I want.
But am I really? He’s known at his law firm as a shark, and he has lots of friends in high places. If I leave him, will he be fair? Will his ego and his temper let him?
Because he has a temper. His friends and colleagues don’t see it, but I do all the time.
It doesn’t take much to send him into a tirade when he’s at home, and it seems like he has them more and more lately.
He’s never hit me, but sometimes I wish he would instead of some of the mean things he says to me.
Back at our condo, I look around at what I want to take with me, but there’s not anything that really belongs to me. What I brought with me isn’t much, and everything else is what he’s bought for me.
Making the decision to only take those things I have bought for myself, I grab a duffel bag and start grabbing clothes from my dresser drawers.
I’m so fucking stupid.
This is not who I am. I knew better.
My Grams taught me better.
As I walk back and forth from the closet to the bed and fold my clothes, I try to remember when I turned into the type of woman I always said I would never become. But there isn’t a specific time, it was gradual. He knew which buttons to push, and he pushed them like a champ.
I do remember the first time he ever made me feel less than. It was such a subtle jab that I waved it off, and the fact that it was so close to the beginning of our relationship makes it even worse. But it’s vivid in my memory as if it happened yesterday.
‘Are you really that hungry? Or does it just taste good?’
I can still see him smiling affectionately, leaning on his elbows over his empty plate in the restaurant, as I put one of the last few bites of my Beef Ragu and Polenta in my mouth. His tone was teasing, and his brown eyes were sparkling.
It was only our third date, so the pinch of shame was quickly followed by confusion and anger, shoved down under disbelief. I told myself that I was obviously reading something negative into the comment. That had to be it. He wouldn’t be trying to insult me. Right?
The creamy polenta and shredded beef that was melting in my mouth before, turned to cardboard on my tongue. For a moment, I stared at him, looking for any hint of malice or hostility, but warmth reflected back at me. So, I blew it off. Told myself that I was being overly sensitive.
I didn’t eat those last few bites.
For the next year, the jabs became more frequent and more hurtful, chipping away at my self-esteem little by little. Every single one delivered with a smile. Sometimes even during a hug or a kiss.
‘How can you even have room for dessert after all you ate?’
‘Maybe you should have the salad. I noticed a little extra jiggle in your ass when I was behind you last night.’
‘Don’t you think your hips are a little wide for that dress?’
‘Is there anything you won’t eat?’
When I caught him with the first girl a year ago, well, first that I know of, he had squashed my self-respect so far under his sole of approval that I told myself he was looking for someone slimmer. Someone sexier.
I told myself it was my fault for not being what he wanted; my sweet tooth practically controls me, and I hate to exercise, which just makes me lazy in his eyes.
She was beautiful. Lithe, tall, and sexy. Everything I am not. At five foot five with wide hips and a soft stomach, there was no way I could compete with that. The only things I have going for me are my big boobs and narrow waist, but I will always be soft thanks to genetics.
He apologized and told me it was a mistake, and that he had been drinking with the guys. Swore that he loved me and that it would never happen again.
I wanted so bad to believe him.
God, I’m so fucking stupid!
On the drive back to the condo, I realized I shouldn’t have left the pastry on his receptionist’s desk.
If he sees it, he will know I left it there, meaning there would only be one reason I left without saying anything - he would know I saw.
That just limits the time I have to get my stuff and get out of here.
Swiping the tears from my cheeks, I look at the digital clock on the bedside table. It’s been an hour since I left; he isn’t expecting me there for another hour-ish. Maybe he won’t even notice the pastry. Not wanting to take the chance of his coming home if he does see it, I pick up the pace.
On my second trip down to the parking garage, I curse myself for leaving that damn box on her desk. I could have taken my time over the next few weeks and put things in order before I leave. But would I have talked myself out of leaving?
My Grams’ voice floats across my mind. “At the end of the day, they love you as much as you love yourself, Nora, when they show you how they feel about you, believe them.”
Over the past few years, I’ve let him manipulate me into not loving myself enough.
He never really cared about me, or I wouldn’t constantly live in a state of shame every time I think about eating, or every time I try on clothes. And overhearing what he said on the phone tells me I’m right.
Leaving my engagement ring on my bedside table, and everything he’s ever given to me where it is, I leave the condo.
It doesn’t take long after I leave for my phone to start blowing up.
The messages started sweet, telling me it wasn’t what it looked like – apparently, I shouldn’t believe my eyes or ears.
But throughout the evening at the hotel, he becomes his usual threatening self.
But each mean word, each threat, chips away at the delusion I’ve let myself build regarding his feelings for me, reminding me of who I was just three years ago.
Just for one night, I let myself cry for my loss: him, the relationship I let myself believe was genuine, the future I planned, and the life I’ve been living. I ordered a bottle of wine from room service and cried as I read and re-read the increasingly hateful messages he sent.
Some were threatening, telling me he would sue me because of the joint accounts we have, and that I wouldn’t get any of his money.
Not that I wanted any of it – I have a degree and a job.
Some said he would find me wherever I go and force me to come back, but then he would follow up with something nice and apologize.
His anger was all over the place, but he only has himself to blame.
Eventually, I cried myself to sleep.
My eyes are wide open now.
I matter to myself again.