Sweaty. That’s all I felt. It was sticky and I had my period. That extra stench is…well…enough said. What I really wanted was to take a shower. But I know I didn’t have time. I grabbed my bottle of Vanilla lace. My preferred scent from Victorias Secret. I ran into Stephanie’s empty room. I saw her in our room, so I knew it was empty. I took down my pants. I sprayed my area. I missed and let out a bizarre, “ahhh.” It sounded almost cartoonish. Then I got the back just in case. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw tussling in the sheets. Stephanie’s super sweet and beautiful and quiet cousin was there, pretending to be asleep. I just stared, open jaw. How do you even begin to explain that?
“So…there is no easy way to say this. I know you’re married. I know we are co-workers. But I’ve had feelings for a long time for you,” Brett says as he sheepishly stares at his white sneakers.
My jaw drops open. My face flushes. He glances up at me, and we make eye contact. I feel my heart stop. My whole world stops. Brett? My calm in a sea of chaos. My therapist. My happy hour partner. The highlight of my day. I think back to the snide remarks my husband has made over the years about Brett and I. It never truly seemed to be about jealousy. Just simple sarcastic comments occasionally about my “work husband” or inside jokes.
I need to say something. Anything. But I stare at him like a fish with a hook stuck in its mouth. I force myself to pick my jaw up off of the floor. But still…no words come out. I’ve never been excused of being quiet and somehow, now, I can’t find any words.
After what seems like ages (which is in reality probably only 1-2 minutes), Brett mercifully speaks.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t expect you to say anything. Or do anything. I just needed to tell you that. It was at the point where there was no choice but to tell you.”
He squeezes my shoulder in a comforting guessture, something he’s done a million time. I reflexively flinch. This time, it doesn’t feel comforting. It seems almost like an assault.
“Cara, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just needed to tell you and expect nothing from you.”
I nod at him as I look up and finally make eye contact. Tears start pouring down my face as I quickly turn on my heel and walk out of the door. I manage to discretely glance back and see Brett looking at his shoes, shoulders slumped. I literally bump into our boss, Brian.
Brian smiles, “Hi Cara. Interested in grabbing a quick drink after work with Brett and I?” His smiles dissipates suddenly when he sees my face.
“Oh Cara, what’s wrong? I’m so sorry.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m sorry. How unprofessional. I just need to leave. Family emergency,” I sputter as I head for the elevator.
I jab the button impatiently, praying it will come so I can get on. I feel a tap on my shoulder, and without looking, I know it’s him. I turn slowly.
It is, of course, Brett. To my shock and horror, he has tears in his eyes as well. He is handing me my bag and coat.
“I didn’t think you could get into your car without these. It’s the least I could do,” he says. We stop and just stare at each other.
“Ahem,” Brian coughs, standing next to us. “Family emergency? My guess is he finally confessed, huh? It’s about time.”
I don’t know who looks more shocked: me or Brett.
He heard a faint knock. He was sure of it. An eerie presence breezed by the window. He saw her mouth open as if in a permanent scream. He went to scream himself, but no sound would come out. He crawled to the door. When he gained the courage to look outside, the ghostly figure stared right back at him. He went to scream, but her permanent scream devoured him first.
He just stared at her, mouth agape. This had to be a joke: it just had to be. There was no way…Sure, Belle had always had a dark side. She did a good job of masking it. But he had seen it. There was a low level of rage just simmering at the surface. He had definitely see her flip out occasionally in a fit of road rage or at bad customer service. She always rushed to compose herself after and apologized (to him, not the target of her rage). Then there was her fascination with serial killers and true crime…but that was just an American tradition, right? Now, he was starting to doubt himself.
Suddenly, he realized with a stark sense of dread that this was real. Belle, his wife of five years, had killed someone. Then he realized the most important question: not why, but who?
He stared back at her. Her face was stone cold. She looked determined. There was no remorse. She simply stated, “pack a bag. We need to leave immediately.”
Being the subservient husband he was, he nodded his head and grabbed the duffel bag she was handing him. His hand was shaking so badly he dropped it.
“Damn it, Clyde, can’t you do anything right?
If ever there was a time to stand up to her and find his voice, it was now. He opened his mouth to fight back and say, “ME? You just killed someone?!” But no words came out. He just gaped at her like a drowning fish. His jaw moved uselessly up and down. His mouth felt dry. But no words came out.
Slow and steady. Steady and slow. Thats the way to go.
I hear those words in my head like a mantra as I delicately tiptoe my way across the slick rocks. I think those words were from the childhood book, “The Little Engine That Could.” I try to picture the book on my childhood bookshelf. Was it next to the Berenstain Bears? Or Eloise? I can almost picture the binding…green? Not that any of this matters. Yet, the distraction is helpful. I need to stay upright while making this trek quickly.
Why did I agree to do this? Why would I meet him out here in the middle of nowhere? What normal person wants to meet for a blind date out in nature? A normal person would choose a coffe shop. A restaurant. A bar. But of course…I chose the one person on tinder who thought this was a good location..He’s probably an ax mirderer. Just my luck. He’ll probably bury me in the sand dunes. There will be no footprints left with the slick rocks…
Don’t do that, I tell myself. This time, it will be different. This time, the guy won’t be a creep. There seems to be real potential…
