Corinne
The pain is the first thing I think of when I wake, when I’m brushing my teeth, when I’m getting a drink, when I’m breathing. It’s the last thing I think of before I sleep. I think of it always.
I don’t know if I can keep living like this.
I tell Jude that one night as we sit on the sofa, staring at each other over Chinese.
“What are you saying?” he asks quietly, and there’s panic in his eyes.
I swallow. “I don’t know. I’m just saying that I can’t keep obsessing over it. I look in the mirror, and I worry that you don’t find me sexy, I worry that you wanted her because I’m too old for you now, I worry that...”
“Corinne,” he interrupts, and he’s firm and stout. “You are everything to me. I never wanted her. I swear to God. I wanted the idea of her. I wanted the words and the texting and the pictures. I’ve always wanted you. You’re who I love. You’re who makes me laugh and makes me cry and shares dinners with me.”
“You shared dinners with her, too,” I remind him painfully, and he clenches his jaw.
“I wish I hadn’t,” he tells me. “That’s the God’s honest truth, Co. I’d give anything to undo all of it.”
My rib cage hurts when I breathe, and the panic sets in, overwhelming me. I’ve been fighting panic attacks all week.
I try to focus on the things in the room, to bring myself back to the present, to center myself. I close my eyes, and the pain the pain the pain.
“It hurts,” I tell my husband. “It hurts so much more than I ever thought possible.”
His face is anguished, a tiny muscle flexing in his cheek. I breathe in, I breathe out. I breathe in, I breathe out.
He looks at me, something flickering in his eyes.
“Let’s start over,” he tells me. “We can move away, away from the memories. I’ll start a new practice and you can, too. A new house...a new life.”
I pause, and the world stops.
Everywhere I look, there’s a bad memory. She was in my house, in my bathroom, with my husband. I have to stop my thoughts from spiraling.
But I can’t commit.
I can’t decide if I can forgive him. It’s been weeks, and I’m struggling.
I’m struggling.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell him.
He pulls out his phone when it dings with a text, and as he does, as he looks at it, my heart races. He used to text her. Maybe even when I was sitting right there. He glances at my face and freezes.
“God, Corinne, I’m sorry. It’s just the office.”
He holds his phone faceup so I can see it.
I relax when I see the familiar number.
It’s still hard to swallow, though.
Jude eyes me. “Just looking at my phone is hard for you, isn’t it?”
I nod. “I know it sounds silly. But you talked to her on it. She sent you pictures, and you arranged dates and...” My voice trails off, and I stare at the offensive object, at the orange-and-gray case that I’ve seen a million times before. It looks different to me now. Menacing, almost.
“Okay.” Jude stands up and walks out of the room immediately. Curiously, I follow him outdoors.
He drops his phone on the driveway and stomps on it. It doesn’t break.
He picks it up and throws it against the ground. It still doesn’t break.
“Glad I invested in the titanium case,” he says wryly, with a scowl.
“It’s okay,” I assure him. “I’ll get over it. It’s just a phone.”
“It causes you pain,” he points out stubbornly. “Hang on. I know what.”
He tosses it on the driveway again, gets into his Land Rover and runs it over.
The glass finally crushes, and it feels amazingly good. He picks it up and hands it to me, and it’s shattered.
“Thank you,” I say limply. “I’ll get you a new one tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll do it.”
I drop it in the garbage, and we return to our dinner.
“When I get a new phone, I’ll leave it on the counter when I’m home,” he tells me casually after taking a bite of rice. “That way, if a text comes in, you’ll see who it’s from. I want you to feel comfortable.”
I choke up and my eyes water.
“Corinne, it’s okay,” Jude promises. “If I can do anything to help you, tell me. I’ll do it. No questions asked.”
I nod because I can’t speak, because words won’t form. Jude gets up and leads me to the couch, his hands gentle. He sits with me, and we watch the fire burning.
“Don’t leave me,” he says finally. “Please. I love you.”
My eyes are on his hands, his long fingers, and I picture him touching her with them.
“Did you hold her hand?” I ask him, and I know that’s a stupid question. Who cares if he held her hand? But I do. It signifies love and tenderness.
He shakes his head. “God, no. It wasn’t like that, Corinne. It wasn’t sweet love and butterflies. It was sexual innuendo and kinky talk. That’s it.”
My hand curls around my belly, the belly that was almost empty because of her. No matter what, everything will be different now. I’ll have to mourn the loss of my marriage the way I knew it.
If we stay together, it will all be different now.
I’m not the naive girl I once was.
She’s gone forever.
I’ll have to grieve her, too.