Trouble (Orsen Brothers #1) (7 page)

Blank walls surrounded me where photographs and artwork should have hung and what little furniture I had was sparsely placed. I loving referred to it as “minimal”—but the truth was—I simply hadn’t mustered up the energy to plant roots here. There were still boxes stacked on top of each other in the corner. I eyed them incredulously. At this point they might never get unpacked.

With a deep sigh, I entered my bedroom and collapsed on my unmade bed, lifting my legs in the air to peel of my stockings. I balled them up and tossed them to the ground on top of a similar pile, making a mental note-to-self to do laundry soon. I was running out of clean stuff to wear.

My mind wandered as it always tended to. I could remember lying in this same bed one-year prior in a different house—one that was actually decorated—beside Stephen’s stretched out form.

The past five years unraveled before my eyes: Stephen’s seaside proposal, our pointlessly expensive wedding, our anniversary getaways, and all the bad things that filled in the gaps of our otherwise harmonious routine. We we’re comfortable together. We we’re happy. We we’re in love.

Weren’t we?

“Love” was there for us after the abortion. “Love” was there when he lost the election. “Love” was there when he spent the next four months drinking cheap whiskey and feeling sorry for himself. “Love” was there when he pulled himself up again and found a new job. “Love” was even there when the late nights started again—and the lies—and the anger thinly veiled as disappointment.

Then one evening—I looked at us in the bathroom mirror as we stood side by side brushing our teeth—and I realized that I didn’t recognize the people staring back. His eyes were dead and sunken in and I was a shadow of the naïve girl I was when I met him.

It wasn’t the adultery or even the abortion. The truth was, there wasn’t any one factor as to why our relationship collapsed. It just did—slowly and then all at once. We didn’t know anything about each other; we never bothered to. He didn’t know that I preferred soups to salads or that I liked to indulge in a cigarette every now and then to calm my nerves. And I didn’t know—or care really—about the way he like his steak.

We weren’t anymore in love than two strangers passing each other on the street and just like that, I let go of the optimistic hope that we could put a bandage on a wound that had been quietly hemorrhaging for years.

What we were left with were memories; the way his emerald eyes crinkled with joy every time I made jokes at his father’s expense. The way my heart would beat a little faster every time he whispered in my ear—his breath warm and escalating against my neck. And the way he would hum along to the radio during our car rides and point out things for me to look at. We were quite the pretty picture once; but every illusion began to crumble away eventually…

T H E N

The club was empty when I arrived. Only one girl, blonde and tired looking, graced the stage. She twisted her body around a silver pole, making herself one with it for an audience that wasn’t there.

The air was thick with smoke. Fluorescent lights flickered above me. I slid into an empty leather booth in the back across from Stephen. He looked up from his whiskey and slid me my glass. He always did this. I had come to the conclusion a long time ago that he liked me better drunk.

But what the hell. Maybe the lubricant of alcohol would help me aid me in what I was here to do. I lifted the glass and drained it in one gulp, flicking my eyes up to meet his.  He smiled at me, small and tight—, is eyebrows furrowed.

“Why did you want to meet here?” he asked, getting right to the point.

I reached in my purse and pulled out a stack of folded bank statements. “Here,” I said, unfolding them and pointing to the parts I had highlighted in bright pink marker.

“Over twelve thousand dollars,” I said stoically, folding my arms over my chest. “What man, Stephen, married or not, needs to spend that much money at a place like this?” I laughed, briefly catching the attention of the girl on stage. “How is that even possible?”

Stephen swallowed hard and slowly rubbed his jaw. “Look,” he said evenly, “It’s not what it looks like. My clients like coming here from time to time so I oblige.”

“Right.” I tossed the papers at his chest. “God, do you really expect me to believe that?”

“Venus,” he said, glancing over his shoulder and clenching his jaw, “do we have to do this here?”

“Why not?” I bit back, glancing up at the stage as the girl did a slow pivot. I knew I wasn’t the easiest to be around. That my alcoholism had wore thin on him and our marriage. But it wasn’t any excuse. “You seem to like coming here. What, are you afraid one of your girls might see us?”

Stephen exhaled a deep breath, furrowing his brows. “I guess you think you’ve got it all figured out,” he said, waving a hand at me. He shook his head and trailed his thumb along the edge of his glass. “Remember what you told the marriage counselor—‘I jump to conclusions’—well you’re doing it.”

I scoffed. He had a lot of nerve bringing that up under these circumstances.

“Don’t you dare,” I said, sitting up straighter, “sorry I don’t look at the world through rose-colored glasses. I know that’s what you’d prefer but I’m no fool.”

“Look…” He stirred his drink and looked down at it, shrugging his hefty shoulders. “I told you. I come here with clients. It helps me close deals. That’s it.”

“Oh, of course,” I bit back, “because this is such a friendly place to do business, isn’t it?”

A cocktail waitress approached to see if we were all right. Her eyes, black with exhaustion, darting back and fourth between us. “We alright here?” she asked, taking our empty glasses and setting them on her tray.

“We’re fine,” Stephen told her, sliding her a tip anyway. His eyes lingered on her backside as she walked away.

God, he was so transparent…

He turned his attention back to me and cleared his throat, leaning back against the booth and flexing his arms. “So what are you going to do?”

“What?”

He cracked his knuckles and waved a hand at me. “You don’t believe me,” he answered drily, “so are you leaving me or what?”

I stood up and shook my head. “Maybe,” I said evenly. “I don’t know yet. But what I do know is that we need some time apart. I’m moving out.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” I said, “I’m going to stay with my sister for a few weeks. Then I’m getting an apartment—somewhere in the city—closer to work.”

“Venus. Come on…”

“No.” I shook my head. “There’s no ‘Venus come on’—not anymore.”

“She was a girl I knew when I was growing up,” he spoke up when I turned my back from him. I started to walk away but he pulled my back. “She worked here. She needed the twelve grand to leave her abusive husband and start fresh. We were never involved in that way. I just wanted to help her.”

My heart raced.

Did he actually think that would make me feel better?

“It doesn’t matter though, does it?” he asked, his deep voice tapering off into a whisper. “You’ve already made up your mind…”

“No,” I said evenly, snapping my hand from his, “It doesn’t.”

I paced for the door and he followed suit, slapping a handful of crumpled bills on the table to cover our drinks. “Newsflash,” I said once we were in the parking lot, spinning around to face him, “even if what you’re saying is true, emotional cheating is still cheating. How stupid was I to think you were over that?”

He was quiet for a long time.

“We’re only friends,” he finally spoke up.

“Yeah?” I sighed and studied a puddle of water in the middle of the concrete. “Well I have no reason to believe that.”

Chapter 9

—

I
sighed and sat up, glancing over at the clock. He would be here soon. I opened the door to my closet and thumbed through it for something suitable to wear, opting on an expensive dress he had bought me as a birthday present the previous year. He said he liked the way I looked in red. That it brought out the subtle undertones of it in my hair. My fingers danced over the fabric as I shrugged off my clothing and unzipped it, pulling it up my body and eyeing the hardwood floor for my high heels.

I slid one on and bent to fish the other out from under my bed. The doorbell rang, jolting me upright. I raced to answer and grabbed a clutch purse along the way, stuffing my phone and wallet inside of it.

“Just a second!” I called out as I scoured the living room for my jacket. I caught a glimpse of myself in window and pulled my hair up into a loose bun. It wasn’t perfect but it would have to do. “I’m coming!”

I yanked open the door as I pulled on my jacket. Stephen was standing perfectly polished before me. “Hi,” I said breathlessly, giving him a manufactured smile.

“Hi,” he replied, looking down at his watch. “I’m not late am I?”

“No.” I shook my head. “You’re right on time…”

“Good,” he said, waving a hand at me. “You look amazing.”

“You don’t have to lie,” I said, turning to lock the door. “I just got home from therapy with my mother. I got ready in under five minutes.”

“How did that go?”

“Therapy?” I waved a hand in the air. “You know.”

He chuckled and extended an arm to me. I took hold of it and we made our way down the steps. For a brief moment, we almost seemed happy together.

“So where are we going?” I asked him as we climbed in his car.

He shook his head and smiled. “I’m not telling.”

I pouted.

“That won’t work this time,” he said with a light laugh, pulling away from the curb. “Really, I want it to be a surprise.”

“You know I don’t like surprises…”

“You’ll like this one.”

“That’s doubtful.”

“Jesus.” He turned to me and shook his head. “It’s our anniversary. I don’t want to argue. You’ll like this, I promise.”

“It’s too hot,” I commented, changing the subject and leaning forward to twist the knobs on the dash until cool air blew back at me. “That’s better.”

The rest of the car ride was a quiet but I didn’t mind. There weren’t very many topics we could talk about these days that didn’t lead to an argument.

About fifteen minutes later, he pulled up in front of a large manor-like building and parked, getting out to open my door. I swallowed hard and let him usher me inside the same Italian restaurant our wedding rehearsal was held at.

“So this is the surprise,” I noted, sliding into the booth we were seated at near the back.

“Did I do good?”

I nodded and reached for the menu in the middle of the table. “You did, actually.”

He smiled at me and reached for my hand. I flinched and pulled away from him without thinking, taken momentarily aback by his touch. His smile faded but he quickly regained his composure. We studied our menus silently and I looked up at him every few seconds to see if he was looking back.

“Do you know what you want to order?” he asked after a few minutes, clearing his throat.

“Lasagna. That’s good here, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he answered, “I think I’ll have a filet mignon.”

“Good choice…”

I couldn’t help but dwell on how stiff and boring we were. Our conversations used to come so easy once. But somewhere along the lines of our separation—or maybe even our entire marriage—that had changed.

He swallowed and looked back down at his menu. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he took a sip of his water and I fiddled with my wedding ring, which I put back on just for this occasion. All we were doing was kicking a dead horse and I couldn’t entirely understand why.

An obviously new couple was seated at a table across from us, giddy with the anticipation of what their relationship would bring. They sat on the same side of the booth as opposed to across from each other and my stomach turned as I watched them nuzzle.

They had no idea what was to come for them.

When had I become so bitter?

I looked back up at Stephen. He slumped over the table and reached up to loosen his tie, his dark eyes flicking up to meet mine.

“Good evening,” a waiter said to us, pulling a notepad and a pen from his apron. “Are you ready to order?”

Stephen nodded.

“She’ll have the Lasagna—”

“House salad or soup?” he asked, “we have French onion on special today.”

“Salad,” Stephen answered without effort, “and I’ll have the filet mignon. Medium. With salad as well.”

“And to drink?”

“Uh—” He looked over at me and I shrugged, “Bollinger will be fine.”

The waiter nodded and took our menus. I sighed into my hand as he walked away. I didn’t have the energy to tell him that I would have preferred the soup or that I wasn’t in the mood for champagne.

We talked for a while. He listened to me rant about my mother and I laughed at his latest client disaster stories. When a thick layer of quiet settled over us, he fished a tiny velvet box from the pocket of his jacket and slid it across the table to me. I stared down at it with an open mouth, too stultified to speak.