Memories That Still Haunt Us

Chapter Fifty-Seven:

I stare mindlessly at the time on the microwave. Watching the minutes drag on. Never before has one single minute felt so long. My fingers tap mindlessly on the white marble countertops.

The house is still. So quiet, I can hear the sound of Beck's magician clock ticking from up the stairs. So quiet that the inconsistent raindroplets from outside sound amplified. I hear each droplet that lands in the pool, rippling the water.

Darkness sweeps inside the house. The night growing later and later. No sign of Ellis returning from work. Beck is gone with friends for the night, and I'm left anxiously awaiting Ellis's return. I had so much planned for us tonight with Beck being away. A candlelit dinner, old jazzy music, laughing and talking for hours before spending the rest of the night in bed and long into the morning.

But those plans are going to shit. The dinner has long been thawed out, and I feel myself growing more crazy as each minute passes. He can't possibly still be at the office. He's been there since this morning. Anxiety begins to seep in, with unwanted thoughts of what he might be doing. Sleeping with an assistant from work. Meeting up with another girl at a bar. Making plans to leave me for someone else.

Hastily, I move to the cabinet and take down a bottle of vodka, pouring myself a large glass and mixing it only slightly with cranberry. I drink it down in hopes it'll soothe my worries, but the opposite begins to take effect. More anxiety, more scenarios playing out.

Are there any women at his work? Why have I never thought of it before? He cheated on Millie with me; who's to say I'm the only one? Who's to say he doesn't secretly meet other women when he's supposedly at work? I've so blindly trusted him that I've never once doubted him. I must be prettier, younger, more mature than any other woman he knows. There can't be anyone else he finds better than me.

I pour myself another glass and bitterly gnaw on my bottom lip. I love him too much. It's going to kill me.

Taking out my phone, I call his number, then proceed to listen to it ring and ring and ring before going to voicemail. My eyes prickle with frustration as I attempt to call him again, only for it to be sent to voicemail sooner than the first call. He's ignoring me. Why is he ignoring me? What have I done? I've done nothing. I've done everything for him.

With my glass of vodka in my hand, I move into his study, where I search around the desk for numbers to contact and information about his work. I search for his business on Google and call the number that is provided for the front desk.

The line informs me it's after hours and to call again the following day.

Bitterly, I chug down more of my drink and continue searching for numbers. Inside his planner is a list of phone numbers with names, one of which states to be his assistant. Victoria. The name repeats in my mind, making me angrier each time it plays out. Victoria. Victoria. Is that what he calls her? Or does he have a cutesy nickname for her, like Tori or Vicky? He probably does, and she probably smiles every time she hears it, and goes home and tells her friends about her sexy boss and how he created a cute nickname for her that only he calls her, and I bet she has intimate dreams about him touching her and having secret sex inside his office, and how his wife's death is just a perfect opportunity for her to swoop in and comfort him, and maybe that's why he's been gone for all these hours. Perhaps he's been taking comfort with Victoria instead of me. It would make sense. Maybe this is the same person he turned to when Bridge died. Maybe I'm nothing special after all. Maybe I'm absolutely nothing at all.

I'm finding it difficult to breathe. I'm gasping for air and clutching the edge of his desk with both hands. My eyes staring down at Victoria. The way he's written her name down, and before I realize what I'm doing, I've typed her number in and listen to the phone ring.