Arrest (A Disarm Novel) (14 page)

I couldn’t—wouldn’t—lie to my husband, so I said nothing.

“Answer me, Elsie,” he said, his voice taut with rage.

I couldn’t breathe. “Henry . . .” I choked out, but before I could say anything else, he hung up.

I screwed up.

The memory of it haunted me all night, refusing to let me rest my eyes long enough to fall asleep. The next morning, the guilt was still there, refusing to wash away with soap and hot water. It showed on my face; no amount of makeup could have concealed the misery I wore.

The atmosphere in the conference room the next morning was predictably cool as we ran through the pitch a few times. My stomach was roiling and my throat dry; I would have killed for a good, strong cup of coffee.

On the way to the Lombart head office, Conor said, “If you can’t do this, you’d better tell me now.”

I glanced at him, wishing we weren’t stuck in the backseat of a taxi together. After last night, every moment I spent with him felt like an act of deception. “I’m fine,” I said with a hard edge to my voice.

“If you’re at all unsure, I can take—”

“I said I’m good,” I interrupted.

“I’m sure I don’t have to stress how important this account is to Shake.”

“And yet you are.”

“I just—”

“Hey, Conor?” I said through stiff lips. “I know my personal life is in turmoil right now, but I’m perfectly capable of setting that aside when needed.”

“I’m sorry,” Conor said as we ascended in the elevator. “I shouldn’t place so much pressure on you. It’s unfair and unprofessional.”

I looked at him properly for the first time since yesterday—feeling a small tingle at the memory of his near-kiss—and gave a short nod. I’d be lying if I said I never wondered what it would be like to be with him, but wondering and doing are two different things. Just the thought of cheating on Henry twisted my stomach in knots.

The secretary led us into the boardroom, where we were introduced to three older gentlemen. I cast a sideways glance at Conor, realizing why he’d brought me in the first place. He gave me an impish shrug in response.

I should have been mildly offended that I was being used for my looks, but I was, to put it frankly, out of fucks to give. I needed to nail the pitch, get home, and make my marriage right.

So I did. I set aside every worry in my brain, shut my heart in a box, and showed those stodgy old suits why they needed to go with Shake Design. I worked that room full of men, demanding their undivided attention and receiving it. It felt good to stand up there, showing off the design concept that my team and I had come up with, proud of the work we’d put together. Conor sat in the back, wearing that smile of his that said he was pleased, and he was first to stand up when the presentation was over, silently clapping to show his approval.

—

“Sherman,” Conor said a few hours later as we waited for our luggage to make it around the conveyor belt at Denver International. “You did good.”

We had been the last of the four companies to present our pitch. Afterward, the executives had taken half an hour to make their decision, then Conor and I had rushed to the airport in giddy excitement, exchanging high fives and laughing in relief.

But the closer I got to home, the faster the jubilation fizzed out.

“Thanks. I was pretty badass,” I said, feeling the joy slipping away. “But don’t use me for my looks ever again.”

He held his hands up and laughed. “I promise that’s not why I asked you to pitch. But it did give us a definite edge over the competition,” he said.

I stepped forward to retrieve my luggage, but he was quicker and grabbed it before I could. “Thanks,” I said.

“It wasn’t in my plan to seduce you either,” he said, handing my bag over. “In case that ever crossed your mind.”

“Not mine. Henry’s.” It was official: The mood was back to awkward.

“If ever a man deserved an ass-kicking, it would be me,” he said with a shake of the head. “I misread your motives last night. I’m sorry.”

“This is on both of us. I should’ve stopped you before it was too late.”

“You did.”

“Did I?” I asked. Why the hell was I drowning in guilt then?

“You did nothing.”

“Exactly. I should have stopped you.” I held a hand up, tired of talking about it. “Let’s forget it. You’re not the person I should be talking to about this.”

We were lost in our own thoughts as we made our way toward the short-term parking lot, sure to walk with several feet separating us. Even though I knew he wouldn’t be there, my eyes couldn’t help but search for Henry in every tall man with dark hair, in every person who turned the corner.

When we reached my car, Conor said, “I hope this trip doesn’t affect our working relationship. I would really hate to lose a terrific designer over my error in judgment.”

“I have no plans of quitting.” I unlocked the car door. “But you are giving me a raise based solely on my performance in that boardroom.”

Conor smiled widely. “The paperwork was already submitted before we even left.” As he walked away, he said, “See you Monday?”

I nodded, my insides suddenly trembling at the thought of being alone. “See you.”

—

I shouldn’t have been so relieved when I drove into the garage and found Henry’s Volvo gone. Still, it made getting out of the car easier, made entering our house a little less daunting.

At least Law was there to give me a warm, slobbery reception as he licked my face and jumped into my arms.

“Did you take good care of Henry?” I asked, scratching the backs of his ears.

As I made my way to the bedroom, I looked around the house, trying to see if anything had changed. But nothing had moved. The used mugs were still in the kitchen sink, my book and blanket were still on the couch where I’d left them.

Our bedroom, on the other hand, looked pristine. The carpet had recently been vacuumed, the bed made, but more curious was that the lamp on his side of the bed was missing.

I unpacked, throwing my dirty clothes into the laundry basket, and placed my rolling luggage into the back of the closet. I changed into my pajamas, brushed my teeth, and washed my face. I was completely ready for bed, ready to collapse in an exhausted heap, when I finally noticed a familiar black tape recorder sitting on my pillow.

My heart held still for a few beats as I tried to wrap my brain around the reemergence of that tape recorder, the very same one that Henry had used during his therapy sessions back in California. I sat on the bed, staring at it, trying to gather enough courage to reach out and press the Play button.

Yes, I was chicken. I was afraid of what I’d hear; afraid that contained in the ribbon was the voice of my husband saying our marriage was over. I didn’t think I could ever be prepared for that.

I lay down on Henry’s side of the bed and closed my eyes, smelling his scent on the pillow. Tears pooled behind my eyelids at the emotions it triggered: the surprise when he’d confessed that he loved me after we’d had sex for the first time, the overwhelming relief as he stepped off the bus on base, the euphoria when he’d dropped on one knee with a ring that rainy afternoon.

My heart hurt at the thought that I might never make those kinds of memories with him again.

I don’t know how long I lay there, clutching his pillow to my head and staring at the tape recorder, but eventually I took a deep breath and finally pressed Play.

There was a moment of static silence, and just when I was beginning to think it was blank, that Henry was just messing with my head, I heard him clear his throat and finally speak.

“Elsie,” he began in a low voice that raised goose bumps on my arms. It felt like years since I’d heard it. “I’m sure you’re wondering what the hell you’re about to listen to, but I can’t tell you because I don’t know what the hell I’m going to say.

“I called you tonight, worried that something had happened, but you weren’t answering your room phone. I had this sick feeling at the pit of my stomach when I tried your cell phone again, this sixth sense warning me that I wouldn’t like what you’d tell me. And fuck if that voice wasn’t right.”

His voice took on an angry edge as he continued. “I don’t know what the fuck you were doing in his room—I don’t even want to know—but the fact that you were in there at ten o’clock at night is fucked up, Elsie. You shouldn’t have been in there. Period.

“You don’t even know what that information did to me. I wanted to punch something, wanted to destroy everything in this home we’ve built. I went to the gym to exhaust my body, but pounding the treadmill and the punching bag for hours couldn’t get rid of the mental image I have of you and Conor together. God, I want to punch that wife-stealing asshole in the face. The lamp unfortunately bore the brunt of my anger.”

He took a deep breath. “That’s how I found this recorder again. I was vacuuming the glass from the floor when I found your box under the bed. I didn’t even know you had it, a box full of our history. The letters, our wedding invitations, pictures, the rock, that apology card I sent you in college; it was a time capsule of you and me. That box, and everything inside it, reminded me that there are some things in life worth fighting for.

“So here I am, sitting in the living room, trying like hell to figure out how to fight for you. You tell me that I’ve stopped communicating with you, that I’m shutting down like before. I’ve denied it, but I know deep down that you’re right.

“I know I’m not the best at expressing myself. Talking about my feelings for you, that’s easy because you’re the best part of me. Those are the parts that light me up inside. But to talk about my darkest thoughts? I have trouble with that because I don’t want you to know that I have that darkness in me. I don’t want you to think I’m anything but that goofy boy you grew up with.

“I just . . . I find it so hard to tell you those things, Elsie. I can’t talk about the shit I see every day because I don’t want to take away your faith in mankind. You’re the kind of person who forgives easily, who thinks that people are ultimately good. How can I come home each day and tell you that you’re wrong? I don’t want to take that away from you because I think that’s one of the things that makes you glow: your sense of hope.

“But I understand, I really do. You need to know these things in order to feel connected to me. So I’m here, holding a damn recorder up to my face, trying to figure out how to start talking again.”

I pressed Stop to take a moment to breathe. The pillow beneath me was already wet from tears I didn’t even realize I was shedding. I took a deep breath, wiped my face with my sleeve, and continued listening.

“First let me tell you about Korea. I was mugged, true, but something happened before that warranted the mugging. I didn’t tell you about it because I was ashamed. You have to remember that I was in a bad place. It wasn’t long after you came to the hotel room, when you made love to me then left, like I had done to you. It opened up my eyes. I lied to you, pretended that I didn’t want you anymore, but you saw right through it. I think sometimes you know me better than I know myself.

“In Korea I became hopeless and reckless, which is a dangerous combination. I lost myself even more. I went out partying with the single guys almost every night, getting drunk with the juicy girls. I was desperate to find a way to move on from you. So one night, on a dare, I went to find a hooker. I’m not proud of this, Elsie. I don’t even want you to know that I was so fucked up, I was actually going to screw a prostitute just to get the feel of you off my skin.

“But when it came down to the wire, I couldn’t do it. I backed out and tried to walk away. The guys who worked at the club followed me home. They cornered me and jumped me, shouting that I owed them money. I was stabbed twice in the side, which earned me a stay at the hospital for a week. My commander told me that it was touch and go for a time, that they didn’t know if I would make it through because of the infection in the wounds. When he said that, I found myself wishing that I hadn’t survived. At the time, I felt like I didn’t deserve to survive.

“It was so fucked up, but I was at a low point in my life. I had just lost you again—for good, I thought—and I had nothing else but my job. The only thing that kept me from completely self-destructing was Jason’s memory. He had died with honor to his name. And me? Did I really want to die in an alley with my pants around my ankles and puke all over my face? Because that’s where I was headed and I could either careen toward that future or forge a path of my own.

“I hope you understand why I find it hard to talk about this, especially as I look at your face. I don’t want you to stop looking at me with love. I don’t want to see pity or disgust there. I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that I was actually considering sleeping with a hooker, or that I wanted to give up altogether.

“So I didn’t tell you. How could I?

“I can’t lose you again, Elsie. When I saw you in the hospital bed that night you had the miscarriage—it broke me apart to see you like that. You were lying there, looking so lifeless and pale. I panicked, because you reminded me of myself in Korea. I was scared shitless that you would give up like I did.

“I hated myself for not being there for you. You don’t know how much that tears me up inside, knowing that you had to go through that alone. But you handled it, like the strong person that you are.

“I wish you could see yourself how I see you. You are my beautiful, wonky rock, Elsie. You’re imperfect but resilient. It hurts me to see moments of sadness on your face. You think I don’t notice, but I see it. And it kills me that I can’t fix it.

“Some days I just want us to run away. I want to take you somewhere we can both be happy again, but I don’t know where that would be. Some days I wonder if it’s me who’s making you unhappy, and I pull away to stop hurting you even more. I don’t know if that’s the right thing to do. Obviously not if we’re at this point in our lives, where you’re across the country, seeking solace in another man.

“I do know one thing for sure and it’s this: I need you. It took me a long time to figure out what I wanted out of life, but I’m glad I managed to figure it out before it was too late. It’s you. You’re the only thing I want out of life.”

The tape went silent for a few seconds then the recorder clicked off, signaling the end of the cassette. I opened up the recorder and flipped the tape over, hoping to hear more. Needing to hear more.