Iain

 

On Tuesday, I stood in front of Michele’s door and knocked three times. I could smell dinner in the hallway, and my stomach rumbled, angrily reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

She’d called me earlier, coyly asking what my favorite food was. At the time, I thought back to the days of my mother’s cooking, when she had been sober enough to really try. I couldn’t think of one thing that I’d call my favorite.

Instead of answering, I’d asked, “What’s your favorite?”

“Hmm. Call me simple, but I’d never turn down spaghetti and meatballs.”

“Perfect. That’s exactly what I want, too.”

Now, I clutched the bottle of wine I’d brought, some red thing recommended by the guy at the liquor store. Since I knew nothing about wine, I hoped it was something she’d even like.

The door opened, and Michele’s face lit up as I stepped inside. She wrapped her arms around me, giving me a kiss in greeting and taking the wine from my hand.

“You’re early,” she said, grinning. “This looks great, thank you.” I took my coat off, and she took that, too, hanging it on a peg behind me after placing the wine on the kitchen counter.

“What can I say?” I approached her, leaning in, brushing my lips over hers, just enough to make mine tingle. “I couldn’t wait to see you.”

Color rose to her cheeks, and she stepped back, a mixture of desire and something else I couldn’t read evident on her face. She studied me for a split second and then turned around, heading into the kitchen by the stove.

“Dinner is almost done,” she said.

“It smells delicious. What can I do to help?”

“You can open that wine.” She smiled, then opened a drawer, pushing utensils aside and pulling out a wine opener, which she handed to me.

I set to work while she went back to the stove, stirring sauce and grabbing a box of spaghetti noodles. I opened the bottle, pulling the cork out with a satisfying pop.

“Wine glasses?” I inquired. Michele moved to the cupboard and pulled two out, setting them down next to the open bottle of wine.

After pouring us both a glass, I turned to watch her. She’d gone back to the stove, her eyes on the pots.

“How’s your case going?” she asked.

“It’s fine,” I said, thinking about Roger’s call on Friday. “My client is impatient as hell, but I deal with that a lot.”

“Impatient? Like, hounding you about how long it’s taking?”

“Pretty much.” I picked up the glass of wine I’d poured, taking a tentative sip. It wasn’t bad, but it was heavy on my tongue, and it left a strange dry feeling. “I’m used to it, though.”

“Another cheating spouse?” she asked. I could tell she was tense, and I chose my words carefully.

“She is definitely cheating.”

She nodded, but the tension was still there. I studied her back, watching her carefully stir the sauce, wondering what was going through her head. Obviously my case struck a nerve, and I understood that. But until I figured out what else I was going to do, cheating spouses were how I made my living.

Michele finished making dinner shortly after that, and before long we were seated at the island, digging in to heaping plates of spaghetti and meatballs. We ate in silence at first, until my stomach was satisfied that I had finally put something in it.

“You’re quiet tonight,” I said after a few moments. She was idly pushing a meatball back and forth over her plate, her spaghetti only half eaten.

“I am?”

“Yes.” I kept watching her, hoping she’d meet my eye, but she didn’t. Something was definitely up.

She didn’t say anything at first, but I could see a storm brewing in her eyes. Giving up the pretense of eating, she set her fork down and sighed. “At work yesterday, Jacob came by to have a drink. He said… someone was looking for me on Friday.”

Ignoring the twinge of anger produced by imagining Jacob sitting at Michele’s bar, eying her up over a bottle of whatever piece of shit domestic he drank, I asked, “Who was looking for you?”

“He didn’t know. He said the guy claimed to be a regular.” She looked down at her hands in her lap, then looked up at me. I saw apprehension there I didn’t understand.

“What’s the problem? Don’t you get a lot of regulars?” Was it creepy a customer was asking after her? Maybe. But it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary, would it?

She nodded. “We do get a lot of regulars, yes.”

“Then what’s wrong? Is the guy a creep or something?” As I said it, something clicked, and then coldness washed through me. “Wait… Jacob didn’t know who it was, but wouldn’t he know a regular customer?”

“That’s just it. You’d think he would by now, but Jacob isn’t exactly the brightest, and he barely pays attention.” She grabbed her wine glass, taking a sip and setting it back down. “So I, paranoid as I am, assumed immediately that Brandon had showed up looking for me on a night I happened to not be there.”

I didn’t know what to say. I saw red. Thinking about him being anywhere near Michele brought my heart rate up, but I had to think about it logically. What were the chances that he’d be onto her that fast after I had turned down the case? She’d done an exceptional job hiding - better than most people would have. I just couldn’t see a scenario where anybody would have found her that quickly, especially since they’d have no idea which neighborhood to start in.

I’d just gotten lucky.

“There’s no way Brandon’s here,” I said. “I know you’re scared and you want to think the worst sometimes, but -”

“Yeah, Iain, I am scared. I’m constantly looking over my shoulder. I do it so often I don’t even know that I’m doing it anymore. But to say there’s no way is just… irresponsible.” Her eyes were flashing, her cheeks reddening, and I sat back, chagrined. “Jacob had no clue who this guy was. He said the guy had brown hair and brown eyes. And guess who has brown hair and brown eyes?”

“Lots of people,” I replied.

“Brandon.”

“Okay. Let’s say it was him. Then what?”

“Then? Then, I don’t fucking know.” She looked petrified at the very thought, and I leaned forward, taking her upper arms gently in my hands, giving her a reassuring squeeze.

“Michele, please,” I said. “You can’t keep letting yourself do this. Going down that hole. It’s black and endless and it’ll eat you up. You have to learn to let him go.”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Her eyes were locked on mine, defiance reflecting there. We stared each other down in silence until her face crumpled. I let her go as if I’d been burned.

“How?” she asked, so quiet I almost didn’t catch it. “How can I let him go? He’s still a part of me.”

My eyes flicked toward her left hand resting on her lap. At her bare finger.

“Get a lawyer,” I said. “I’ll help you. Send the paperwork from here. It can be done.”

I wanted so badly for her to be free. Watching her get eaten alive by these thoughts, by her own paranoia, was killing me. How could I ease her mind?

“It’s not that simple. He’s a Coffey. He has money, connections, everything. What he wants, he gets. And if he gets those papers, then I’m done. If he doesn’t know where I am now, he’ll know then - and he’ll take me back.”

He’ll take me back home, she’d said, Friday night in bed. A part of her - the part that clung to this fear, that refused to see a lawyer and settle this once and for all - that part of her still believed that Brandon’s house was her home. How could I show her that her home was here, now?

“He won’t take you back. I won’t let him,” I found myself saying.

She was shaking her head, her expression resolute - and sad. “How can you promise something like that?”

A great fucking question. How could I?

I looked at my empty plate, breaking her gaze. The reality of what Michele and I were doing hit me for the first time - really hit me. She was a married woman, and her husband was hell-bent on getting her back. Was I doing the right thing, being with her? Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure.

But could I really walk away?

“I guess… I can’t promise anything at all to you.” The words felt thick and treacherous coming out of my mouth. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t try.”

I could feel her eyes on me, burning holes in my face, which was still turned away from her. I couldn’t bear to look her in the eye and see her disappointment. I still wasn’t sure if we were doing the right thing, and I probably never would be until Michele decided one way or another what she was going to do about Brandon. But wasn’t it enough that I just be there for her, that I talk her through these moments?

“Hey,” she said softly, breaking through my thoughts. She touched my arm, barely more than a brush of fingertips on my shirt, but it was enough to bring my gaze back toward hers.

She hopped off her stool and wrapped her arms around me, her face burrowed into my shoulder. I ran my fingers through her hair, and suddenly, it was like our disagreement never happened. Like it was just me and her. Like that’s all it ever would be.

“Michele.” Her hair was like silk in my hand, and I leaned into her embrace. “I’m here for you. I just don’t… I don’t want you to live like all you’re waiting for is him. I want you to... to live for your future.”

“I try not to do that,” she said, her voice muffled. “I try.”

My heart broke. I got up from the stool and pulled her closer to me with both arms, wishing I could erase it all - everything that Brandon ever did. I wanted to take away her fear, her doubt, and her pain, but knew that I couldn’t. All I could do was hold her. All I could do was be there for her.

I only hoped that it was enough.