Exposure

Emily

Never in all my years had the air bitten so deeply, like winter itself had crawled inside my bones. I stumbled through the door of my room and collapsed onto the edge of the bed, fighting the sobs that were already stinging behind my eyes, turning everything soft and watery.

How could Jack do this to me?

After everything we’d built, year after year.

I’d been so certain he had truly loved me, but the evidence had just shattered that illusion.

Barging into that hotel room like a maniac and seeing him with someone else, and he hadn’t even bothered to run after me, to call out an apology.

Why did betrayal keep finding me? He wasn’t the first. With the others, I’d told myself it was because the emotional connection never quite matched the physical one. But Jack was my husband, we’d shared so much more than bodies, we’d shared dreams, routines, futures. I’d let myself believe he was my forever. Now that certainty lay in pieces.

I pushed myself upright and shuffled to the mirror. My reflection stared back, cheeks streaked, eyes swollen and red.

There had to be something broken inside me.

It had to be my fault.

The urge to escape my own skin was overwhelming. I needed distance from myself.

In the bathroom I scrubbed away the ruined mascara, then splashed cold water over my face until my skin felt raw. Back in the bedroom, I snatched my keys and left. I didn’t know where I was headed, I only knew I couldn’t stay in that house drowning in memories of him.

A few random turns later I found myself at the entrance of a Circus. The sight of those familiar stone benches eased something in my chest, just for a second. As I stepped forward, my foot caught on the half sawn tree stump still jutting from the ground, and the past rushed in.

The day Jack and I had said our vows. His hand looped in mine, both of us laughing as we left the garden that day. Me tripping over the same stubborn stump. Him grumbling about how the groundskeepers never finished the job.

We had met when I was in my final year in the university. It didn’t take long for me to realize he was the one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. As soon as I graduated, we got married, just the two of us. I was an orphan and in his case, none of his family showed.

I never asked questions, as long as I had him, it was enough. So, I kept quiet about it for five years.

For five years I was married to a man whose family I had never met. And now that he had betrayed me, there was no single person to turn to.

I shook my head hard, trying to dislodge the image, but once I looked deeper into the field the memories multiplied. The two of us under the mistletoe, mapping out how many kids we’d have, what their names might be. Him pressing me gently against the signpost, kissing me while strangers whooped and whistled around us. The moments kept coming.

I spun on my heel and fled, but the city refused to let me go. His favorite bar on the corner. The little bookshop owned by his oldest friend. The salon where he always got that precise fade. Every street carried his ghost.

By the time I realized it, I was standing outside my own door again.

I didn’t just want to leave the house. I had to leave the whole damn city.

My hand flew to my chest, as it finally dawned on me. I’m going to get divorced.

I unlocked the door with fresh resolve and marched straight to the bedroom. I hauled out my largest suitcase and started folding clothes, books, essentials, anything that didn’t scream his name.

An hour later it was done.

One final glance around the space. I told myself I was packing away the pain, the betrayal, the version of me who’d believed in him. I was stepping into someone new.

I was about to call a cab to God knows where when I heard a resounding knock on my door.

I marched with valor, despite the fact that my body felt as though it was slowly disintegrating. Anger coursed through me, seeping out through every hot breath that blew from my nostrils.

My heart hammered as I got to the front door, holding the handle and pausing for a moment just to collect myself. The moment I twisted the handle, I let my mind control my actions, my hand flew across their face instinctively, only stopping when I realized it wasn’t Jack who was standing on the porch. It was Maria, my best friend.

My hands flew to my mouth, pressing against my lips as Maria rubbed the red spot on her cheek. “Oh my God, Maria, I’m so sorry,” I said frantically, avoiding her gaze.

The tears began to stream down my face before I could stop myself. I cracked, my body finally gave way so I let the tears fall. Every tear I had held back all these years, I let them fall.

Warm hands pulled me into a deep hug, the scent of her perfume filling my nostrils. She guided me to a chair in the living room and helped me sit down as she took a seat beside me. I tried to speak but only managed to croak, the words coming out in broken sounds.

When I finally quieted, Maria stood up and walked to the fridge to retrieve a bottle of water, then came back, handing it to me before sitting down again. “I’m so sorry, Emily,” she said as I gulped hard, the water immediately soothing my throat. I didn’t realize how thirsty I had beenx not just now, but all these years.

After I finally collected myself, I took a deep breath. “You know?”

She shook her head. “Your face said it all. You had the same look I had when I found out Nick was sleeping with his secretary all those years ago, and I couldn’t…” Her voice broke, and I squeezed her hand tightly.

She wiped a tear that fell across her cheek with her thumb, then raised her head so she was looking at me again. “I’m sorry, Emily. This isn’t about me. What are you going to do?”

I took a deep breath and leaned back so my body rested against the chair. “I don’t know. I was thinking of leaving,” I said to her.

“What?!” she intoned. “Just like that?”

“I don’t know, Mari,” I sniffled. “He didn’t even come after me, you know. As stupid as I was, I waited outside the hotel for a few minutes, hoping he’d run after me for once in his life… but he didn’t.”

Maria pulled me into a tight hug. It was almost crushing, but just what I needed. “I don’t think you should leave.”

I peered up at her. My face must have shown my surprise, because she interlocked her fingers with mine and gave my hand another tight squeeze as she continued, “Not without giving him a taste of his own medicine, at least.”

“What do you mean?” I felt the words leave my throat in slow rasps.

She stood up and went to the mini wine bar that lined the wall by the kitchen counter. She reached for a bottle of wine, took two glasses from the counter, and returned to me, pulling a side stool close and placing the glasses on it. She opened the wine, and I covered my ears as it popped. Then she poured its contents into the glasses, reached into her pocket for a pack of cigarettes, took one out, lit it, then handed me a glass and said, “Cheers.”

I took the glass and downed its contents, still confused about what she meant earlier. But Maria was my only friend, even though she was a few years older, seven, to be precise. She never made me feel less, she treated me like her equal.

She took two drags of the cigarette and exhaled before setting it down in an ashtray that had suddenly appeared, swirling the wine in her glass. “Like I said, Em,” she calls me Em when she’s about to get serious, or when she’s in the mood to dish out long life advice. “We women are always the ones who walk away. Why? Because we don’t want drama?” She picked up the cigarette, took a long drag, then set it down again. “Why do we leave after so much suffering without giving these men a taste of their own medicine?” Her voice was a whisper now.

“What would you have me do?”I held her gaze as something flickered in her eyes.

“Punish him.”

“How do I do that?” I quizzed.

“I would have you welcome him when he returns, make him dinner like the good wife you are.” I frowned, and she raised her hand in the air, a gesture asking for patience. “Wash your hair, take a nice shower, wear his favorite color of lingerie. Pair it with your night robe that leaves a lot to the imagination, and wear that perfume that makes your pheromones shoot through the roof.”

“And then what?” My heart began to race as she edged closer to me.

“And then you tell him, don’t forget to cry, though, the crying always works.” She emptied the wine into her mouth and set the glass down. “You tell him you know you haven’t been the best wife and you want to make it work. You don’t want to get divorced, you want to be the wife he wants—”

“What if he doesn’t accept?” I cut in.

“Shh!” She placed a finger on my lips. “He will argue, you’ve fed his ego. He will give you so many reasons why you are the problem, even if you’ve just admitted it.” She stood up and paced around the room. “And you will feed his ego so much that the pride will burst through him. You will ravish him until he is satisfied. Then he will accept your plea. He will mutter an apology that holds no weight and tell you he’s willing to try.”

“You really think he would fall for that?”

She sank back into the chair. “Of course he would. He knows better than to let you go.” She was staring daggers into my eyes now, and my breath shuddered as she tucked a few loose strands of hair behind my ear.

“And then what?” I muttered, barely above a whisper, feeling the electricity crackling in the room. The wine had taken its full course.

“And then you let him fuck you.” Her lips were now a few inches away from mine, her hands sliding underneath my blouse, palming the base of my breasts as she grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled me closer, her breath inches from my nose. “Like this.”