Authors: Crystal Shaw
“Oh my God Emma!”
I remember her screeching, looking back to make sure he was out of earshot.
“He is totally into you. You lucky Bitch! I would kill for someone like him to look at me like that.” She playfully grabbed me by the waist making us chaotically sway on the sidewalk. Leaning into me she grinned, “Good God, he is so hot. Did you see his shoulders? I bet he has a perfectly photo-shopped abs under that shirt.”
I just giggled at her ridiculousness.
“I would grab that ass and ride him raw.” She said confidently, practically drooling. I remember her comment all too well. She caused me to convulse into frenzied laughter.
She went on and on completely uncensored as we continued to stride down the concrete sidewalk. All I could think was that she must be crazy and that I should be more careful not to bump into people when my hands are full of shopping bags and a cup of thank-God-it’s-not-scalding-but-still-hot coffee.
She was right though. He just kept looking at me with his perfectly handsome wide smile while promising, “It’s fine, really.” His impeccable blue eyes never left me, even as he haphazardly tried to wipe his shirt dry.
I closed my eyes and fantasized that he really hadn’t taken his eyes off me and that the gorgeous man was in fact flirting with me. He was in a crisp white button down shirt with a tie and a leather jacket looking like the perfect combination of serious CEO and sex god. The thought sent pure bliss through my body, everywhere. One area in particular was a little more blissful than usual.
Not five minutes after parting ways he was beside us outside of a coffee shop. When I turned to see him standing there, I was utterly speechless and, for the first time ever, so was Kate. Her lower jaw even dropped a bit. She humorously moved her hand up to close it and let out an asymmetric grin.
For a moment I though, “
Fuck, he heard her
.” Kate didn’t seem to think he could have possibly heard her obscene gabbing or if he had, she didn’t care. She just stood there trying to contain her grin and staring first at me, then him, and then back at me. I could imagine her with pompoms rooting, “Go Emma, go Emma,” doing high kicks in the air.
Before I could apologize for Kate’s uncensored blubbering, he smiled wide and just the si
ght of his gorgeous face handicapped my ability to speak. He was unbelievably attractive. Those soft blue eyes, perfect white smile, exceptional jaw line, and just a bit of stubble making him look casual but so fucking hot.
“I’m
sorry to bother you,” he said calmly, relaxing his breathing. “I just thought maybe you would let me take you out to dinner.” His blue eyes penetrated me.
A date? This unbelievably handsome sex god wants to date me?
The pompom version of Kate did a split and threw her hands up releasing the pompoms, “Score!”
The real version tightened her now wide smile and her eyes lit up, she continued to stare at me. I wanted so badly for her to speak for me. She cleared her throat and for a moment I thought she would, but instead her wide eyes just looked at the ground as she moved from side to side. I’m not sure what was more embarrassing my lack of an aptitude to speak or Kate’s schoolgirl behavior. If she had a pen and piece of paper on her she probably would have written a note:
Do you like Emma? Circle One
Yes No
I could hardly comprehend that this picture-perfect hunk of a man, who I had just spilled coffee on, ran down the sidewalk passed hundreds of people to ask me out on a date.
How did he even find me?
Next time I need a date; apparently all I need to do is dump a hot beverage on a good-looking gentleman and poof, he’ll ask me.
I parted my mouth in disbelief and tried to return a response. My hesitation was obvious. I just stood there, staring at him. My face felt like it was on fire and my mind was racing.
Say something you idiot; don’t blow it!
“I mean, I think you at least owe me one date. You did stain my shirt,” he said smoothly with a smirk on his gorgeous face. He made me blush and saved me from myself. I couldn’t help but to smile.
I knew he was exceptionally handsome and that he looked familiar, but I had no idea who he actually was when I agreed to let him take me to dinner. In fact, it wasn’t until after our first date when I searched his name online that I realized I had just given a multibillionaire a singular kiss after taking me out to have probably one of the most amazing meals I’d ever eaten.
The first thing that came to my mind was, “
Thank God I didn’t invite him back to my apartment
.” I was sure he had maids to keep everything tidy and elegant artwork hanging on walls and spacious rooms with cathedral ceilings. What would he think of my cramped apartment with Ikea furniture littered with manuscripts and crumpled pieces of paper thrown about? Before I could even worry that I had blown my chance with him by only allowing a single lonely kiss, he sent me a text.
Thank you so much for a lovely evening.
X Thomas
Was that single “x” poking fun at the fact I only let him have one peck? Well, it was way more than a peck, but still. I waited a full two agonizing minutes to text him back. I didn’t want to seem desperate, as if waiting two minutes could help me escape that image.
Thank you Thomas, I had a great time.
XX Emma
I thought I would be cheeky and give him another kiss. No hug though, I didn’t want to be too lovey-dovey. He immediately sent a message back. He didn’t seem to care whether or not he appeared desperate.
Why should he?
I’d like to see you again. Would you join me Saturday? I have a corporate dinner to attend. We can go out for a drink afterwards.
I still remember the overwhelming joy running through my body. I jumped up and down holding in my screaming delight. Pounding my fists through the air in triumph. It may have been a bit obnoxious to my neighbors. Mrs. Jones from below my apartment started banging on the ceiling, yelling at me to knock it off. So I sat on my desk chair just hugging myself and then of course I called Kate to inform her how glorious my date was. I smiled so much that night my cheeks hurt all week.
THAT WAS THE BEGINNING, a little over two years ago, a year before our wedding. Just thinking of it makes my heart collapse and my stomach feel hollow.
Maybe we got married too soon, we should have taken things slower. We weren’t that young though, mid twenties. I could have tried harder to be a better wife. I should’ve tried harder to get pregnant. I should’ve taken those hormone shots like the doctor said. It’s my fault we can’t get pregnant, not his.
No! No!
This is NOT my fault!
My rage chimes in overshadowing my melancholy, screaming at me for blaming myself. Apparently the wine wasn’t enough to completely anesthetize me or the effects are already starting to wear off. Either way I creep to the edge of the sofa, trying to gather enough strength to stand and sulk to the kitchen.
Kate raises her head to look at me. Her hand moves to her face, gently rubbing residual tears from her cheeks before resting her head on the arm of the sofa.
“Where are you going?” she asks warily, her voice strained. She wrestles with the blanket trying to release her legs. I can tell she is still concerned for me. My heart drops to my stomach as I wish I could tell her I am fine and not to worry. I think about saying those words, but I can’t. I’m not fine, and she knows that all too well. I settle on the truth.
“Just to grab another bottle,” I manage a small pathetic curl to my lips as I respond and grab the empty glass from the table.
Yes, I think I will need the bottle.
It’s hard looking at her in the eyes. My gaze drops and my eyes glaze over as I head towards her kitchen. I see her rest back into the corner of the couch and let out a sigh. I am relieved that she doesn’t feel the need to follow me. She hasn’t left me alone all night. I’m grateful to have a friend like Kate. It makes me feel selfish though, that she hurts so much for me. There is nothing I can do to ease the pain for her. It’s obvious that I am nowhere close to being okay. At least the wine is helping.
“He’s a fool Emma,” she breaths rather than speaks her conclusion. I stop midway to the kitchen and her hard wood floors creak in response to my weighted halt. I’m momentarily immobilized by her words. I don’t want to succumb to reality. I grip the stem of the glass tighter, close my eyes to prevent the burning, and breathe deep. My eyes fill but I hold back for a moment and then continue to move as I release my breath and let the tears fall carelessly down my cheeks to my chin.
I continue to the kitchen without acknowledging her or the hot unwelcomed tears. I just keep my head down. Why do I keep crying?
Because your life is falling to pieces all around you, and there is nothing you can do about it.
It’s the last bottle of red, but it should be all I need. I already feel light-headed and fuzzy. I haven’t had this much to drink since our first night as an official couple, ordained by gossip magazines. We were so careless and it felt so good. I still remember every amazing detail. The way he touched me. The way his lips tasted of sweet wine.
I relieve myself of that thought immediately, shaking my head angrily. I don’t want to think about being with him. No looking back on the past any more tonight. I need to concentrate on my immediate future, an affair with a bottle of Merlot. It’s no Cabernet Sauvignon, not smooth and sweet, but it will get the job done.
I wonder if that was what he thought: she would get the job done.
No! Stop it! No thinking, just drink! Stop doing this to yourself!
I breathe in and harshly streak the tears away from my face with the back of my hand.
I pour a glass and greedily drink all of it, tilting my head back to secure the last drop. All I can taste is bitterness. The glass slams down on the granite with all of my weight
; I stumble back a bit shocked. I don’t know if that was the result of my drunkenness or the anger that is craving to escape. It takes me a moment to realize that it isn’t broken, and relieved, I carefully pour another. I take a small sip and stand there for a moment. I feel the warmth run down my throat and settle in my chest. I sway a little. I need to sit down ASAP. I consider resting on the cold hard kitchen floor, but I decide that I should confide in the warmth of the sofa and Kate’s comfort.
I saunter back to the living room, the bottle of bitter Merlot in my left hand and the almost-filled glass in my right. Kate is no longer cocoone
d in the blanket. Instead she’s on the edge of the sofa leaning into the laptop on the coffee table.
Not this again.
I was happily unaware. I wish I could just go back to not knowing.
Do you?
I decide not to answer that question. I don’t want to think about it. I haven’t looked at the screen all night. I don’t want to see it again; once was enough. The images are burned into my mind. Just thinking about it is torture; there they are, staring back at me, haunting me. Kate looks for something in the pictures, a detail to reveal the truth maybe. But there is nothing there but undeniable evidence, and I can’t stand to look at them.
The soothing blue walls are no longer comforting. It makes me feel cold and lonely. I search for Kate’s eyes and on cue she looks up at me. I nudge the bottle in her direction, which almost causes me to spill the much-needed wine in my glass, but she just shakes her head.
Good, more wine for me then, if I need it… no, when I need it.
“Maybe it’s not true,” she says
, glancing at me from the computer screen. Her eyes are warm and her expression is soft. “You can never believe what you see on TV.” Her voice sounds hopeful, but not moments ago she called him a fool. What conclusion is she coming to? Did he or didn’t he have an affair? The pictures support the former.
My shoulders move up in a pathetic attempt at a shrug. “It was on the news, Kate. It’s not like the news is going to lie.” My voice is low and drone. I see her body collapse to the weight of my negativity. I look down at the floor.
She is only trying to help.
I sit cautiously next to her, careful not to look at the screen. I don’t want to see. Those pictures were the end of my happiness and the start of my downfall. Staring vacantly ahead I move the glass to my lips and take a small sip before the tears start again.
I force my sadness into anger. How could they post such awful things? It’s amazing how quickly those vultures will grab onto a story and let it spread like wildfire. I’m sure it will be on every gossiping magazine cover tomorrow.
Isn’t that a little conceited? Your meltdown of a life is significant enough to make the cover? I’m sure some celebrity is doing coke or tweeting pictures of their prick … that’s a bit more interesting that your disaster of a marriage. Keep those fingers crossed and hope that some housewife slut is pregnant with triplets.
The nasty thought actually puts me at ease. I can only hope I don’t have to endure the ridicule of trashy magazines grabbing hold of these photos and plastering them everywhere.