When I step into the bustling coffee shop, warmth thaws my cheeks, stinging the cold away. The line isn’t that long, and I take my spot, waiting for my turn to order an extra hot hazelnut latte. After I place my order and the barista announces my drink is ready, I look over and spot my therapist sitting by the oversized brick fireplace.
“Mrs. Montgomery, hi,” I say as I approach.
“Hello, Emma,” she responds, looking slightly surprised to see me. “Join me?”
I slide onto the couch next to her and nod to the shopping bags by her feet. “Christmas shopping?”
Looking down at the bags, Mrs. Montgomery smiles, answering, “I wish. I haven’t bought a single thing yet. My old snow boots bit the dust this morning.” She angles her foot out to show me her new designer chocolate-brown boots. “So, I splurged on these.”
I smile. “Nice.” Then I take a sip of my latte.
The past few sessions, Mrs. Montgomery has been focusing on having me talk through the emotions of my parents’ death. The appointments have been intense, so it’s a huge relief when she indulges me in light conversation, asking simply, “So, what have you been up to today?”
With a heavy sigh, I relax into the plush leather couch. “Studying. I had a final yesterday, and my last one is tomorrow morning.”
“How do you feel about yesterday’s exam?”
“Good. I mean, as good as I can considering the semester I’ve had.”
“With all you’ve been through, you’ve held up remarkably well, Emma. I only wish the university could extend you a little more of a grace period. I’m impressed by your determination. Most would’ve just given up on finals if they were in your position.”
I take a moment to digest the complimentary words but find difficulty in accepting them. “I’m probably—subconsciously, at least—taking this opportunity to ignore the reality that none of this really matters anymore.”
“It does matter. Maybe the grades don’t, but it says a lot about your character. You aren’t a woman who gives up. I admire that about you.”
The heat of my cup warms my hands as I mindlessly pick at the cardboard sleeve. “You won’t be admiring much when I’m degreeless and working some dead-end job that will never be enough to pay off all the debt I have, which I’m only digging myself deeper and deeper into because I can’t even make the minimum payments.”
The expression on Mrs. Montgomery’s face transforms to that of . . . pity? There’s nothing worse than being felt sorry for, but I see it in her eyes, and I don’t like it.
“It was good running into you outside of your office,” I say as I stand in an attempt to remove myself from her dolent gaze. “But I really need to get going.”
She then grabs her shopping bags. “I should probably get back to work as well. Did you park out back?”
“I walked.”
“You walked?” she gapes in surprise. “It’s freezing outside.”
“I like the cold. Plus, I needed time to clear my head.”
“Let me at least drive you back. I insist.”
Reluctantly, I agree, and we make our way out to the back lot, but before we get two steps out the door, Mrs. Montgomery stops dead in her tracks, causing me to bump into her. There’s a strange expression on her face, so I follow her line of vision, which points to her husband holding a woman in his arms. Mrs. Montgomery looks on with horror as her husband embraces the girl, who looks to be around my age with vibrant long red hair.
The embrace doesn’t last long before he pulls back and brushes his lips across the girl’s cheek in a sweeping kiss before he opens the passenger door to the SUV and helps her inside.
To say this situation is uncomfortable would be a drastic understatement. Mrs. Montgomery is speechless as she stands next to me, both of us witness to her husband’s betrayal. And now it’s me who has pity in my eyes as I look at her.
“Men are assholes,” I whisper, more to myself than to her, but Mrs. Montgomery hears and responds, “It’s probably nothing.”
The saddened disgust splayed across her face tells me she doesn’t believe her own words. That she knows damn well that it isn’t probably nothing.
“Are you okay?”
“Let’s get you back to your place,” she deflects as she watches the SUV disappear when it turns the corner.
The drive back to my dorm is filled with uncomfortable silence. She’s trying her best to appear unaffected and poised, but her façade is terrible. I can see right through it and straight to her mortification.
“Maybe she was just a friend who was in trouble,” I mutter, breaking the silence in an attempt to go along with the theory that it wasn’t what it looked like. “It did look like the girl had been crying.”
Mrs. Montgomery’s response is that of a simple nod.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be intrusive.”
“Emma, it’s fine. You need to focus on your last exam and let me focus on whatever happened back there, which like I said, was probably nothing. My husband is a busy man who deals with many people, so . . .”
“Of course,” I agree, not wanting to upset her any more than she already is. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”
“It’s fine. Now, which building is yours?” she asks when she pulls into the campus housing where I live.
I direct her to my building, but before I get out of the car, I turn to her. She still wears the mask of indifference, yet her eyes expose the nasty beast of horror at what the both of us just witnessed.
“I guess I’ll see you later this week at our normal time?”
“Yes,” she responds with a forced smile. “Good luck on your exam tomorrow.”
Carly
When Emma shuts the door and walks into her building, I drop the façade of calm I’d been clinging to. My hands grip tightly around the steering wheel as my arms begin to shake. I allow the heat of my wrath to emanate from the core of my soul, the one piece that is most tender, the piece I felt safe enough to hand over to Tripp only to have him incinerate it.
I’ve tried so hard, exhausting myself to keep my world from falling apart. Holding tightly to my temper, I rarely ever let my frustrations boil over. I’m always the one to swallow the bitter pill of hostility to avoid a quarrel, but I’m at the end of my rope. How much longer do I have to stand by while my husband gets to live out his fantasies with women I can’t dare to compete with? I don’t compare to the twenty-something floozy he’s fucking around with when I’m fast approaching my forties. No amount of nips, tucks, or Botox can reverse the years that have etched their existence on my body.
Tears run rivers down my cheeks as I drive back to Maryland. Tears that hold everything I’ve been hiding. Each one is a salty cocktail of anguish, hatred, loss, jealousy, desperation, and animosity. His audacity to bastardize our marriage rips fissures inside me. Wounds I doubt he could heal because, in this moment, my whole world, the world I built around my love for Tripp, completely disintegrates.
So I cry.
That’s all I can do because no amount of screaming can erase the asshole my husband has turned in to.