“I’m sorry, Asher, but I have to go home.” I slip my skirt on over my bathing suit. I’ll pay him for it when I get back.
“Please, don’t go,” he pleads.
Stretching the button-down over my arms, I make sure not to look at his eyes. They’ll force me to stay, I know.
“Asher, please…”
“Asher? What happened to…?” He fumbles over his words. “Just stay the day. We’ll leave together in the morning.” He approaches me, trying to make contact.
“I have to see Jackson!”
He looks at me, aggravated, agitated, confused.
“Who is Jackson?” He nearly screams the question at me.
Holy. Fuck.
My hands stop buttoning my blouse and I look up see his gorgeous face pleading, desperate.
“Jackson is my son,” I whisper. How does he not know this?
“You have a son?” He makes it sound like he’s just swallowed a bitter pill.
I take a step back. How does this man not know I have a son? We’ve talked about this. Haven’t we?
FUCK!
“I have a child. You know this.” I continue buttoning my shirt.
“I had no fucking clue you had a kid.” He turns from me and rubs the back of his neck with his hand. “How old?”
“A little over a year.” My voice is low and my head is down. What have I done? I slide my jacket on.
He shoots around and I can see the hurt around his eyes. “You have a baby?”
I’ve never felt lower in my entire life. I slide on my shoes and grab my purse. I don’t belong here.
“I have a baby named Jackson. And I need to get home to him. He is who I should be with. I shouldn’t be here with you.” I head toward the door, stopping just before leaving. “I thought you knew.”
I pause for a second, staring at the floor, waiting for… I don’t know what I’m waiting for. His silence is deafening, yet his body is screaming at me with tension. Turning the handle, I swing the door open and let it close behind me as I walk away.
Just like that, I exit the hallway. Exit the elevator. Exit the lobby and hop into a cab.
Asher doesn’t follow me.
Why I thought I could easily hop a flight back to New York is beyond me. I sit in the airport for hours waiting to board my plane. I try calling Gabriel from the terminal, but he’s still not picking up. My battery is dying when it’s time to board the plane. I turn it off to save a little bit of juice.
My seat is 33A, in coach, a far cry from the private jet I arrived in yet exactly what I deserve. The girl next to me is afraid to fly. I can tell because her guy next to her is holding onto her hand and comforting her sweetly.
Great.
I stare out the window, watching the world below me disappear. The last seventy-two hours have marked me in a way I’ll never be able to undo. This whole time I’ve been focusing on a lost marriage when I’ve been losing myself. Going back to work isn’t the problem. My husband working late isn’t the problem. I’m the problem. My priorities have been in the wrong place.
What’s wrong with being a stay-at-home mom? What’s wrong with cherishing my little boy? Was it so bad? Did I have it so rough that I couldn’t just be happy?
And Gabriel. So what if he did run into the arms of another woman. Isn’t that exactly what I just did? I’ve made a mess of everything.
I need to make it right.
But can I?
I exit JFK International Airport and catch a cab. The New York sky is thick with clouds, the complete contrast of the beautiful blue skies of Miami.
I try Gabriel’s cell phone again. No answer.
With my legs crossed, my dangling foot shakes a mile a minute, banging on the seat in front of me. I know it’s bothering the driver, but I can’t stop. Scrolling through my phone, I bite my thumbnail as I wait for Gabriel to call me back.
Why isn’t he calling?
My phone chirps the familiar sound of a new email coming through. I open the email app and see a new message from an unfamiliar address. I tap it open and download the attachment.
Before my eyes, an image pops up on the screen that makes my heart fall down to my stomach.
It’s a photo of Asher and me this afternoon in the water, making out like teenagers. I can feel the blood rushing from my face as the horror of the situation becomes reality. Someone knows what happened in Miami. And they have the pictures to prove it.
Who could have sent this to me?
I go back to the original message and look at the address. I don’t know who it is. But the photos were forwarded to someone else. I stare at the other email address, hoping, praying it’s just my imagination. I blink once, twice, but there’s no use. It’s still there. These photos were sent to someone else. It’s an address I know all to well, and the sight of it makes me want to vomit.
Gabriel.
What have I done?
I scream at the cab driver to drive faster down the Long Island Expressway. I have to get home. I need to find Gabriel. I try calling his phone again, but my phone dies.
The cab pulls up to the curb outside our house, and I throw money at the driver before he speeds off.
The house is pitch black. I don’t know if I should wait here for Gabriel to call or get myself on the first flight to Chicago. I need to see my husband. But first I have to change. I have to shower and get the Asher off of me.
I rush through the front foyer and up the stairs. I open the door to our bedroom and head toward the bathroom, when a shadow in the dark frightens me.
A tall, dark figure is sitting in the chair in the corner. I switch on the lamp beside the bed.
It’s Gabriel.
Red, puffy circles hide his navy eyes. Dew streams down his cheeks while his once strong and lean stature is surrendered to the arm of the chair. Wavy brown hair stands up on all ends. Disheveled and disdained.
“Gabe.” I start toward him, but he holds up his hand, halting me in the middle of the room. A glass of dark-brown liquid is in his other hand. A half-empty bottle beside it. He is still in his suit pants, his jacket thrown haphazardly on the floor. His sleeves are rolled up, one three-quarters and the other hanging lower. His tie is undone and his shirt unbuttoned halfway. He has water stains on his hands from either the liquor or the tears.
He’s looking in my eyes, but instead of looks of love, there is only despair.
“I can explain.” I take a step toward him again, but his mouth opens to speak.
“Explain what?” His voice quivers. “This?” He holds up his phone to show me the same photo I saw in the cab.
I turn my head from the sight. Bile rises in my throat. Where do I begin?
“I left, Gabe. I couldn’t do it. I left to come home.” My bottom lip trembles.
“Did you fuck him?” The accusation comes out of his mouth like venom filled with anger and resentment.
I stand there stunned.
“Did. You. Fuck. Him?” His jaw is clenched, eyes burning with rage.
With my head lowered, I answer the only way I can.
“Yes.”
“AHHH!” Gabriel screams.
Rising from the chair, he throws his glass toward the wall. I jump and step back, afraid for what his next reaction might be. Not that I’d blame him. Gabriel turns his body away from me. His hands are on his hips. His body grows frigid, his back muscles tighten, and I can see his rage building.
He turns suddenly and looks at me with fresh tears in his eyes.
“You whore!” he screams.
Air leaves my body, and I struggle to breath. I have never seen such hate in his eyes. He called me a whore. Isn’t that what I am?
Wait a minute. Doesn’t it take two to tango?
My jaw sets into a quivering mess of rage. My fists ball up to my sides. How dare he treat me like this when I, at least, had the decency to wait to talk to him about his own indiscretions?