Rebound: Chapter 7

It killed me to leave him and make my way on shaky legs back to my own room, but it needed to be done. Emotions were running high on both sides, and I was determined not to let the situation get out of hand. We would have ended up in a brutal fight or tearing each other’s clothes off, or both, and it would not have been good. I shocked him—hurt him—and I’m in pain too. There was nothing to be gained from discussing it any further. We both needed to let the idea settle and wake up with clearer heads.

Except I don’t wake up with a clear head. I wake up smiling, rolling under the covers, still halfway between sleep and the real world. In my dream, Elijah slipped into my room in the middle of the night and climbed into bed with me. He stroked me and played with me and made me come with his tongue. After that, I pleasured him with my mouth, taking all of him in and sucking him dry as he screamed my name. It was so realistic that I can almost feel his beard on my thighs, taste his cock on my lips. I’m so aroused, my panties are damp.

It takes a minute or so for the memory of what really happened last night to nudge aside the dream. When they do, it all crashes down on me like a ton of bricks, burying me in rubble and choking me with dust.

Did I really do it? Did I really tell Elijah that I want a divorce? The soreness of my eyes and the heaviness of my heart tell me that I did, and the contrast between my fantasy and my reality is awful.

I lie in bed and weep. I weep for the sorrow in his eyes and for myself. For the future together that we will never know. I wanted to grow old with this man, to spend the rest of my days with him, but now that won’t happen. I hate the way that makes me feel, but I must stay strong. Because if I don’t, we will grow old together—and we will despise each other. That would be the worst fate of all.

Some of the things he said last night nearly convinced me that we could pull through, that we could mend and rebuild. I know he loves me, and I love him right back—but it’s not enough. There are too many pressure points, too much history, too many ways we have discovered to hurt each other over the years. The issues will never go away. I won’t miraculously become fertile, and he won’t stop wanting children. Even if he claims he doesn’t anymore, I would never believe him. I’ll always feel like I’ve held him back. Like I’ve deprived him of the opportunity to be a father, that he has had to sacrifice a role he was born for to stay married to me. Maybe I could tolerate that if we actually made each other happy, but we don’t. We’re like two cage fighters, trapped together in the most luxurious of cages.

I don’t know why it all came to a head last night, but it did, and now we have to deal with it. There’s a lot to talk over, a lot to decide, and it will be hard and exhausting. I have zero enthusiasm for any of it, so I allow myself a little longer to huddle under the covers. It’s okay to feel sad, and it’s okay to cry. It’s even okay if I do those things in front of Elijah.

I don’t want to pretend anymore. I’ve been faking my way through my own life, and I can’t stomach it any longer. I make a promise to myself that from now on, I won’t be afraid to show the world my true face. I can’t even remember what it feels like to wake up with genuine enthusiasm for the day ahead. Something has to change, and it starts with me setting Elijah free. I should have done it years ago, when his mother first told me to. Verona James was right all along.

When I get out of bed and pull back the drapes, the glorious autumn day makes itself known. The little pocket park across the street is already bustling with dog walkers, birds are singing, and the sky is a cloud-streaked swath of pastel blue. This is the first day of the rest of my life, and I have no idea what comes next.

I shower and dress in yoga pants and a baggy sweatshirt, deliberately avoiding the call of my makeup kit, but I do give in and apply some moisturizer. My whole face feels sore and puffy from all the crying.

A sense of dread curls in the pit of my stomach as I leave my room and tiptoe along the landing like an intruder. I have no idea why—this is still my home, at least for now, and there’s no point in trying to avoid Elijah. Ironically, we now need to spend more time with each other than we usually would.

There’s no sign of him downstairs. Our cocoa mugs sit in the sink, and I absentmindedly wash them. I don’t usually wash the dishes, and I’m aware of how pampered that makes me. I’m aware of how privileged I’ve been in many ways.

But I often find myself wishing I could swap my life for the one that Dionne, our housekeeper, leads. She’s a woman in her fifties, married to a man named Edwin who drives a subway train. They have four children, two of whom are teenagers and still live at home. The others are married with kids of their own. Her whole world revolves around her family, and she’s forever smiling as she talks about their achievements, shows me graduation photos and baby pics, and simply basks in the glow of their love. They don’t have endless piles of money. No Bentleys or drivers or private Caribbean islands. What they have is priceless—they have happiness. I would give up every bit of my wealth and influence for that. Maybe that’s what I need to do.

It’s half past seven, and Elijah’s normally up by now, either already at Jamestech headquarters or working in his home office if it’s the weekend. We both keep busy schedules, and I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be somewhere for a breakfast meeting soon as well. I’ll have to look it up so I can cancel.

In fact, I think I might just cancel everything. I’ll probably lose a lot of my appeal as a charity fundraiser once I’m no longer Mrs. Elijah James. It’ll be interesting to see who still wants to do lunch with me once the news is out.

Oh god. Managing the rumors is going to be a nightmare. The James family is famous, and I’m no stranger to page six myself. The press will have a field day with it—social media even more of one. I’ve spent decades perfecting my image as the alpha female of polite New York society, and now I’m going to be pitied. It sucks, but I can’t stay married to avoid gossip. I’ll have to work on cultivating at least an illusion of apathy.

None of this will be easy for Elijah either, but at least he’ll have the support of his dad and siblings. Hell, they’ll probably throw some kind of parade to celebrate and toss an Amber-shaped mannequin onto a bonfire. Only Drake will see this as bad news. I wish I could reach out to him and tell him what’s going on. We’re close, but he’s Elijah’s brother, and Elijah will need him. I can’t put my friend in the position to divide his loyalty. I want him to be firmly Team Elijah on this, and I’ll only muddy the waters.

After making myself a cup of coffee, I lean against the counter and sip the scalding liquid, grateful for the pain on my tongue that distracts me from the turmoil in my mind and the empty feeling that grows bigger with every second. How will I get through this? How will I live without him? My whole adult life has been dominated by my marriage, and I have no clue who I am without it. I’d like to be invigorated by all the possibility before me, to feel brave and hopeful about this new adventure, but I’m none of those things. I’m just anxious and flat and starting to cry again.

No. I will not stand here and sob. I won’t give in to despair. I don’t have to be a superhero, but I also don’t have to throw myself a pity party. After pouring the rest of my coffee into the sink, I head back upstairs and keep going until I reach Elijah’s floor, his domain at the top of the house. I check his office first, but he’s not there, the high-backed leather chair and his MacBook showing no sign of recent use.

Taking a deep breath, I pause outside his bedroom. I haven’t entered this room in a long, long time. Again, our lifestyle has allowed me to shirk certain duties, the small things that tie most couples’ lives together.

Our wealth has allowed us to disengage with alarming ease, and I’m nervous as I stand in front of the dark oak door. He might not even be in here. It’s possible he got up and went to the office so early that I didn’t hear him.

I quietly twist the handle and push the door open, and what I see inside breaks my heart. My husband is sprawled across his bed, the sheets tangled around his legs after an obviously sleepless night. His hair is all mussed up, and his arms are splayed across the mattress.

An empty bottle of Macallan sits on his bedside table. That bottle was at least half full when I left him. The glass he was using lies on its side in a pool of amber liquid. His clothes have been dumped on the floor, further evidence of his distress. Elijah is normally a neat and precise man. He must have been crying in his sleep because his lashes are damp, and there are red marks where he’s been pawing at his eyes.

My hands fly to my chest, and I suck in a quick breath. Oh god, what have I done?

Is this permanent, this pain? Or will he recover? Can we both recover? I think so. I hope so. I hate the thought that I’ve hurt him, that I’ve possibly broken him—but then I remind myself that I’ve spent over a decade hurting him. That only yesterday at the wedding, I deliberately goaded him and rejected him. Me leaving will hurt him—but staying will hurt him even more. And he will hurt me right back because we just can’t help ourselves.

He suddenly thrashes, mumbling a jumble of words, his voice cracking, then finally settles on his back with his naked, muscular body on full display.

Despite the emotion of the moment, I still feel the draw. That unique pull of physical magnetism that neither of us has ever quite been able to banish. My vivid dream rushes back, and heat sears my cheeks as I stare at him. Part of me longs to slide under those sheets with him, to slip into his strong arms. To rest my head on that solid chest and tell him it was all a terrible mistake. We would make love, share tender touches, and our bodies would sing together. I want that, desperately.

But what then? We might share a few magical days feeling reborn and relieved, but the same old problems would eventually surface. He’d say something about his family, I’d react like a bitch, he’d push back. Then he would disappear into his work and make me feel irrelevant again. Or maybe I would have a meltdown the next time I saw him interacting with a kid. The next time he held the door for a pregnant woman.

No. There’s too much damage. The bones of our marriage are broken. Ending it is the right thing to do, no matter how much I want to reach out and touch him right now.

Silently, I retreat from the room, and I’m forced to admit to myself that my reluctance to wake him has less to do with compassion—after last night, letting him stay unconscious for as long as possible is a small mercy I can grant him—and more to do with cowardice. I’m afraid I won’t be able to resist the urge to pretend last night never happened if I have to look into those deep gray eyes of his.

I need to get away for a while. We both need some space.

Half an hour later, I’m packed and on my way to the airport in a cab. I’ll send him a message once I reach JFK. I don’t want to sneak off and leave him guessing. He doesn’t deserve that, and it would set a nasty tone for what’s to come.

I considered writing him an actual letter, but that would have been too much. Another reminder of days gone by, when we used to leave little love notes on each other’s pillows. I still have a tattered little stack of them, dog-eared and faded, tucked away in a treasure box with concert programs, ticket stubs, and other mementos from that time in our life. Nothing has been added to that treasure box for a long time now.

The cab drives over the bridge, the East River flowing beneath us as we leave Manhattan and head into Queens. My flight departs soon, and a couple of hours after that, I’ll be in a completely different world. I’ll be with my Granny Lucille in South Carolina, the place where I spent the happiest days of my childhood. I need comfort and advice, and she is the only person I trust to provide those things.