“Tell me about it,” she tells me, and her voice is soft. “I won’t judge.”
“I don’t feel like I can ever talk about it,” I tell her. “I don’t like to discuss it with Michel, because he knows her and loves her. I don’t want him to look at her differently. You know?”
Zoe stares at me, waiting.
“My wife is an amazing person.” I make the statement simply. “And I love her.”
Zoe is silent for a second. “Then why are you here with me?”
That, of course, is an excellent question. There are a couple of reasons. The most important is that Zoe would ruin everyone’s lives if I wasn’t. She has very subtly made comments that she wouldn’t hesitate. So I have to bide my time until I figure things out, until I figure a way out.
“I’m not sure,” I tell her honestly. “I guess I’m just a scumbag.”
She shakes her head. “No. You’re not. But let’s not focus on that. Tell me more about your wife.”
I don’t know why she wants to know, and for a minute, I don’t care. Although I don’t even like this girl, it does feel good to talk to someone who doesn’t know Corinne, who can’t judge her, who can’t examine her under a microscope.
“She was raised in a tiny town a couple of hours from here,” I tell her. “And when she was in high school, her dad killed two people. A woman he’d been having an affair with and her husband. Corinne was there. She was babysitting, and apparently, she saw everything. The trouble is, she doesn’t remember it. She disassociated with it almost immediately. It sometimes happens to people with PTSD when they’ve been through a significant trauma.”
“That’s terrible,” Zoe says quietly, and her fingers reach for mine. I let her hold my hand, and I stare into the distance.
“Corinne was taunted terribly while she was still in Stratton Bay. Teased mercilessly by the kids at school, because her dad was in prison for murder, and because she couldn’t remember what happened. They called her crazy just like her father.”
I pause and take a breath. Zoe chews on her lip.
“And is she?”
Her question is hesitant.
I shake my head. “No. She has some lingering issues, of course. Anyone would. But crazy? No.”
“But didn’t she... I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry, but I heard at the café that she attempted suicide.”
Zoe squeezes my hand, and ice shoots through my heart, because the mere words startle me every time. Corinne did attempt suicide. My beautiful, confident wife. It’s something I still can’t comprehend.
“I can’t explain that,” I tell her. “Neither can Corinne. She doesn’t remember. Her brain is protecting her again, disassociating from everything that might cause her pain.”
Zoe is sympathetic, her gaze soft, and her grip tight. “God, Jude, I’m sorry. You’re going through so much, because even though she can’t remember, you can. I’m glad you’re talking to me. I’ll do anything I can to lighten your load.”
She’s quiet for a few minutes. Pensive.
“Has she talked to you about what happened with her father?”
I nod. “A little. She knows he was having an affair. And she remembers showing up at his mistress’s house to babysit. But that’s pretty much it. She remembers the blood, she remembers waiting for the police. But other than that, she says it’s like her brain has holes.”
“God, how miserable for her,” Zoe murmurs. “I can’t imagine.”
“Yeah. Me, either. I tried to convince her to get therapy for years, but she never wanted to. It was like she was too afraid of what she might discover. But here lately, she kept getting triggered and started having panic attacks. She thought she was going crazy, and then...well, the suicide attempt.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. It’s hard. I’m not going to lie.”
“So that must be why you’re here,” she suggests. “With me. You’re searching for comfort. Or a distraction.”
“Let’s not overanalyze it,” I tell her. Because thinking about it makes me sick. The idea of being here makes me sick. I should leave. Right now.
Yet I can’t. Because I don’t know what Zoe would do, and Corinne isn’t in a strong enough place to bear it. I just have to wait this out.
When I look at Zoe again, her eyes are soft, and she’s staring at me, and she reaches for me, pulling me into a tight hug. Her hands rub at my back.
“I’m here for you,” she tells me. “For as long as you want me to be.”
I close my eyes and ignore my guilt, my pain, my reality.
I feel her lips on my cheek, then they meet mine, and I keep my eyes closed. That makes it better, more palatable. I feel less of a prick if I don’t actually look at her.
Her arms tighten around my neck, and the kiss deepens, and my traitorous body reacts.
Against my will, my dick hardens. I don’t even like this girl as a person. I know that. I’m getting ready to push her away when...she starts shrieking.
Jumping up, she waves her arms around like a madwoman.
“Get it, get it!” she yells.
I’m confused for a minute until I see the bee buzzing around her head.
“Stop flailing,” I tell her calmly. “Be still.”
She stops moving and follows the bee with her eyes.
“I’m deathly allergic,” she tells me. “Can you kill it? Please?”
I watch the insect, following it. “Do you have an EpiPen with you, by chance?”
She shakes her head. “No. I’m allergic to epinephrine.”
“Well, that’s an unfortunate pairing of allergies,” I tell her, and I have to admit, I’m doubtful. Part of me thinks she’s being dramatic to get attention. The bee lands on a nearby plant, and I squash it under my foot. It curls onto the ground, lifeless.
“There. It’s taken care of. You can relax.”
She goes limp and exhales shakily. If she’s acting, she’s good at it.
“Thank you. I was stung when I was a kid, then they gave me epinephrine, and I almost died. If they hadn’t figured out I was allergic, I would’ve.”
“Well, it’s gone now. Don’t worry.” I eye her, and she seems sincere.
She grabs my hand and we walk back to my car.
“Thank you,” she tells me, kissing my cheek as I drop her off. “You’re my hero. Can I see you tonight? I could come over. We could watch a movie or something. I was supposed to go to a movie with Chelsie—you remember her, right? But she canceled.”
“Yeah, I remember her.” Of course I do. “I’m not sure what my plans are tonight. I’ll text you later.”
She nods, then she’s gone, and I drive home, hating myself the whole way.
I hate myself. I really do. I don’t know how I’ve let this, whatever this is, continue. I don’t know...but I do.
It was one moment that pushed me over the edge.
One moment that led me down this lustful path. One moment that changed my mind about this girl and led me to risk everything just for the sexual thrill.
One. Fucking. Moment.
I’m pathetic.
18
Eight days until Halloween
Jude
I love mornings.
Of course, I don’t decide that when I’m groaning as my alarm goes off, or as I’m getting dressed in the dark with bleary eyes, or when I’m sucking down quick gulps of coffee to wake up.
No, I decide that as I’m jogging down my front steps with my dog by my side, as the cold breeze hits my face and I enjoy the silence. It feels like I’m the only man in the world as I stride down the sidewalk out of the subdivision and through the park to the running trails.
The silence is golden.
It feels so good every morning to not have to listen to talking. I love my job, I do. But there are days when the endless talking grates on me, getting to me in a way that makes me feel like going postal.
But every morning, I balance myself again with this.
A silent jog through silent woods with my trustworthy sidekick.
I slow my stride down so that my aging sidekick can keep up. We’ll take a truncated jog today so that she doesn’t overdo it.