Color Her Red (11 page)

“So that’s why you wanted me to come to work with you?”  I ask accusingly.  He looks shocked and appalled. 

“No
, of course not.  Don’t think that.”  His brows furrow, he looks genuinely hurt.  “Baby, if you don’t want to give a statement or if you want me to have Michael take you around the back, that’s fine.  I didn’t think you would mind.”  I instantly feel horrible. 

“I’m sorry.  Of course, I’ll stand by your side.”  I give him a soft sweet smile and a kiss on the cheek.  “I don’t know what has gotten into me.”

“I know yesterday was rough, but this will put an end to it.”  He kisses my hand and opens the car door.  As soon as his door opens I can
hear the unrelenting media outside.  The door closes and it is silent again.  My heart starts racing.  I don’t want to do this.  I can change my mind. 
No, do this for your husband.  He needs you.

In a moment
, he’s at my door and Nate is by his side.  I wish it were Michael, not a stranger.  I take Thomas’ hand and stand as graciously as I can. 
I can do this. 

Men and women all dressed in neutral business attire
are hovering so close, hardly giving me any room to walk.  Everyone is speaking at once; I can only make out single words. 
Cheating.  Affair. Divorce. Mistress. 
I hold onto Thomas’s hand with everything in me, feeling the familiar prick at the back of my eyes.  I breathe in and out, concentrating hard on not crying.

He must feel my anxiety.  He pulls me in close to him and gives me a small kiss
on the cheek.

“Are you alright?”  I can hear the agony in his voice.

“I’m fine, please just don’t let go of my hand.”  I look up at him with my eyes beseeching him.  I feel as though I would drown if he let go.  He nods and gives me another kiss.

Finally
, we’re at the entrance and we turn around, Nate is behind us at the door.  Thomas’ hand raises and instantly the well-groomed mob quiets.  I’m almost thrown back by how quickly the atmosphere has changed.

Some brave reporter speaks, “Mr. Grant, would you or your wife like to comment on the photos released yesterday?”  The reporters throw their microphones into the air and cameras begin flashing in the background.  He takes a deep breath and I squeeze his hand.  I look at my hand in his waiting for him to speak.  He clears his throat.  He doesn’t mind making them wait.

“Mr. Grant, a comment please?”

Before he can speak
, and before I can think about what I am doing, I blurt out, “Those photos were taken a long time ago.”  The flash from photographers doesn’t even make me flinch.  I continue strong, “It is unbelievable to me that someone would go through so much trouble to try to question our marriage.  I would hope that the media would do a more thorough job of researching a story before they report it.” 

Thomas’ arm is firmly around me.  My heart is beating so loud I can hardly hear a thing. 

“What about the photo where you can clearly see his wedding band?”  Another reporter asks, shoving his microphone into the air.

“Thank you for your time.”  Thomas
calmly comments and pulls me in front of him, shielding me from the frantic reporters who begin yelling out inaudible questions.

What?  What photo?

“That’s all for now.”  Nate steps in front of us, as Thomas takes me inside. 

What
fucking photo? 
I have to contain my shock and anger and remain poised until we are out of earshot and out of sight.  As we enter the elevator inside his building, I pull away from him and he looks at me with confusion, and I rip my hand away from his. Neither of us says anything, Nate remains quiet and pretends to be oblivious as we wait for the familiar “bing” of the elevator reaching the top floor.

Soon we are in his office.  I slam my purse down on the desk as he shuts the door.

“What photo was that fucker talking about?”  I scream at him.  My heart races and my breathing is sporadic.  “You said they were years old.”

“They w
ere.  I don’t know what they’re talking about.”  He looks puzzled and angry, angry at me.  I move to his computer swiftly, without acknowledging him.  I bang hard on the keyboard. 
Fucking password. 
He reaches around me and types it in.  I grab the mouse completely ignoring him and I search Google images: Thomas A. Grant cheating photos. 

I’ve seen the first one and the second.  There. 

There it is.  It was taken in his office.  I can see his wedding band.  He’s holding on to her elbow and she is smiling.  It looks like they are talking but his hands are on her. 
Fucking bastard!

“What the hell is this?” I feel the hot tears in my eyes as I point
angrily to the screen.   He looks at the monitor and he looks pissed.  He completely ignores me, and immediately takes to his phone. 

“Michael, get security to do a sweep of my office immediately.  Look for cameras.”  He disregards me and it only fuels my anger.  I wait impatiently, brewing, for him to hang up the phone. 

“Answer me.  Now.”  My voice breaks and my eyes start to burn.

“I told you yesterday that she came to my office.
”  His face is unforgiving; he’s livid in response to my anger.

“This doesn’t quite look the way you described it.”  I sneer at him.  My lips are pressed into a hardline.  His expression slightly mollifies.

“Look at the damn picture, Emma.  She must have videotaped it and taken a screen shot or something.”

I
look at the picture again.  I’m filled with rage but I seem to be calming.  His hand is on her elbow, she’s smiling, and he’s not.  There really isn’t anything scandalous about the picture.  I scroll to look at all of the others on the screen.  Now I’ve seen all of them, I hope.  There’s only one from two days ago.  It’s the only one with him wearing a wedding band.  Looking at the others makes me depressed and vulnerable.  I weaken and move my eyes to him. 

He’
s running his hands under the windowsill.  It looks like the camera would have been set up there for the picture, the angle is right.  He shuts his eyes and drops his head.  He returns to his phone. 

“Michael, she had a camera in or on her purse somehow.  I’d still like you to search the office though…  Yes.  … Thank you.”  I see his breathing calm.  He looks at the computer screen and then his blue eyes soften as he looks at how drained I’ve become.

“Why don’t you believe me?”  He seems pissed still but he’s trying to calm.  I don’t respond.  I wipe the tears under my eyes and rest against his desk.  He puts his hand on my shoulder, but I shrug it away.  I’m not in the mood.  He sighs and takes a step back.

“I’m surprised you spoke to the press.”  He’s changing the subject.  He moves across the room and opens the door to allow Michael into the room.  “I’m really surprised.”

“I surprised myself,” I say weakly, not looking up to meet his gaze.  I hear Michael moving around the room.  I glance over as he is feeling under the desk.

I
move to sit in his chair and feel exhausted.  I put my elbows on his desk and cry into my hands.  I hate that the world thinks my loving husband has cheated on me.  Even more, I hate that it brings out the worst in me; it makes me question him.

“Don’t cry.”  He puts his arms around me moves the chair so that I am resting my head on his shoulders.  I let out heavy sobs. 

“I just can’t take anymore.”  I gasp for a breath.  “This is too much.”

“Everything is over
, Emma.”  He kisses my hair.  “No more pictures or reporters.  It’s just you and me.”  I breathe deep and try to stop my unsolicited tears.  “I love you and I would never hurt you.  I don’t know what it is going to take for you to believe me.”

“I do believe you.  I don’t know why I freaked out.”  I breathe into his neck.

“I don’t want you to question me.  You never have before, and I like it that way.”  He looks down at me, I feel his gaze. 

“I’m sorry.”  The words are barely audible.  I hav
e nothing else I can say.  He’s never cheated on me, never lied to me.  He’s given me the world.  I look up at him apologetically; his eyes are full of angst.  He closes his eyes and rubs his nose on mine.  I kiss him softly. 

“Do you want some tea to relax?”  He looks at me forgivingly.  He’s not mad anymore.  I know he wants me to be happy.

“I just want to go home, I want to take a shower.”  I blink the remaining tears away. He hesitates before responding.  “Please, Thomas.  I need to go home.”

“If you mus
t.”  His shoulders straighten.

“Michael, could you take Emma home please.”  He pauses and his eyes turn to me.  “And stay with her please.” 

He lowers his voice; “I don’t want you alone.”  I meet his gaze.  “Do you understand me?”  Michael has been quietly searching the room, avoiding us.  He’s seen so much of our relationship and heard the most intimate conversations, but he has never spoken a word about it, never judged us.  I used to feel anxious and nervous just being in the same room with him.  Now the sight of him makes me feel at ease.  Thomas trusts him, and so do I.

I GIVE MICHAEL A SMALL SMILE in the foyer as we enter.  He takes my coat.  Rose isn’t here, she won’t be back until Monday.

“
I’m just going to take a shower.” 

“I’ll be in the
den.”  He nods his head politely as I move past him towards the stairs.  Part of me wants to just collapse on the stairs and sleep.  I’m so happy to be home and still so exhausted from all of yesterday. 
She was here, in my house.
  The unwelcomed thought sickens me.  It’s enough to give me the energy to keep moving though.

I drag myself up the stairs and into the bathroom to start the
hot shower.  I need to wash all of yesterday and this morning off of my body.  I drag my body to my bedroom and I feel uneasy.  My head starts to throb.  I need more Advil, STAT.  I sit on the bed and open my nightstand, taking out two small, practically candy-coated, Advil from the bottle. 

I think I see movement out of the corner
of my eye and I jump backwards, dropping the pills on the floor. My heart races and eyes glance nervously around the room. My eyes dart I take five slow deep breaths and close my eyes. 
There’s nothing there.  Pull yourself together.
 

I open my eyes and try to relax. I need to calm the hell down.  I get on my hands and knees searching for the pills.  I let out a bit of relief when I spot them just under the bed and take them in my hands.  I throw back both pills swallowing without water.

In my closet I find a pair of sweats and one of Thomas’ t-shirts.  It’s not sexy, but right now I need comfortable. 
Maybe I’ll put on a pair of lacey underwear? 
Yes, just in case.  I wish he were home now, so he could join me in the shower.

When I return, the bathroom is full of steam.  I put the clea
n clothes on the bench; they smell like fresh lilac.  I take in the fragrance and let out a deep breath.  I love the smell of laundry.  I drop a tiny bit of bath oil onto the floor of the shower; the smell of eucalyptus fills the room.  Breathing it in slowly, my body begins to relax.  I let my hair down and leave the pile of clothes on the floor as I step in the shower.  The hot water is so welcoming on my aching body.  I immediately fill my hands with water and splash my face.  I rub my makeup away and stand under the stream with my mouth slightly parted and eyes closed.  I turn and let my hair become drenched, feeling the warmth massage my back.  I lather my hair with shampoo, continuing to breathe slowly. 
I am home and everything is all right.  I am home and everything is all right.  I am home and everything is all right. 
I repeat my mantra while rinsing my hair. The warm lather runs down my back and I finally feel at ease.

As
I grab the conditioner, my heart stops.  I hear the bathroom door creak open; the eerie sound freezes me to the core.  I can’t breath.  I can’t move. I try to close my eyes but I can’t; my body refuses to obey me. I don’t want to see.  I stare at the floor watching the water form a small pool and then disappear down the drain.  The heat overwhelms me, suffocating me.  My body starts to tremble and I try to will it to stop, finally clenching my eyes shut.

The door slams and I scream
as my entire body gives forcing my body against the tiled wall.  My temple slams against the corner shelf as I collapse onto the floor.  Tears fill my eyes and I push my body out of the stream, against the wall.  My head aches but my fear overpowers the pain.  I hear Michael trampling up the stairs.
Help me. 
I try to scream again, but my throat is closed and I struggle to breathe. 

“Emma!”  He b
urst through the door and I see a wave of steam exit the bathroom through the glass shower doors.  “Emma!”

He pulls the door open and I barely cover myself.  He has a gun in his hand.  Without hesitation he grabs a towel and wraps me in it and faces the door.  He searches the room calmly, meticulously.  I am too frightened to be embarrassed.  My heart is still racing and tears are flooding down my face.
I look around the room; there is no one there.  But I know I heard the door, I’m not crazy.