“I never thought it would go this far. . . . I didn’t think he would propose. I thought it would just be an affair.”
“Just an affair?” Emma shouts. Her cheeks flush with anger; the passion in her voice surprises me. “Like it’s some innocuous little thing? Affairs destroy people. Did you ever consider how much I would suffer?”
I feel battered by her words, but then something ignites in me and I find myself pushing back at her.
“I know affairs destroy people!” I shout, thinking of how I’d curled up in bed for weeks after learning about Daniel’s deception, after seeing his tired-looking wife. It happened almost fifteen years ago, but I can still visualize that little yellow tricycle and pink jump rope behind the oak tree in his yard. I still remember how my pen had trembled across the page when I signed in at the Planned Parenthood clinic.
“I was deceived once by a married man in college,” I say, more softly now. This is the first time I’ve ever revealed this particular piece of my story to anyone. The rush of pain that hits me is so fresh, it’s as if I’m that heartbroken twenty-one-year-old all over again. “I thought he loved me. He never told me about his wife. Sometimes I think my life could have been so different if I’d only known.”
Emma strides across the room. She yanks open her door.
“Get out.” But the venom is gone from her tone. Her lips are trembling and her eyes shine with tears.
“Just let me say one final thing,” I plead. “Call Richard tonight and tell him you can’t go through with the wedding. Tell him I came over again and it was the last straw.”
She doesn’t react, so I continue quickly as I begin to walk toward the door. “Ask him to announce to everyone that the engagement is off; that part is really important,” I stress. “He won’t punish you if he gets to control the message. If he comes out with his dignity.”
I pause in front of her so she cannot miss my words. “Just say you can’t deal with his psycho ex-wife. Promise me you’ll do that. Then you’ll be safe.”
Emma is silent. But at least she is looking at me, even though it is with a cold, appraising stare. Her eyes rake across my face and down my body, then back up again.
“How am I supposed to believe anything you say?”
“You don’t need to. Please go stay with a friend. Leave your cell phone here so he can’t find you. Richard’s anger always passes quickly. Just protect yourself.”
I step over the threshold and hear the door close sharply behind me.
I hover in the hallway, staring down at the dark blue carpet beneath my feet. Emma must be reevaluating everything I’ve told her. She probably doesn’t have any idea who to trust.
If Emma doesn’t follow the script I’ve given her, Richard may unleash his rage on her, especially if he can’t find me. Or worse, he may convince her to change her mind and go through with the wedding.
Maybe I should not have told her of my role in this. Her security should have trumped my need to unburden my guilt, to be scrupulously honest. Her faulty perception would have left her less vulnerable than this dangerous truth.
What will be Richard’s next step?
I have twenty-four hours until he returns. And I have no idea what to do.
I slowly walk down the hallway. I am so reluctant to leave her. I am about to step into the elevator when I hear a door open. I glance up and see Emma standing in her threshold.
“You want me to tell Richard I’m calling off the wedding because of you.”
I nod quickly. “Yes. Blame it all on me.”
Her brow furrows. She tilts her head to one side and looks me up and down again.
“It’s the safest solution,” I say.
“It might be for me. But it isn’t safe for you.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
“I’ve missed you so much, sweetheart,” Richard says.
At the love and tenderness filling his voice, something in my chest twists.
My ex-husband stands not nine feet from me. He returned from Chicago a few hours ago and stopped by his place to change into jeans and a polo shirt before arriving here, at Emma’s apartment.
I am crouched down, staring through an old-fashioned keyhole in her bedroom closet. It is the only place that gives me both cover and a vantage point into the room.
Emma sits on the edge of her bed in sweatpants and a T-shirt. A package of Sudafed, a box of tissues, and a cup of tea rest on her nightstand. I thought of those touches.
“I brought you chicken soup and fresh-squeezed orange juice from Eli’s. And some zinc. My trainer swears by it to kick summer colds.”
“Thank you.” Emma’s voice is feeble and soft. She is convincing.
“Can I get you a sweater?”
My insides clench as Richard’s form fills my vision, blotting out the rest of the room. He is approaching my hiding place.
“Actually, I’m too warm. Could you bring me a cool washcloth for my forehead?”
We didn’t practice those lines; Emma improvises well.
I don’t exhale until I hear his footsteps reverse themselves as he heads to the bathroom.
I shift slightly; I’ve been kneeling for several minutes and my legs are aching.
Emma hasn’t looked my way even once. She is still reeling from my revelation; she doesn’t seem to completely trust me. I don’t blame her.
“You don’t get to orchestrate my life any longer,” she’d said to me yesterday as I stood in her hallway, by the elevator. “I’m not going to end things with Richard on the phone just because you told me to do it. I’ll decide when to call my wedding off.”
But at least she is allowing me to remain close by tonight with my cell phone in hand. Watching him. Protecting her.
We both predicted Richard would insist on visiting when Emma told him she was sick. Faking illness solves a multitude of problems. If Richard is tracking Emma’s movements, it would explain why she skipped her yoga class. Why she wants to sleep at her own place. And why she can’t even kiss him, let alone have sex with him. I wanted to spare her that.
“Here you go, baby,” Richard says, coming back into the room.
I glimpse him bending over the bed, then his back blocks me from seeing his movements. Still, I imagine him holding the damp washcloth to Emma’s forehead and smoothing back her hair. Looking at her with so much love.
My kneecaps feel as if they are grinding against the hardwood floor. My thighs are burning; I am desperate to stand up and shake out my legs. But Richard might hear.
“I hate for you to see me like this. I’m a wreck.”
If I didn’t know the truth, I would be certain she was innocent of any ulterior motives.
“Even when you’re sick, you’re the most beautiful woman in the world.”
I still know Richard so well. He genuinely means every word. If Emma expressed a craving for a strawberry sorbet or cozy cashmere socks, he’d scour Manhattan to get her the best. He’d sleep on the floor next to her if she said it would make her feel better. This is the part of my ex-husband’s nature that is the most difficult to expunge from my heart. At this moment, just like his profile through the keyhole, it is all I can see.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Then I immediately force them open. I’ve learned the danger of failing to observe the things I don’t want to behold.
If Emma didn’t live up to Richard’s expectations—and it was inevitable that she would fail to—there would be consequences. If she wasn’t the wife of his fantasies, he would hurt her, then give her jewelry to smooth it over. If she didn’t provide the family or create the kind of home he desired, he would systematically assault her reality and twist it until it became unrecognizable even to her. And worst of all, he would take away whatever or whomever she loved the most.
“I’ll tell Maureen you need to cancel tomorrow,” Richard says to Emma.
Perfect, I think. This delay could buy us some more time to figure out how to best extract Emma.
But instead of agreeing, Emma says, “No, I’m sure I’ll be better if I just get some rest.”
“Anything you want, my love, but the most important thing is you.”