Private Affairs Read online

  Private Affairs

  By Anie Michaels

  Edited by

  Hot Tree Editing

  Private Affairs

  © Copyright Anie Michaels 2015

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  Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if we used one of those terms.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  Thwap.

  That was the noise which brought me out of my fuzzy, morning fog. Putting my coffee mug down, I looked at the granite countertop to see the envelope that had just been tossed there. I looked around to see if he was anywhere near me still, but all I caught was his back as he walked out of the front door. I sighed and glanced at the rectangle staring back up at me. My name was scrawled across the front, hastily written, slanted and sloppy.

  Lena

  I was hoping we could just ignore the significance of this day. Hoping we could just continue to live in comfortable silence and not draw any more attention to the marriage that was so completely and utterly failing.

  Every day I woke up wondering which emotion would rule me. Would I be sad? Sad that the man I’d once loved was more like a roommate than a partner? Would I be angry? Angry he’d physically and emotionally abandoned me, both of which he’d vowed never to do? Would this be the day I was happy? Happy that I wasn’t tied emotionally any longer to a man who obviously couldn’t fulfill his obligations as my husband? Most days I managed to make the rounds and visit every emotion humanly possible, slowly fading from one to the next.

  Today, unusually, I was filled with sorrow. Reminded by the greeting card sitting on my counter, today I grieved the loss of my marriage. For seven years we’d been married, and if I was really being honest with myself, we’d only been happy for about two of those.

  I picked up the envelope and slid my finger beneath the lip, trying to open it without tearing the paper. I pulled the card out and read the sentiments pre-printed inside. None of the words meant anything to me; didn’t evoke any emotion, because they were empty. He bought this card because he thought he had to. He hadn’t even written anything on the inside. No personal note, no words to make me believe or hope that perhaps there was still something of our marriage to salvage. Nothing. I put the card down and exhaled slowly.

  Seven years ago I married my college boyfriend and I remembered being replete with love and excitement. I met Derrek during my sophomore year at a frat party. I hadn’t been a part of the Greek system and felt overwhelmingly out of place, having been dragged there by my roommate, Samantha. I stood in the corner of the room, holding up a wall, slowly sipping on some sugary, fruity drink in a red cup.

  While I looked around the room, trying not to seem as uncomfortable as I felt, I noticed a guy staring at me. Our gazes locked and I was immediately stunned by the deep blue of his eyes. Being caught off guard by their beauty, I hadn’t noticed them coming closer, or who they belonged to. When they were suddenly right in front of me, returning my gaze, I was forced to acknowledge the person they were attached to. Not surprisingly, the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen belonged to the most beautiful man I had ever encountered. How convenient.

  He was smiling, his full lips sliding over his white teeth, as he leaned against the wall next to me.

  “I’ve never seen you here before,” he said, still smiling. His voice was deep and playful. Nothing about him was off-putting. Everything about him screamed perfection. That should have been my first indication to run the other way. Instead, I leaned in a little closer.

  “That’s probably because I’ve never been here before,” I answered, talking loudly to be heard over the music and other party noises.

  “Well, welcome then.”

  “Thanks.”

  He reached his hand out to me. “My name’s Derrek. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Lena,” I said, taking his hand. His grip was firm, but not overpowering. He held on to my hand longer than necessary, his smile never wavering as he slowly shook it. When he finally dropped my hand, it had immediately felt colder and a little empty.

  He spent the rest of the evening chatting with me. He was very attentive, never paying attention to any other girls, only saying a few words to his friends who occasionally passed by. He seemed to be fully interested in spending the night talking to me, which was more flattering than I ever expected. At one point, the music and laughter in the house made it difficult to hear each other, so he’d asked if I wanted to go for a walk. My stomach fluttered at the thought of spending time with him completely alone, but something about him, which I couldn’t exactly pinpoint, made me comfortable.

  “Let me go and tell my friend I’m leaving,” I said, smiling at the thought of going with him.

  “Great. I’ll meet you out front when you’re ready.”

  Samantha had given me the obligatory best friend lecture about going for walks in the dark with strangers, and she’d been right; I was about to break every rule we college girls had been warned against. But I had a cell phone with a good battery charge and I also had pepper spray on my keychain. I was confident I would be fine.

  And it turned out that I would be fine – for a while.

  We walked around campus all night, continuing our conversation from the party and talking about so much more. By the time the sun came up, we were holding hands and strolling toward my dorm. We walked up the concrete stairs and stopped by the door. Both of us made some comment about how much fun we’d had, and I thought my heart would melt when he leaned in and kissed my cheek.

  After that night we were inseparable. We found ourselves in an instant relationship. It had seemed so natural, and everything about it was perfect. We had similar backgrounds and our lives almost seemed to mirror each other’s.

  Both of our fathers had started their businesses from the ground up, and both had become immensely successful CEOs, so both Derrek and I were familiar with the lifestyle of the upper class. We’d played different roles, but they complemented each other. Derrek was being groomed to one day take over his father’s role in the company, while I was expected be a wife to someone just like him. I hadn’t planned on becoming someone’s arm candy – I would have my own life and my own career – but I was expected to make a good match for someone important one day. My parents would not have been happy if I had married a starving artist. I was expected to marry someone who would fit nicely into the life
my parents had made for me, and honestly, up until a few years after I was married, I had no problem with that notion.

  But there I was, seven years into my marriage, and I was anything but happy.

  I pulled myself out of the memory of meeting Derrek and slowly walked to the garbage, dropping the anniversary card on top of all the other trash inside. I didn’t understand why he’d given it to me, other than perhaps he was trying to stave off an argument. But we hadn’t argued in forever. To argue, one had to communicate, even if it was angry, loud, harsh communication. The most we said to each other over the past few weeks had been stilted, forced conversations pertaining to upholding our appearances. We still went to functions together, still played the part of a happily married couple, but when we came home, we separated.

  I always found myself alone in our king-sized bed, and he always found himself asleep on the pull-out couch in his office. We could go days without seeing each other if we tried, and sometimes I did try. I tried to pretend as if he wasn’t there, as if I wasn’t trapped in some loveless marriage any longer, but even that was depressing. If I wasn’t married to Derrek, I was living an empty life in an even emptier house.

  Something needed to change, and in that moment, I decided, perhaps, it had to be me.

  I had loved him once, a long time ago, when careers and expectations hadn’t been on our radar. When we’d been young and, in many ways, free. When love hadn’t been a means to fulfill the wishes of our parents, but had been born out of our inability to stay away from one another. Truth be told, I still loved him; loved the idea of him, of us. But that need for him had disappeared. I wanted it back – desperately.

  I made the decision in that moment to try to fix us. To do whatever was needed to make my marriage work again, and not just be a roommate to my husband. I wanted to be his wife again.

  Chapter Two

  When I heard the front door open that evening, it signaled Derrek was home from work and also signaled the beginning of my attempt to win my husband back. My heart nearly stopped and I had to talk myself down from the proverbial ledge. I was nervous to be alone with my own husband, apprehensive about putting myself in the line of fire. But something needed to change;

  something had to give. I’d been ambitious my whole life – a doer. If I saw a problem at my job, I fixed it. In all other aspects of life, if something needed attention, I focused until I was the victor. I was determined to make my marriage work and not be miserable for the rest of my life.

  “Derrek, is that you?” I heard his footsteps falter. He’d been making a hasty retreat to his office, as he did most evenings upon arriving home. My question caught him off guard.

  “Yes. It’s me.”

  “Would you come to the dining room, please?” There were a few seconds of silence, and then I heard footfalls coming closer. When he entered the room I tried not to be discouraged by the expressions that crossed his face. At first, I saw annoyance, more than likely that I’d asked something of him. Then the annoyance gave way to surprise, which eventually turned back into annoyance. I watched as his gaze floated over to the table, taking in the lit candles, the use of our wedding china, the beautiful meal I’d made, and the bottle of expensive wine airing.

  “Lena, what is all this?” he asked, as his hand made a sharp jab toward the table and then fell to his side.

  “This is the anniversary dinner I made for us,” I said with a shaky smile, trying so hard not to sound desperate or false. I attempted to sound like this was something he should have been expecting – his loving wife preparing a delicious meal to celebrate seven years of marriage.

  “Lena…” he said, with defeat heavy in his voice. I could fill in the blanks, say the words he was thinking; I’d thought them for so long, too. This is ridiculous. I don’t know what you expect from me. What are we doing? How long can we keep this up without ruining our lives? I knew what was running through his mind, but I needed to stop him from uttering the words, because once we said them, once they were out in the open, we could never cover them up again.

  “Please, Derrek, sit down. I made your favorite. Beef roast. Just sit.” I was begging my husband to have a meal with me.

  He sighed heavily, but set his briefcase on the ground near the entryway and sat down at the head of the table. I smiled to myself because this was the first hurdle, and we’d already jumped it and landed on the other side unscathed. I walked to his chair, hoping to catch his eyes admiring me in the dress I bought to impress him.

  I was nearly thirty, never had children, and worked very hard to maintain my body. My dress was black, tight, and just a little short. I watched his eyes, hoping they’d roam over me, hoping that seeing him appreciate my form would spark some sort of fire within me.

  He never looked at me. He was focused on his plate.

  “Did you have a good day at work?” I asked innocently, like it was a question I asked him every evening.

  “I suppose. I was busy. Lots of meetings.”

  “Oh, well, hopefully you’ll be able to relax tonight.”

  I picked up the platter of roast and carried it to him, stood there as he picked up the fork and started serving himself. I took him in, looked over his profile. His hair looked a little messy, which was abnormal for him. He was usually put together, always immaculately pristine. His hard day of work must have stressed him out more than he let on. It looked as if he’d run his hands through his hair all day, undoing any styling he’d invested in this morning before he left the house.

  My eyes wandered still lower, along the thickness of his neck. The muscles that ran from his chin down to his shoulders flexed as his jaw clenched. He looked nervous, and I saw his pulse beating rapidly along his throat.

  “Are you feeling all right?” I asked, genuinely concerned.

  “I’m fine, Lena. Let’s just get on with this.” I was startled by his rudeness. He was often cold toward me, removed and stiff, but never rude.

  I was turning away from him, moving to grab the bowl of roasted potatoes, when my eye spotted something down inside the collar of his shirt. Before I could stop it, my finger involuntarily moved to his collar and pushed it aside gently and I saw more of what had caught my eye to begin with.

  “Did you hurt yourself?” I asked, and at the same time, he swatted my hand away from his neck.

  “No, I didn’t hurt myself. Lena, this is ridiculous. I have things to do.”

  My mind swirled with different thoughts and feelings as I tried to process everything that was happening. One thing became abundantly clear in that moment: he was hiding something from me. What I had first spotted and assumed was a bruise along his collarbone, I realized, like a bucket of cold water dumped on me unexpectedly, was a hickey.

  He stood abruptly, the sound of the chair legs scraping against the travertine tile floors sending shivers down my spine, like nails on a chalkboard. I’d always hated those tile floors.

  “Where are you going?” I asked hurriedly, trying to catch him before he made it all the way out of the room. Although, I could guess where he was headed – his office. If he was home and awake, he was usually hiding in there. He knew I had no business being in there, and so that was how he escaped me.

  “Like I said, I have things to do.” He continued out of the room and I set the platter down, following him.

  “What could be more important than having a meal with your wife on your anniversary?” I shouted at him as I followed him through the house, my voice echoing off the walls. I heard him sigh loudly again, but he still walked away from me.

  “Lena, don’t do this.” He had entered his office and sat down at the big chair behind his desk.

  “Don’t do what? Make you dinner? Ask to spend time with you? Why can’t we try to be normal or maybe even happy, just for one night? We used to be happy, Derrek. We used to be in love and happy. I just wanted to try and get a little happiness back tonight.”

  He was silent for a moment, shuffling papers around on his desk, av
oiding my eyes. He moved those papers around, stacking them on one corner of his desk, and then moved them to another corner. He tapped on his keyboard, stared at the screen of his computer like the answers to all the world’s problems could be found there. One thing he wouldn’t look at was me.

  “You can’t ignore me, Derrek. I’m your wife.”

  “I’m aware of that fact,” he mumbled, sounding angry.

  “What was that mark I saw under your shirt collar, Derrek?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do.”

  “Lena, please…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t understand what’s gotten into you.”

  “I spent all day trying to think of how I could surprise you for our anniversary, trying to think of ways to get back that spark we use to have between us, and you come home with a hickey under your shirt.”

  “You’re being ridiculous,” he said under his breath.

  “Am I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then take off your shirt.”

  He paused, obviously not expecting me to say those words. I hadn’t asked him to take off any piece of clothing in months. Perhaps even over a year. I’d have to really think about it to come up with a solid answer.

  “Lena, please, let’s stop deluding ourselves,” he finally replied, finally lifted his eyes to look me straight in mine.

  “I don’t think I’m deluding myself. I know what I saw.”

  “Our marriage, the part of our relationship where we have meals together or spend time alone together, is over. It’s been over for a long time now. You know it. I know it. I’m content with the way things are now.”

  “What do you mean, ‘it’s over’?” I gasped.

  “We haven’t behaved like a married couple for years now, Lena. Out in the public eye, we continue to hold up the image of our marriage, but here – in this house – our marriage fell apart long ago.”