Stuck-Up Suit

“It wasn’t the alcohol, and you know it. You’ve made your intentions very clear for some time.”

“You’re right. Inebriated or not, I want you back, Graham. I’ll do whatever it takes to have the opportunity to make you happy again.”

“You thought that showing me your pussy was going to make me forget everything—what you did?”

When Genevieve disrobed in front of me that night, I’d jumped up off the couch and demanded that she put her clothes back on. She’d actually seemed shocked at my rejection.

“Did you assume that because of my breakup with Soraya, that I was going to give in? What happened with Soraya won’t change the fact that I simply can’t ever trust you again, Gen. And while I think you’d be great for a quick revenge fuck, I’m sure as hell not going to screw my child’s mother if I have no intention of ever being with her.”

“You’re not thinking straight, Graham. We have a small window of opportunity now to change our daughter’s life. I’m not going to be able to wait around for you forever.”

“Let me save you some time.” I leaned in. “Stop waiting.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying. How can you just close the door on that possibility so easily?”

“You closed the door, Genevieve. You closed it and threw away the key.”

“I made a mistake!”

“Shh. You’ll wake her,” I said. Closing my eyes for composure, I took a deep breath and said, “Chloe will always have my love. You, as her mother, will always have my respect. But you lost your chance at a future with me the day you decided to betray my trust. I want my daughter to have self-respect. I need to set a good example by holding onto my own.” Unable to tolerate any more of this conversation, I walked over to where my jacket was hanging and put it on. “ My driver is outside. I need to get back to the office. Thank you for dinner. I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

***

MY OFFICE WAS COMPLETELY DARK except for a small amount of light coming from the green banker’s lamp on my desk. Fidgeting with my watch, all I could think about was that fucking pile of newspapers taunting me from the across the room.

Over the past week, I’d repeatedly nixed the idea of going through all of the Ask Ida responses for any potential clues into Soraya’s mindset. Between admitting my sadness to Chloe and the argument with Genevieve tonight, I was feeling weaker.

Bringing the stack over to my desk, I sifted through each edition’s Ask Ida column like a lunatic. After thoroughly dissecting over a dozen responses, nothing stood out as unusual. That is, until I got to response number twenty.

A woman had written in with a dilemma about whether or not she should break up with her boyfriend whom she was deeply in love with—all so he could get back with the mother of his child. For the sake of the child. I looked at the date, which was shortly before we broke up. The other details outlined exactly what happened with Genevieve and me.

My heart started to hammer against my chest.

The name: Theresa, Brooklyn.

Theresa was her stepmother’s name.

If there was any doubt that Soraya had written in the question, the response only confirmed it. Ida’s advice was to break up with the boyfriend and suggested that “Theresa” make it appear as though she were cheating on him so that the poor fool would cut her off more easily.

“Smart over heart,” Ida had advised.

I threw the newspaper across the room. Everything was starting to make sense.

Soraya lied.

She wasn’t really dating that guido. She was pretending to. Anger over Ida’s response transformed into elation. I’d never been happier to learn that someone had lied to me in my entire life.

I read the beginning of the question again. “I’ve been dating a man for almost two months who I’ve fallen deeply in love with.”

She’d fallen in love with me.

Deeply.

I froze, paralyzed first by shock, then intense relief, then an overwhelming urge to just get to her.

I fell deeply too, baby. So fucking deep.

I immediately picked up my phone and dialed her number.

It kept ringing and went to voicemail.

I dialed it again.

Same thing.

I wrote out a text.

Where are you?

There was no answer for five minutes. I texted again.

I need to see you. Are you home?

Unable to wait any longer, I grabbed my coat and called for Louis to pick me up.

When we arrived to Soraya’s apartment in Brooklyn, there was no answer. Looking up at the window, I could see that the lights were off.