Chapter Three
Carina
I’LL NEVER COVER THIS black eye. It’s in that stage where it looks worse than it feels—all purple and dark black with hints of yellow. I pat some more makeup onto my left eye and glance at my sleeping fiancé in the reflection of my vanity mirror. The birds chirp outside my window, the dryer buzzes, and the coffee pot percolates. I’ve been up for hours already. It’s when I write. It’s unsuspecting—the beginning of the day. There’s so much promise in the morning. There’s hope for change. Hope for love. There’s significance in a sun rising.
My fiancé, Roarke, brought a flask to the movie theater and was piss drunk when the movie ended. I waited for him on a bench outside, away from everyone else. I wrote in my notebook about a strange, beautiful, kind stranger. I lost track of time, honestly, and hoped to see Smith leaving. Not to talk to him; just to gaze upon his kind eyes and his muscular body. He’s nothing like Roarke. Nothing.
As soon as we got back here Roarke showed me exactly how upset he was that I didn’t act like an adult and watch the movie with him. That was three days ago. Honestly, I deserved it this time. Something needs to fix me. Why shouldn’t it be his fist? Claustrophobia controls more aspects of my life than I’m willing to admit. Fear cripples me.
“You’re going to be late, honey,” I say loudly.
Roarke moans, pulls the blankets up, and rolls over. If I let him sleep any longer he’ll be a vapid shade of angry. Instead, I pour him a huge cup of coffee, fix it how he likes, and set in on his nightstand.
“Roarke. Honey, it’s time to get up.”
Finally he wakes. It’s the coffee, not because of my voice. “Jesus, Carina, why did you let me sleep so long?” It’s one minute past the time he usually wakes.
“Sorry. It’s my fault. I was caught up with my work,” I lie. “I’m headed to the café to work some more this morning. If you don’t need anything else?” Swallowing, I try to make eye contact without seeming frightened by him. I smile. This tactic worked for me as a child. Abusive men are like mean dogs. Don’t make eye contact. Seem happy. Smile. It makes them less likely to lash out. My stepfather was an awful man, though he’s paying his penance now that my mom passed away from colon cancer—in Hell. A drunk driver mowed him down while he was riding his motorcycle about a year after mom died.
Thinking about my childhood gives me hives. Literally. I try not to dwell in the past or think of my mother. When I grew up and left the house, the face she would make when I left after a visit was embedded into my nightmares for days after. A visit to the house of horrors was never worth it. Although the house was left to me, I don’t want anything to do with it or the backyard. I haven’t returned since she died. A property management company keeps up on the yard maintenance and checks in from time to time to make sure everything is okay. I can’t even fathom renters in there, so it sits cold and empty—a haunting reminder of the truth in my nightmares.
Roarke isn’t nearly as bad as Greg was. “I need a lot of things. None of which you ever give me. I don’t know why I stick around here. Look at you. Do you even try anymore? Are you so comfortable that this is what I’m expected to be happy to have?”
Sucking in a deep breath, I taste my words before they exit my mouth. It’s time for prudence, time to select just the right thing to say to avoid his wrath.
I look down at my jeans and T-shirt. “I was planning on putting on a sweater. The nice one your mom gave me last Christmas. Would that look better?”
Scoffing, he takes a sip of coffee and hums in delight. “A face transplant would look better, Carina. Go work. Make money. I’m sick of being the only one to pay the bills. Your royalty checks don’t cover the electricity.”
My royalty checks don’t go anywhere near our joint accounts. A paltry fraction of my pay does. The rest is safely hidden in accounts my agent controls. I let Roarke believe whatever he wants. Usually it’s best not to respond when he’s in a mood. I grab the pastel pink sweater that I hate out of the closet, kiss Roarke on the forehead, and grab my laptop bag on my way out of our house. It’s a nice, beautiful house. Roarke owns, or inherited better yet, his father’s home building company. He takes care of me. Even though he’s cruel sometimes I know he loves me—he needs me. I’m lucky to have him in my life. I start the oversized SUV he forces me to drive and make my way to my coffee shop.
After I check my email, I make a list of the work that needs to be done. I have two articles to write. I should be able to finish that in an hour or two and then focus my attention on my current passion: a non-fiction piece on military soldiers and the effects of war on the psyche. Roarke doesn’t know I’m working on this. No one does actually. It’s a personal project. I want to shine light on something important that I’m uneducated about. I want to help people.
I put out a request for interviews on my website a couple weeks ago and I’ve called around. No one wants to talk to me. Stalking the web and Facebook for stories and information isn’t helping at all. Who wants to spill sordid details of their life to a complete stranger? I understand. It’s still upsetting to not have any leads.
I’m texting Roarke to ask him what he wants me to bring him for lunch, when my email pings with a new message.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Interview me
I saw the ad you posted online looking to interview military members for your work article. Are you still interested? I have multiple years of experience, and like the ad states, I definitely have a story to tell. I’m active duty now, as well. Would you like to meet for coffee?
Your ad did promise free coffee along with anonymity. ☺
In your service,
Eppington
Throwing a hand over my mouth, I let out a small squeal. Finally. And he’s active duty, so he’ll have recent stories that will be relatable to those seeking help right now. I can barely type a response with the excitement reverberating in my bones. Novels are fun to write, articles make money, but this will be something that may help someone. It could save a life.
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Interview me
Thank you so much for getting back to me, Mr. Eppington. I would love to interview you at your earliest convenience. It may take several sessions to get the information I need for my piece. Is that okay? I understand if not. I’m sure you’re a very busy man. I’d like to meet in a public place. There will definitely be coffee in it for you. (I’m sure you can appreciate my reservations about meeting someone after only communicating online.) And my undying, unyielding gratitude for the rest of time.
Café on 6th? You pick a time. I’m flexible Monday-Friday.
Best,
Carina
After I blow through the articles that need written, I close my laptop with a smile on my face. I pick up Roarke’s lunch from his favorite deli, let him know I’m on my way, and head for his southern California office, careful to watch my time lest I be late. Or early. My phone chimes. It’s already a reply email from my military man.
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: Interview me
How are you so sure I’m a Mr. Eppington? Looking for a date along with an interview, are you?
I can meet you tomorrow at 5:30 p.m. Does that work?
Eppington (Mr.)
My stomach flutters. I’m not sure what reason forces my hand, but I delete the emails off my phone. Roarke would never go through my personal emails, but if he did, it would be bad. I’m not supposed to keep things from him. He likes to know everything even though he cares about nothing. Then realization hits me. How am I going to get away with a late afternoon meeting? Roarke will come home from work and expect dinner and a drink-a la’ Betty Draper style. I never leave in the afternoons.
The mere thought of lying to him makes me sweaty. My sweater sticks to me as I exit my vehicle and make my way into his office. The very pretty secretary, who I’m sure never does anything wrong, greets me with a cheery smile and a wave. “Carina. You look beautiful today! So good to see you. I’ll let him know you’re here with lunch. Wait here a sec, please?”
I nod and run my fingers through my hair. I hope he’s not embarrassed by how I look. I’ll be mortified if he is. He’ll never get mad at me in public, but when we get home it’s even worse.
I was distracted by the email, so I didn’t check my face in the mirror. The one good thing about black eyes and living in San Diego is that I can always hide my face with large sunglasses. No one questions it. Not even now, standing in the lobby of the expansive office. There’s so much sunlight pouring in that it requires shades.
The secretary returns moments later with a frown perched on her face. “He left a note for you to leave his lunch and go. He just left for an inspection.”
Panicked, I look at my watch. I’m on time. Perfectly so. “I’ll head back then,” I murmur. I try to keep my shoulders back and head high. It’s how confident people walk. I remember to smile and look approachable. I close his office door behind me and take in a deep breath.
I scribble a note for Roarke, leave his lunch in the mini fridge in the corner, and take a quick visual sweep of his desk. He has a framed photo of me. I look happy, but I’m not. My smile is wide and white. My cheekbones carve a subtle line in the sides of my face. An attribute my father passed down to me, or so my grandma explained. I’m wearing makeup and my appearance is blessedly free of kisses from his fist. It was taken at his work Christmas party last year. I’m always on at his work functions. The image makes my head feel light.
How long will I feign happiness? When will true contentment with Roarke commence? I just need more time. Something is fundamentally wrong with me, I know. Any woman would be lucky to have my life. A tear forms in the corner of my eye, under my sunglasses. I leave it there for fear of wiping away the precious cover-up.
I’m happy. I am.
I open a side drawer in his desk, looking for a small pack of tissues. He keeps a package in his desk at home. I find three loose condoms instead. Closing the drawer with a loud bang, I leave Roarke’s office. I shouldn’t have snooped in his things. It’s my fault. A couple years ago I caught him cheating on me with his partner’s wife. No one knows except me. Since then he’s promised that he’s faithful. Sometimes a woman has to deal with certain things in life. This is my penance. We have never used condoms. At least he’s being safe.
I’m happy.
I wave at the blond, bubbly secretary on my way out the door. She calls out a goodbye at my back, but I don’t respond. I’m too upset. Plus, I can’t confirm she’s not the one he’s cheating with. What a fool I must look like. Climbing into my car, I turn it on and grab my cell phone. I email back the military man and confirm the date and time. I’ll do whatever I have to do to make it work out. Talking to a stranger is something I need for my mental health.
I hold little to no control over my life. I’m flailing, drowning in an ocean of pain and grief. Something has to change. It needs to, because the more time that passes the stronger my outlook on the world gets.
It’s better off without me in it.