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I brush past Mike’s desk— “Just popping out to grab my lunch!”—and zoom through the front door before anyone can see the tears running down my face.
Rushing around the front of the building to the side parking lot, I hop in my car and slam the door. I grip the steering wheel with both of my hands. “I’m not going to cry. I am not going to cry.”
But tears are already streaming down my face, dripping down onto the skirt of my dress. I speed down the road, so ready to be in the comfort of my home—a little 1950s blue craftsman we’re renting off Main Street in Rosewood.
I’m so glad its super close. Only two miles from each of our jobs.
I have changed, I think to myself as I drive. I thought for the better. I feel like Patrick is helping me grow. Caring for the earth, eating better, trying to further my career so I can focus on something more important than salacious news.
Patrick thinks I could move over to political journalism.
“Listen to me. Patrick thinks… ugh.” Maybe Ava’s right. I picture a little blue rubber WWPD bracelet shackling my wrist.
The truth is I love my gossip column. I find politics a total snooze fest. I would give anything for a night out of delicious, carb-heavy pasta loaded with cheese. I dream about going undercover for a story like the “Bachman Bedroom” piece.
Okay, Lindy. You can fix this. Patrick is a good man. The truth hurts. Ava’s right. You just need to set some boundaries.
I quickly wipe away the tears, turning my car onto our familiar sidewalk-lined street, the grassy space between the road and sidewalk planted with what are now mature red maple trees. I’m already calming, just seeing the familiar, neat rows of homes, their lawns perfectly mowed.
My heart skips a beat when my house comes into view, and I see Patrick’s car is in the driveway. Oh, thank God! He must have come home for lunch today. He’ll know exactly what to say to make me feel better.
I slide into the open spot beside his in the driveway. Cutting the engine, I flip down the driver’s side mirror. I do my best to clean my face with my fingers. Fluff my hair. Put on a bit of Charlotte Tilbury powder and lip gloss from my Chanel bag.
As I fix my face, a line from the song “Scars To Your Beautiful” pops in my head.
Cover girls don’t cry after their face is made.
A dark thought but so true, at least in the pageant world I grew up in. Perfect looking on the outside even when your world is falling apart within. Accessing the mirror once more, I find I don’t even look as if I’ve been crying.
I give my face a satisfied nod. Even my mother would be proud.
I head to the house, turn my key in the metal lock, and push the door open with a happy sigh. It’s soothing to be in my safe space after my traumatic eavesdropping moment. I’m expecting to inhale the beautiful scent of my lemon verbena cleaner and orange wood polish that I just mopped the gorgeous hardwoods with on Sunday, my weekly cleaning and decluttering day.
But instead of citrus, the overpowering smell of patchouli fills my nose as I enter the living room. Strange. I don’t wear earthy perfumes, I’m a Miss Dior girl, loving the clean scent of roses—but many of Patrick’s coworkers favor the musky scent.
“Pat—” I stop myself from calling out. I stand there in the living room, frozen, key in one hand, purse in the other. Why am I not calling his name?
Quietly, I move from the living room to the kitchen. Why am I now tiptoeing through my own home? What do I think I’ll find? He’s not in the living room, or the kitchen. A strange feeling comes over me, a queasy wave rolling through my belly. A jelly-like quaver hits my kneecaps. A heavy ache fills my chest.
My eyes catch on an oversized sling bag made of brightly colored patchwork cloth hanging from the back of one of our farmhouse dining room chairs. Patrick gave me that bag for my birthday, the proceeds going back to the women in India who sewed it. Such a sweet gift but just not my style. It’s been hung in the back of my closet for months.
What’s it doing out here?
The bottom looks heavy, like it’s filled with something, as if someone has been using it. I peek inside, opening the top just enough to spot a roll-on bottle of perfume. Patchouli. My hand snaps back, realizing the bag is filled with someone else’s belongings.
Now the nausea turns to a powerful urge to vomit.
Setting my purse and keys on the table, I move from the dining room down the hallway that leads to the other rooms. What’s that sound coming from the bedroom? There’s a low, heart-stopping moan. A peal of high, tinkling laughter.
The sickening sound of skin slapping together.
The quake in my knees solidifies, traveling down my calves and settling in my feet, turning them to lead. I can’t walk toward that door and open it. But I have to. I must.
I refuse to be the girl who is blinded by the path her diamond has lit. One who won’t face what is right in front of her. I need to see it for myself.
I feel as if I’m walking through a dream or having an out-of-body experience, watching myself as I reach for the crystal knob of the real wood door—one of my favorite features when we first toured the home. I turn it slowly, painfully, and push the door open.
How is it that I know exactly what—and who—I’m going to see before I even have a full view?
