“Babe?” Kelly yells from the other room.
“Yeah, hon?” I answer as I start brushing my teeth.
“Your wife texted you.”
I spit the toothpaste into the sink and rinse my mouth out, wiping my lips with my hand. Back in the bedroom, the lights are on now, and Kelly is sitting in bed, wearing a nightgown, while holding my phone. She smiles up at me.
“What did she say?” I slide a pair of Ralph Lauren pajama pants on.
“She wants to know what you’re doing.”
I take a seat on the bed next to her, pushing her long brown hair back. I gently kiss her neck and shoulder.
“Tell her I’m about to fuck the girl of my dreams again,” I whisper. Kelly laughs and begins texting back.
“Your wish is my command.” She giggles. I swipe the phone from her playfully and get out of bed. I quickly text back.
Since you couldn’t make it to me, I’m coming back tonight to see you. No need to wait up. Love you.
Before I can set the phone down, Sarah texts back.
I love you too. I got a chance to read the new pages you sent over lunch, and they’re incredible. I’m so proud of you XOXO.
I smile for a brief second, before a wave of guilt spans over me. I let out a sigh.
You’re the best, babe. Let me take you out for dinner tomorrow night. Say yes.
My phone vibrates.
Yes.
Sometimes, I get a glimpse of who we used to be, and I think we can be that couple again. But I’ve fucked up too much for that to ever happen, and Sarah’s career has always come first—before me, before a family, before everything. I don’t foresee that ever changing.
I thought when we had kids, she’d slow down, but she told me five years ago she didn’t want kids. I thought I’d be able to change her mind. I couldn’t.
I set my phone down on the dresser and plug it into the charger. I look over at Kelly who is giving me bedroom eyes. She can never get enough of me, and I can’t get enough of her. But I know that won’t always be true. There was a time that Sarah and I couldn’t get enough of each other either. That time passed long ago. Occasionally, those feelings resurface, but they’re short-lived and usually induced by alcohol or time apart. Don’t get me wrong, I love Sarah. If I didn’t, I would have left her long ago. It’s that love that I hold on to—not the money, the security or the houses. Kelly gives me the love that Sarah can no longer. They both complete me. It’s sick I know, but it’s true. I need them both.
“Are you ever going to tell your wife about us?”
“Are you ever going to tell your husband about us?” I retort.
She huffs and folds her arms across her chest. “It’s not the same.” Her words are quiet.
I leave and return with two full glasses of scotch, handing one to her and taking a seat. I put one arm around her and pull her close telling her I know. She lets out a soft, silent sob and as quickly as the cry left her body, she pulls it back in, regaining her composure. She takes a large gulp of the scotch and doesn’t even flinch at the burn. She leans into me. We sit there in silence, drinking our glasses of scotch, trapped in loveless marriages where we come second to the people we love. When Kelly and I are together, we come first. I refill our glasses twice more, and then we have sex again. This time, I don’t fuck her—I make love to her.
3
Sarah Morgan
I’m poring over case files, the papers shifting and falling like the snow of a freshly plunged avalanche. I had planned to go into the office for just a few hours to prep for the week, but here I am sipping at my twelve-hour old coffee with oil circles floating on top to remind me of its age. My corner office is on the fourteenth floor, which is as high as one can get in D.C. without erecting a phallus taller than Mr. Washington’s. It has floor-to-ceiling windows and is one of the biggest in the firm, and no one would contest as to why I was given it.
With several high-profile cases and the most case wins out of any attorney here, I more than earned my place as a named partner at Williamson & Morgan. The tips of my fingers rub my forehead, slowly massaging my temples as if to conjure myself back into a state of peace and normalcy. I slide my reading glasses off and drop them onto my desk with a resounding crash to punctuate my frustration. The clock on my phone reads 8:04pm. An exasperated huff exits my mouth to let the non-existent audience in my office know how taxed I am.
I send a quick text to Adam:
Sorry, I really wanted to be with you today. I miss you.
I drop the phone back on the desk. Grabbing the fork from on top of the Styrofoam container, I stab it into the Chinese food that has been sitting out for a few hours. I take a couple of quick bites, then slide the whole thing in the garbage can. My hair is pulled into a bun at the nape of my neck, every strand perfectly in place, even though I’ve been working for the past thirteen hours. I adjust my high-end black blouse and brush off my tailored skirt. I straighten my desk, which is in complete disarray and not typically how I live my life. With court dates and depositions looming over me, a little mess is going to have to do. I look out the windows of my office, admiring the lights of the city, the cars moving in unison, the people out and about enjoying their last few hours of the weekend.
“Anne, are you still here?” I call out.
The door of my office opens, and my sweet-looking assistant pops her head in. She’s a petite woman with shoulder-length brown hair, and although she doesn’t turn heads, she’s pretty in a modest way. Her eyes while faint light up and she smiles at me, ready and eager to please. While I am the only other person in the office right now, it is not uncommon for Anne to scramble into work once she starts to see me sending work emails.
“Yes, Mrs. Morgan.”
I drop my hands on my desk and give her a sympathetic smile. “Anne, how many times do I have to tell you? Just because I work ridiculously long hours doesn’t mean you need to, and what’s with the Mrs. Morgan?”
“Sorry, Mrs.—” She begins and stops as I put my hand up and stand. I approach Anne. The office has plush carpeting, which I picked out myself as it feels incredibly soft beneath my bare feet. I made sure to decorate so it had a homey feel, with a plush couch and recliner, a coffee table, pillows, a bookcase stuffed with books for both work and pleasure, and beautiful artwork on the walls. This office is my home away from home, as I’ve spent more time here the past eight years than I have at my actual home. I even got a treadmill for it, which sits in the corner facing the Washington Monument.
I reach Anne and put a hand on her shoulder. “Anne, you have worked for me for five years. We eat lunch together every Friday. We occasionally grab drinks after work. You travel with me for business. You’ve been to my house on countless occasions. You’re my friend first and my employee second. Please for the love of God, never call me Mrs. Morgan again.”
Anne shakes her head and smiles. She slides past me and slumps into the couch taking a load off. “Ugh, I’m sorry. I’ve been pulling double duty for Bob since his last assistant quit. He demands that I call him Mr. Miller. It’s just become a force of habit.” She rubs her brow.