Interlude [Book 2] Read online

  I scrub myself with the washcloth when recollections of Julian tending to my body surface. I can still feel his lips against mine. I can still feel his strong but gentle hands and the way he simply loved me. I steady myself by holding the wall, afraid of collapsing. Under the steaming shower, I let myself go and cry. I cry in silence. I allow my body to give into grief, sliding down the cool white walls as the hot water hits me. God, give me strength. No amount of water could wipe away the anguish of my broken heart. I finally sit down and curl up, welcoming the hot water that continues to beat against my body. I lament for the love I have for the man who I am not marrying.

  A man who will be with another woman.

  You can do this, Lina. It is what it is. Time to get back to your life. Andrew is a good man. He loves you, and you still love him. Don’t forget the years you share. He has always been there for you. He admits to making a mistake. He can’t live without you. You can have a family with him. You can’t leave this all behind. You can finally have it all. This is what you know…

  As I contemplate my life, and what I need to do, Sade’s voice is in the background singing about bringing me home. Her lyrics unhinge me, allowing me a few more minutes of lamentation for leaving Julian.

  I finally have the strength to get out of the shower and stand in front of the antique mirror. Wiping it with the edge of a brown towel, I look ahead, and a frightening reflection stares back at me. I am completely naked and soaked, inside and out. I no longer recognize the woman before me although I haven’t changed physically.

  Who am I?

  A woman in love with the wrong man.

  A knock on the door startles me. “Lina, whenever you’re ready. Our meal is on the table.” For the first time in years, Andrew doesn’t turn off the music. Maybe he understands that it’s consoling my broken heart.

  Gawking back at me is the same long brown hair, same olive skin. Although bloodshot red and puffy from crying, my green eyes are the same. My skin is wrinkled from immersing myself in hot water. I head to the master bedroom and look around. I stop in my track when I recognize Craig Armstrong’s “This Love” in the background.

  Is this some cruel joke?

  Rather than turn the song off, I let it play, allowing the lyrics to voice this lying heart of mine.

  All my belongings seem to be in the same place I left them except for the framed photo of me with my dad. I immediately take it out of my carry-on and place it on the nightstand. I open my walk-in closet in search of a change of clothes. My dresses hang neatly. I’m surprised to find the garment bag that holds my wedding dress is no longer in the back of the closet, but hangs front and center. Staring at the bag for a few minutes, I remember how I used to admire the dress inside so long ago. Rather than unzip the bag, it remains untouched.

  Surveying my surroundings, my books are arranged alphabetically on the shelf, and the print of Edward Hopper’s “Room in New York” hangs in the center of the bedroom. I study the artwork for a moment. I view it as if I were looking through a window, a voyeur witnessing the couple experience loneliness although they’re only a few feet from one another. The piece reminds me so much of my life with Andrew before our breakup.

  Reading his newspaper, the man is at the table, unaware of his companion. The woman’s shoulder is slightly turned toward the piano as she plunks a note in order to chase the silence away. Is she me? Have I been the woman in the painting these past few years? I realize the woman in the painting and I have something in common. We inhabit space with someone we love who has become a stranger.

  Thirty-Seven

  Song after song reminds me of Julian. With wet hair and only a towel around my body, I sit on the edge of my bed, contemplating every lyric sung by various artists. Lying down with my knees bent on the edge, I stare at the ceiling before turning my head to the left.

  I see his infectious smile. I see his bewitching eyes. I see him.

  The Police’s “Every Breath You Take,” comes through the speakers. I listen to one of Julian’s favorite songs, and it takes everything in me not to fall apart.

  A memory appears fresh in my mind, allowing me to lose any willingness I have to let go. To let go of my time with him.

  Late last week, I surprised him with a visit to his office. Seated at his desk, Julian was on a conference call with Mugpie at his feet. Soft music played in the background. I stood by the doorway, admiring him. As soon as our eyes met, Julian said, “My girl is here. We’ll talk tomorrow.” It always amazed me how his mood would change when I entered a room. He didn’t say anything but simply flashed his gorgeous smile. We walked toward one another, meeting halfway. Without an invitation needed, he naturally took my hand and held me close to his chest. We danced to my lover’s theme song in the middle of his office, in the middle of the day, as his employees walked around.

  Shutting my eyes tightly, I desperately cling to that image. Julian stopped everything just to hold me and dance with me. The desperate sound of his voice when he sang along to “Every Breath You Take.” I manage to choke back my tears as I hold that particular recollection.

  I dry my hair and let it fall down my shoulders. I apply concealer around my eyes to hide my misery, yet knowing all along that no amount of makeup could mask a broken heart. My feet are heavy-laden as I walk along the hallway and head to the small dining area. For the first time I can ever remember, Andrew has taken it upon himself to set the table. In the center is a small flameless candle. The table is set for two, and unlike the meals I have had with Andrew over the past few years, there is pot roast along with an assortment of bread and cheese. It is every vegan’s nightmare.

  Andrew is in the kitchen humming “White Christmas.” I ache inside.

  I take a seat when he walks in. I admire him in a new light and appreciate the effort he has taken. “Andrew, this is very thoughtful of you. Thank you.”

  Taking a seat next to me, he says, “I’m happy you’re home.”

  Although I am famished, it’s difficult to enjoy the meal before me. Andrew, in his attempt to make our reunion an easy one, makes small talk. “I’m teaching some new courses I’ve never taught before this fall.” “The publishing house has already given me an advance for a new book.” “Oh, I have something,” he says with excitement, before rushing out of the dining room. He’s beaming when he surprises me with two tickets to see Gustavo Dudamel conduct Rachmaninoff’s “Piano Concerto No. 3.” He places them on the table, and I am dumbfounded. I stare at Andrew and wonder what drug he’s on.

  “Thank you,” I say, wondering if I’m in the twilight zone. It’s been years since Andrew and I have attended something together outside of work.

  My dinner companion is animated. Moreover, Andrew’s inquisitive about my time in New York. “Did you see Roger and Patti?” “How is your nana?” “Have you finished your score for Disappear?” I am utterly shocked at his interest. How did he even know the name of the film? If memory serves me right, the last time we had exchanged conversation during a meal took place more than six months ago. The last time he bought me anything was years ago.

  Although there is pot roast, I am reminded that Andrew is still a vegan as he eats a small piece of vegan lasagna from a Raw restaurant a few blocks from our bungalow. “This is delicious,” he exclaims while the tomato sauce falls on his forest green shirt I purchased for him last Christmas. He’s not wearing brown. Out of habit, I lean forward and wipe his chin before dotting his shirt with a wet napkin.

  I don’t answer any of Andrew’s questions.

  He doesn’t ask anymore of me. My company is all that is needed. The rest of the meal is silent with only the ticking sound of the clock that hangs a few feet from us.

  As I take my last bite, Andrew rises from his chair and is by my side. Kneeling, he takes my hand, trying to fit it with his. We’ve loved each other for more than half our lives, and a tightness forms in my chest when I stare down; our hands no longer belong together.

  Unaware of the awkward
exchanges between us, Andrew breaks the silence. “Lina, I’m … I was a fool. Thank you for coming back. First thing this weekend, let’s get your ring. Let’s get married next month.”

  Thirty-Eight

  I’m at a loss for words.

  I try not to choke as he proposes again.

  Facing him, it’s obvious my presence has made him happy. His dimple appears. There is joy in his light brown eyes. His smile, though handsome, is not infectious. I attempt to respond with my own and more importantly, suppress the tears. He pulls out my chair before reaching for my trembling hand. His touch is warm. I don’t understand what’s going on. Andrew has that ‘I want to be intimate with you’ look in his eyes. It’s not Wednesday night. And my heart recognizes that he’s desperate to reconnect with me.

  We head to our bedroom, and my feet are like concrete with each wavering step. My heart that belongs to another man beats faster than expected. It’s not because I want this. God, no! It’s beating rapidly out of fear. The thought of making love to another man besides Julian is disturbing. I’m stupid for believing Andrew and I could return to the way we were without any consequences to my faltering heart. There’s just no way I can make love with Andrew.

  And although I’ve made my bed, I can’t lie in it.

  What am I doing?

  Think fast, Lina.

  You can’t do this.

  A foot away from our bedroom, I halt my steps. “Andrew, I can’t. This is too soon. I’m … I’m not ready.”

  He stares into the distance for a moment before his eyes meet mine. “I’m sorry, Lina. I assumed this is what you wanted.”

  It’s evident my first love and I are not the same two people from a few months ago. The man before me has changed, or he’s trying to change. He wants to be the man I used to long to be with. The man who used to care about my days. The man who used to prepare romantic dinners for me. The man who used to want to make love to me.

  Andrew is trying to be him.

  I sit on the edge of the bed unsure of what to do as he makes his way to the bathroom to change. Glancing at the clock ahead of me, I notice it’s only six o’clock, and this day needs to be over soon. If only I can forget the past few months. If only I can forget my shared conversations with Julian. If only I can forget the sound of his voice when he says my name. If only I can forget what it felt like to wake up in his arms. If only I can forget this day had started with him, then maybe, yes, maybe, I can move on.

  When Andrew returns, he hesitantly walks toward where I am seated, finding a space only a few inches from me. God, please don’t have him touch me. My head lowers. He gently cups my face, and he’s no fool. Even though he caused me distress a few months ago, actually for the past few years, he’s the last person I want to hurt. I force a weak smile at him as I continue to break inside. I will be fine. And although tonight the world feels like it’s coming to an end, tomorrow I’ll wake up and try to be the woman I need to be with Andrew.

  I love Andrew.

  Andrew has never lied to me.

  Andrew wants to give me everything.

  Andrew will never leave me.

  I am more than an interlude to Andrew.

  Andrew doesn’t have another woman waiting for him in London.

  My first love is seated next to me on the bed while I am reticent. What are we supposed to do now? I’ve shot his plans for tonight, and we don’t know what to do with each other. We’ve been together for more than half our lives, and we don’t have a clue about how to be around each other at this moment. I close my eyes and pray I can get through the next few hours.

  Taking my hand, his voice is softer when he finally asks, “Are you okay? Are we okay?”

  Why didn’t you ask me this several months ago?

  I nod as I look away from him. But how can I tell him that I’m slowly drowning? How can I tell him that I love him, but I don’t love him like I used to? How can I tell him I’m not the same girl he fell in love with? How can I tell him that my heart … my heart is broken, and it will never be the same? How do I tell him that another man has claimed it?

  A man I foolishly fell in love with.

  If I am to move forward with Andrew, I need to be open with him. Maybe this is an opportunity that I can give him to walk away since I’m not strong enough to do it. He needs to understand that the woman before him has transformed. “I need you to know some things about me.”

  “If it’s about Julian−”

  Hearing Julian’s name escape from Andrew’s lips unnerves me. I interrupt him before he can go any further with his thoughts. “There are things I’ve never told you.”

  “I don’t want you to hide anything from me. I’m so sorry you felt the need to keep any secrets.”

  I exhale loudly. “I enjoy watching porn.”

  “I know.”

  Andrew’s admission startles me. “What do you mean you know?” I had been careful all these years. I’ve always watched adult films alone. I’ve always erased my search histories before shutting down my computers. Plus, I only watch Tumblr porn on my phone.

  “I’ve known for over a year now. I figured you wanted to keep that private, and that’s why you never mentioned it to me.” Taking my hand, his touch, one that I used to crave, no longer warms me.

  “I also love sex. And I don’t mean having it only once a week and always the same position. I love it all, especially oral. And I have a vibrator. I hated our scheduled sex.”

  Andrew’s eyes wander when he offers, “Uh, we can use them. I’ll be more open to what you want.” He pauses for a second before slightly lowering his head. “I’m sorry. You’ve never voiced any of this to me.”

  “I have so many times. You just never wanted any different.” I cup his chin, and his eyes glisten. “Andrew, I’m trying my best here.”

  “I know. It’s just going to take some time. I … I need you to find it in your heart to forgive me. I pray you’ll find your way back to the woman who loved me. However long it takes, I will wait. I’ll wait for you.”

  His light brown eyes meet mine, and suddenly, I experience our past together. The first time we talked at the high school cafeteria. Our first date at McDonald’s. The first time we kissed in front of my grandparents’ home. The afternoon he left college right in the middle of an exam, rushing to be by my side after Caroline’s death. The way he picked me up off the floor after I lost my grandfather. Andrew, with all his faults, without a doubt, loved me. Still loves me.

  “Lina, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to get you back. I promise to be more open to what you need.”

  “Why do you want to marry me, Andrew? You don’t even like making love to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Our Wednesday night lovemaking sessions have become a chore. You stopped caring. It’s like you’ve avoided being intimate with me.”

  I seek his face, his warm eyes, and silently wait for an answer.

  “I love making love to you. It’s been difficult the past few years because … it … it also reminds me that I can’t give the only woman I’ve ever loved what she wants most … I can’t give you a child.”

  My eyes water when I suddenly remember the weeks after we received news of Andrew’s infertility. He was dispirited in bed, unable to get up, unable to make it to work, unable to eat, unable to do anything. The only words that escaped his mouth during those weeks were, “I’m sorry.” He was barely living; staring only at the ceiling during the day before silently crying himself to sleep. And when he was hospitalized for depression, I promised him that I would never leave him because we couldn’t have a child together.

  And I realize that’s when my life with Andrew had dramatically changed.

  Andrew moves closer, our knees now touching. Raising my hand to his lips, he gently kisses it. His voice, barely a whisper. “Please forgive me.”

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  And although we’re making progress, all I desire is time to myself. Time to process it
all. “I would like to be alone right now. I’m tired, but please don’t worry about me. You were working when I came home. If you need to finish your work, please … go and finish,” I say with exhaustion. Andrew doesn’t push me into a conversation, recognizing that I need solitude. Rising from our bed, he leans down, kissing the top of my head. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

  Thirty-Nine

  Hours seem like days as night barely progresses. I don’t do anything while Andrew works in his study. Nothing can distract me from this heartache. I don’t read. I don’t listen to music. I don’t watch TV. I lie paralyzed in bed, hearing songs in my head. Music that Julian and I would listen to during our time together. Flashbacks of my interlude with him haunt me. Dancing the night away on his terrace as we swayed to Michael Bublé and Ivan Lins’ “Wonderful Tonight.” Making furious love to Muse’s “Madness” in his home office after discovering he was JC Rutherford. Singing in his car to The Police as we left Union Square. Our rendezvous to Tove Lo’s “Talking Body” in the cab as he devoured me. Our first night together with Marvin Gaye in the background, on my birthday, as he made love to me the entire night. My heart breaks at the memory of Julian on his knees, in tears, giving up his pride as he pleaded for me to stay.

  I was a fool.

  I am a fool.

  I need to remind myself that Shira is in London waiting for Julian. Although he admits to not fucking her the last time he saw her, it doesn’t mean he’s not going to fuck her again. I need to stop thinking about Julian.

  I have Andrew waiting to be intimate with me, waiting for me to love him back.

  When he lies next to me, I pretend to be asleep. Like always, he doesn’t disturb me and turns the table lamp light switch off. Immediately, I feel his warmth. Although his body touches mine, it’s difficult to ignore the distance that closes in. He doesn’t face my way, trying to hold me. Instead, he faces our ceiling. He sighs before whispering, “I want to hold you, but I know you’re not ready. It’s hard to get a gauge as to where I am in your heart. Please, Lina, please forgive me. I love you so much.” His breathing becomes heavy, and in a matter of minutes, he gently snores.