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“Are you?”
I smiled before she could answer. “I appreciate that.”
Two years ago, I would’ve changed the subject, asked about her mother, complimented her dress, or done anything to make her comfortable with what I had done.
Therapy taught me to stop doing that.
If you wanted to stand in front of me and think about the fact that I’d slept with a married man for three years, fine. Think. But I stopped tap dancing on my own mental while you did it.
Diamond cleared her throat. “I heard you got the Westin project.”
“I did.”
“That’s huge.”
“It is.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
Finally! We had successfully discussed something about me that didn’t involve adultery.
A man’s voice came from behind her. “Baby, are you ready?”
Diamond damn near jumped when her husband stepped beside her. I knew him, but I didn’t know him know him. The fact that I had to clarify that in my own fucking head irritated me.
We’d all been around each other plenty of times before my name became synonymous with women checking their husbands’ locations.
“How are you, Blair?” he asked.
“I’m good. Thanks for asking.”
Diamond’s hand immediately found his forearm. I looked down at it, then back at her. I knew she knew that I saw it. Her husband, God bless him, knew absolutely nothing. Men lived such peaceful lives.
“We were just talking about her getting the Westin project,” Diamond said.
“That’s what’s up. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ve always told Diamond your work was cold.”
Diamond’s fingers tightened around his arm.
Oh, girl… Please.
I smiled. “I appreciate that.”
He nodded, and Diamond announced that they were going to find their table approximately four seconds later.
I watched them walk away, and she didn’t release his arm. My heart dropped like it still did sometimes. It wasn’t pain or anger. It was acceptance and humiliation mixing together. I understood her, and that was what no one expected me to say.
I understood every woman who watched me a little too closely around her man. I understood every friend who stopped inviting me to couples’ nights. I understood every wife who suddenly requested one of my female associates handle her home consultation instead of me. I understood every woman who looked at me and wondered whether marriage meant anything to me because I’d given them a reason.
That’s the ugliest part of accountability. People weren’t imagining that version of me because I’d introduced them to her myself.
For three years… I knew Caleb was married, and I knew his wife Ravenna existed. I knew there was a woman somewhere believing the man sleeping beside her belonged to the life they’d built together while he was building an entirely different one with me. There is no version of my story where I could erase that. No amount of therapy, no number of apologies, and no perfectly worded explanation about what Caleb told me.
