Page 13 of King of Guilt

“It does,” I admitted. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Uninvited and certainly unwanted, my mother’s words to Emma sprung into my mind, shoving everything else aside.

“He’s a gentle soul that’s also powerful, like a warrior. Sure, he’s a little bit brooding, and sometimes gets lost in his philosophy books, psychological fiction and in his own thoughts. But he always comes back… but you must already know that.”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat.

Oh, sweet Pearl. Little did you know.

Emma didn’t know anything about me, nor did I want her to. She didn’t deserve to go through any of this, yet here she was, working hand over fist to comfort her overbearing boss. Perhaps I was too immature to handle my emotions the way adults did. Maybe I was too attached to my mother. It was also possible that my heart was beating so fast and strong now, because every action Emma took reminded me of a devoted, loving partner.

As my guardian angel picked up the showerhead, she started carefully rinsing my hair, using her hand as a shield over my forehead so the lather wouldn’t burn my eyes.

Luckily, though, the human form was less than perfect, and trickling threads of water snuck through the fine spaces between her skin and mine, washing over my face.

It was lucky, indeed, because my tears no longer had a dam to stop them. Emma’s touch and my broken heart had rendered me feeble.

I’m sorry, mother. While you were in heaven, I had to risk letting another woman see me cry.

Yet, thanks to her imperfections and mine, she just might have missed it.

seven

I’m Not Falling

Emma

For the eight days that followed the burial of his mother, Dean remained—as she had warned me—cocooned in his own shell. He didn’t discuss our divorce arrangement, or an annulment. It was as though he were in an alternate universe where everything danced in slow motion around him, and he performed on autopilot.

Every day, we would quietly eat breakfast out on the terrace, in the garden, or by the pool. Our silence was only interrupted when there was something work-related that needed to be discussed. We would then go to “our bedroom” where we would change our clothes before we were driven to work in the same car. The chauffeur would stop at the coffee shop where Dean—now assuming the public role of a loving husband—would get out and pick up our coffees himself. In the office, we performed the tasks expected of us; dedicated CEO and devoted personal-assistant-turned-wife.

Since we still received visits from those who had been stuck out of the country and missed the service, our evenings were filled with socialization with Dean’s acquaintances coming to pay their respects.

On the eighth night—the first free one in a week—Dean was apparently exhausted and didn’t make any plans. As we sat at the dinner table, serenely consuming our meal, he suddenly asked, “How are your parents?”

“They’re fine.” I smiled. “Thanks for asking.”

“We haven’t seen them since the wedding. Did they ask about the honeymoon?”

“Mom did, yes. I gave her the story we agreed on.”

“And your father?”

I shook my head. “He doesn’t consume himself with what he considers trivialities.”

“His daughter’s happiness is a triviality?”

“I—Never mind, that came out wrong.”

“Why don’t we go see them?”

“Together?” I forced a chuckle, and it came out nervously. “It was a miracle they didn’t strangle each other at the wedding.” Pausing, I remembered the text I had received from dad a couple of days ago. “Dad did ask if we’d like to have dinner with him sometime.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I’ll see. I told him we still had people coming in t0…”

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