Forbidden Love, page 14
And here’s the most ironic thing: I can’t write anymore. Since Ilya, my characters always seem cardboard thin.
And love scenes?
Forget it. I can’t write them. Maybe because I’ve become so cynical. How can I write about love and romance when I feel like such a hypocrite?
And, to make matters worse, just the other day, I got a letter in the mail from one of the publishers I’d sent a partial to. They want to see the complete manuscript, but I don’t know how I can possibly finish the book. Not with this cloud of guilt hanging over me.
So, readers, I ask you, what should I do?
Should I cleanse my soul and confess everything to Trent?
I know that the knowledge of my infidelity will devastate him. And even if he can somehow find it in his heart to forgive me, how can he ever trust me again?
As it is, I don’t even know if I can trust myself. I don’t think I would ever again do anything as crazy and wrong as what I did with Ilya, but who knows? Before I met him, I never dreamed it would be possible for me to sleep with any man other than Trent. I’ve always been a good girl, always prided myself on doing the right thing.
So how could I have gone so terribly wrong?
I leave it up to you, dear readers. Tell me what I should do.
Live with the guilt, or confess all to my husband?
You decide. THE END
THE TRUTH HURTS!
Why do I destroy the people I love most?
It was a party from hell. On the drive home, I sighed with relief and turned to look at my husband, Grant.
“Whew! I am glad this night is over.”
“You were right in there with the best of them,” he said in an even tone. “You were lying through your teeth by pretending everything was just fine.”
“What were we supposed to do?” I asked defensively, sitting up straight and uncrossing my legs. He studied the steering wheel, and I noticed how tight his grip on it was.
“You could have told the truth,” he said simply.
I snorted and laughed unpleasantly. “Oh, sure. I should have told Simone that we all know her husband is making it with Michelle, while Michelle sits there looking like Alice in Wonderland, so pure, so blonde. That would really be cool, Grant. It would even be more awful than sitting there pretending everything is just fine!”
“This whole evening just gave me the creeps,” he said as he parked the car in the driveway. “I wonder when it was that honesty became something to avoid at all costs.”
I shrugged and followed him inside. In bed later, I tried to joke with Grant about his remark. “You can’t handle the truth,” I said lamely, trying to imitate Jack Nicholson in a movie Grant loved.
“Maybe you can’t,” he said, ignoring my attempts to make him laugh. He obviously was not in the mood for jokes.
I reached over and pressed my body close to his. “Can you handle this?” I asked softly.
“I’m not in the mood, Wendy.”
Being turned down hurt my feelings, but I was tired so I didn’t mind all that much. I figured after a good night’s sleep, Grant would be fine.
Before I fell asleep, I thought about Simone and her wandering husband, Nate. I did feel bad about the secret because Simone was my best friend, but there was no way I was going to hurt her by telling her the truth. I didn’t much like Nate, anyway. I always had the feeling he was laughing at me.
Simone and I are opposites. She is short and dark, and I am tall and fair-skinned. She loves sports, and I love to be at home. Our friendship started because we have kids the same age. My daughter, Lucy, and her daughter, Krista, are both five.
We took our kids to the park together for them to play and discovered over time that we were friends, too. Her attempts to get me to exercise and run with her were useless, however. My idea of exercise is to walk from the car to the mall or the grocery store or the house.
When the news got out that Nate and Michelle were seeing each other, I didn’t want to believe it. I never mentioned any of the gossip to Simone, and she never said anything to me about trouble at home. Then one day, Grant came home and told me that Nate admitted to the affair at a golf game the guys all went to.
“He was actually laughing about it,” he said. “He was comparing Michelle’s lovemaking skills to Simone’s. It made me sick. I had to leave.”
I was proud of my husband for doing that, but I still could not bring myself to tell Simone what everyone was saying.
“I just can’t tell Simone,” I told Grant.
“She probably already knows,” he answered quietly.
I looked at him, surprised by his words. “What makes you say that?”
Grant’s face turned red, as if he were embarrassed. Sometimes Grant blushes if someone catches him being “sensitive.”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Just a guess.”
“I don’t think she does. Simone would confide in me if she knew or even suspected. I know her too well. She can’t keep a secret.”
“Forget it,” Grant said. “It doesn’t really matter.”
I didn’t forget about it, though, and a couple of days later, I asked Grant again why he thought Simone already knew about the affair.
Grant looked strangely tense. “Could we change the subject please? I hate talking about all this crap.”
I started to say more, but I could tell by Grant’s face that he was through with the subject, so I didn’t press on.
The next morning was frosty, a sure sign that winter was coming. Lucy chattered and sang over her breakfast, and Grant buried his head in the paper and drank his coffee. Lucy had been invited to a birthday party that afternoon, so she was very excited. She hurried away from the table finally, wanting to get ready for the big event.
When she was gone, I sat down next to Grant with a cup of coffee. “If I were being totally honest, I would tell you that I wish you would put down that paper and talk to me.”
Grant lowered the paper and looked at me. “You couldn’t be totally honest if you tried.” He wasn’t smiling.
“I beg your pardon?” His words made me suddenly very angry and defensive. “Are you calling me a liar?”
His jaw tensed in an all-too-familiar way. “I’m not saying that,” he snarled at me, “but you and I play the same game as everyone else. We lie automatically. Hell, our lives are all lies, if you really want to be honest about it.”
“Where did all this come from?” I was astonished by his words. He was usually so nonjudgmental.
He sighed. “Let’s just drop it, Wendy. I really don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“No, no,” I continued. “You can’t tell me I’m dishonest and then tell me to forget it.”
So we continued on, back and forth like this, for about fifteen minutes. What I intended to be a discussion had developed into an argument. By that time, we were both angry and we were saying things we really didn’t mean.
About that time, Lucy came running into the kitchen clutching her favorite pink dress. “I want to wear this to the party,” she announced, waving the dress in the air.
She stopped and looked at us. “Are you having a fight?” Only a five-year-old would be so blunt, and my immediate reaction was to deny it.
“No, we’re not fighting.” I gave her a hug. “Yes, you may wear the dress.”
She smiled and looked at her dad. “Are you fighting with Mommy?” she persisted.
“Yes, I am,” he answered simply. He gave me a defiant look.
“Well, stop it,” Lucy said, wrinkling her face into a frown. “I don’t like it when your voices get red.”
Grant and I both smiled. “Getting red” to Lucy meant anything disagreeable. When she left the room, though, the tension between Grant and me deepened.
After about five minutes of arguing back and forth in whispers so Lucy couldn’t hear, Grant stood up.
“I don’t want to fight with you, Wendy.” He threw his arms up in the air as if he were surrendering. “But we are what we are, and none of us is very honest, including you.”
“I don’t know about you, Grant,” I said in a prissy voice that I hated the sound of, “but I consider myself to be a very honest person.”
Grant sighed. “Even that’s a lie.”
“How is that a lie?” I asked, almost shouting again.
“You don’t really believe you tell the truth all the time. I know I don’t.”
“I am honest,” I said proudly. “I would like to know what you are dishonest about, since you seem so ready to admit it.”
“No.” He had a sad look that frightened me. “You don’t want to know, Wendy.”
Maybe it was because he scared me with that look and those words or maybe I was just reveling in a good argument, but I kept pressing him.
“Come on, Mr. Honesty,” I prodded sarcastically. “Give me the benefit of your total candor. Tell me your pathetic little secrets.”
Grant’s face was as rigid as a board. His eyes were dark with fury. “All right,” he finally said. “You want me to tell you the truth about our lives, about me? I will. I have been sleeping with your best friend, Simone, for about six months now.”
He may as well have slapped me. The effect was exactly the same. My first reaction was to gasp, then for some reason, I laughed.
“That is a terrible thing to say,” I sputtered, unable to believe at that moment that Grant might be telling the truth. I thought he was just trying to shock me in order to stop the argument.
“But it’s the truth, Wendy. If you want more of the same truth, I am in love with her and I want to be with her.” With those words, he bowed his head, but I could see that his face was gray and sad.
I sat down on the chair, since my legs no longer could support me. I looked at Grant, and I knew that what he had just told me was the truth and that the truth was more awful than anything I’d ever imagined.
Lucy came running into the kitchen with another dress to show us. She stopped suddenly and looked at us.
“Uh-oh,” she said. “Red again.”
Grant walked out of the room, and I guess my automatic mother pilot clicked on, because I dealt with Lucy in a calm way. I reassured her that Mommy and Daddy weren’t fighting, and then I left the house. I had no idea where to go. When I was upset, my first inclination had always been to seek out my friend Simone, but how could I do that now?
I drove around for a while in aimless shock, but then I did turn to Simone. I drove down her familiar street, not knowing what I would say when I saw her, but knowing I did have to see her and hear the words from her.
Nate answered the door. “Saturday morning and it’s Wendy,” he said in his glib, mocking, slightly insulting way. I looked at him with disgust, not only for what I believed was going on behind Simone’s back with him and Michelle, but for what was going on behind his back with his wife and my husband. So I glared at him and asked to see Simone.
“Won’t I do?” he asked with a grin and a wink.
My increasing glare stymied him apparently, and he turned to shout for Simone.
Simone came out of the kitchen looking comfortable and familiar. “Ah, Wendy,” she said, reaching her arms out to me. “You came to help in the post-party cleanup. Bless you.”
I looked at my friend and fought back the tears. Even in her sweatpants and tee shirt, she was adorable. Her dark curls fell across her face like ribbons. Her cheeks were rosy, even though her eyes looked tired.
“Can I talk to you in private?” I asked in a shaky voice.
Simone’s face immediately changed to one of concern. “What’s wrong?” she asked. I saw fear in her face now, maybe even guilt.
“Could you just come outside and sit in the car with me, Simone?” I asked.
Nate was watching from a distance. “Go ahead, honey. I’ll take over in the kitchen.”
Simone followed me out to the car silently. When we got inside, I turned to face her.
“You know,” she said softly, turning her head away from me.
I clenched the steering wheel in front of me, watching the icy rain streak down the windshield. I died inside.
“Is it true?” I managed to ask.
Simone put her head into her hands and started to sob. “It’s true. Oh, Wendy, I am so sorry.”
“Get out.”
“Wendy, please,” Simone pleaded, reaching over to touch my arm. “It just happened. I was so miserable about Nate and Michelle, and I couldn’t talk to you—I just couldn’t. Then one day I ran into Grant and he listened and he seemed to care, and it just happened, Wendy.”
I kept staring out the window. “You knew about Nate and Michelle?” For some reason, that piece of information enveloped my brain at the moment. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew?”
Looking back, I realize how ridiculous it was for me to ask Simone about that when my world was turning to ashes.
“I had this other thing on my mind, Wendy,” Simone said in dry, choking words.
I turned to look at her. “This other thing being my husband,” I said sarcastically.
“We never meant for it to go on, Wendy,” Simone nearly moaned. “We just couldn’t stop. I love Grant, Wendy, and that’s the awful truth of it. God help me, but I do.”
“Well, I love you both,” I said, still staring out the window. “Or at least I did. So, like the song says, what has love got to do with it? Now get out of my car.”
Simone got out, but she leaned in the window. “Are you going to tell Nate?” she practically whined.
I sped out of the driveway without answering her. Experts say in times of great stress or tragedy, the body locks down to protect itself, and that is what happened to me. I drove home and went into the house. I had to get my daughter ready for the party, and that is all I could deal with at the moment.
I said only two words to Grant during the hubbub of getting Lucy ready: “Start packing.”
As she was leaving for the party, Lucy turned to me. “When I get back home, no red, okay?”
I smiled and hugged her, fighting back my tears.
Grant came out of the bedroom with a suitcase in his hand. “I’m going over to stay at Mom’s house for a while. If you need me, that’s where I’ll be. Are you sure this is what you want to do, Wendy?”
“No, Grant,” I practically spat out. “I don’t have any choice, though.”
He turned to leave.
“One more thing before you go,” I added.
He stopped, with his back to me, and waited.
“Is Simone the only one you’ve been with since we were married?”
Grant turned to look at me, and I almost laughed for one insane moment at the shocked and offended look on his face.
“There could have been others,” he said in a stiff, self-righteous tone. “I held out until Simone and I found each other. God knows I had reason to look around. You made it clear to me once Lucy was born that I was unimportant to you.”
“So much for honesty,” I managed to say between my sobs. “I’m sorry I asked.”
Then Grant left our home. The next two weeks are a blur in my mind. My mom came to my rescue, bless her heart. Once she found out what was going on, she came to the house and stayed.
“Dad will be all right on his own for a while,” she insisted. “It will do him good.”
“That isn’t true, Mom,” I protested weakly. “I know how much he depends on you.”
“He told me to come, Wendy.” She took my face in her hands. “You need to grieve a while.”
It was amazing how my friends stayed away. There were a couple of calls at first, curiosity calls mainly, and then the phone was silent. I did hear through the grapevine that Nate had moved out and that Simone and Grant were living together in her house.
Then the inevitable happened: Grant called to see Lucy. I knew I couldn’t deny him that. Lucy was very confused and missed her daddy. I tried to explain to her in simple terms why her daddy was living in Krista’s house with Krista’s mommy, but I could tell by the blank, hurt look in her eyes that she couldn’t make sense of it. Neither could I, as a matter of fact.
“Everything’s red in this house,” Lucy muttered one day.
When Lucy came back from her weekend with her dad, she seemed happier and calmer.
“We had a lot of fun,” she told me. “I like being Krista’s sister.”
Her innocent words stung my heart. I knew enough about kids, though, to know that now was not the time to give into petty jealousy and make some caustic remark about Grant and Simone that would only confuse Lucy again.
“That’s good, honey,” I finally said.
Grant filed for divorce, and I accepted the fact that my life as I knew it was over. Along with that acceptance came a new resolve that I would always tell the truth and be honest in the future. Lying, or ducking the truth, never gets anyone anywhere, I said over and over to anyone who would listen.
I avoided telling Lucy about the divorce, though, as long as I could—but I knew I had to do it. Without a doubt, it was the hardest thing I ever did in my life.
“I don’t know what that means—divorce,” said Lucy. “But I know it’s red.”
“It just means that Mommy and Daddy will live in different houses, but we will both always love you,” I explained.
“Did daddy divorce me?” Her blue eyes were so sad, so scared, all I could say was a simple no.
“Just make the red stop, Mommy.” Her eyes begged me to make everything all right again, and I knew I couldn’t do it. It was hard knowing how much truth could hurt Lucy, so sometimes I made an exception in her case and gave up my determination to be totally honest.
“I will try,” I promised, knowing only time would make things better.
After about a month of “grieving” and self-pity, I sent Mom home and started looking for a job. I landed a good job pretty quickly. I have a degree in public relations and a good resume. Felton International hired me on their publication team, and a retired neighbor lady agreed to come and take care of Lucy after kindergarten each afternoon.
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