Page 24 of King of Guilt

“Yeah. See you there.”

After ending the call, I immediately launched the messenger and texted Dean. I may not make it on time for dinner tonight. Meeting a friend at seven.

He responded. Sure, have fun. Where? Maybe if it’s nearby, I can wait for you.

Dee’s on Amsterdam Avenue. I don’t know how long it will take, so I guess just go ahead. Don’t wait for me.

He didn’t respond.

From that point on, and until I had to leave for my appointment with Kyle, my mind was consumed with work. First, I had to revise Dean’s schedule and update it with anything that I might have missed for tomorrow. Next, I needed to place an order for a gift to send to his cousin Bette in Washington for her birthday, RSVP to a fundraiser to which we were both invited, and send out some VIP invitations for a company luncheon next week.

When I was done, I was glad to get out of the office without Dean. Being near him right now would only remind me of the pain I had felt earlier when he talked about our open marriage. But I knew that I would soon have to address those feelings. What did I expect? That we would carry on pretending to be a couple, even in front of ourselves? Couples talked over breakfast, and about things other than work. Couples enjoyed intimate dinners and drinks on the terrace. Couples… were not like us. We weren’t a couple, even though we had slept together.

Brushing away thoughts of Dean and our strange relationship, I stepped into the bathroom and started retouching my makeup. Kyle didn’t need to know about my existential crisis, nor did he have to know about Dean at all. As far as he was concerned, I was doing fine. So, I applied some blush to conceal my paleness, smiling at myself in the mirror as a form of practice.

I wasn’t going to allow Kyle to see me looking sad, lost, or confused. He was the one making amends. It wasn’t me who was supposed to look broken.

In the crowded café, I needed to take a minute to look for Kyle. Recovery or not, Kyle was Kyle, and he loved to sit at the bustling center of everything. Dodging crammed tables and chairs to reach him, I muttered my inaudible apologies until I made it to where he was. “Hi,” I cheerfully said, sitting down in front of him. “Did I keep you waiting?”

“No, no.” He waved with a hand, while with the other, handing me the menu. “I got here five minutes ago.”

“Oh—I’ll just take decaf.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Really? Since when?”

I tittered. “Since I moved—” I instantly stopped myself from giving away information about Dean’s house. “I mean; I’m staying with a friend. My apartment needed repainting, and I couldn’t have possibly slept with all the fumes.”

“But now, you can’t sleep, because it’s not your bed,” he remarked with a smirk, a testament that he still remembered things about me.

“I manage.” I said, my eyes widening a tad to urge him to get to the point. “So… what is it that you needed to say to me?”

“Gosh, Emmie! Can we at least order the coffee first?”

“Oh, of course.” I quickly raised my arm up high, searching for a waiter to beckon over.

Only after sitting down in front of Kyle, did I realize how much I didn’t want to be here at all. His apology wasn’t going to change anything for me, nor was it going to mend what had been broken. That night with Dean—that carried a promise of my nightmares finally coming undone. But Kyle’s apology? That was entirely for him and him alone.

When the waiter finally came to take our order, I noticed how Kyle began to stall, asking about the different types of coffee that they carried. I, on the other hand, blurted out my order like I didn’t care if he brought me a cup of hot water instead.

twelve

Old Wounds and New Pains

Dean

When Emma texted me that she was seeing a friend for coffee and told me not to wait, I didn’t know why I got curious. It didn’t feel like a coincidence that this was happening on the same evening after I reminded her that our marriage was open. The thought somehow troubled me, even though it was me who had made the rules.

The idea of following Emma after work had been floating around the spaces of my mind for the rest of the day. But when it was time to wrap up my final meeting, shut my laptop, and get off the chair, I didn’t think I was actually going to go through with it.

Yet, there I was, texting my chauffeur to go home.

Down in the underground corporate parking lot, I took a key to one of my spare cars parked there for emergencies and told the attendant not to expect it back before tomorrow.

As soon as I assumed my position behind the wheel, I punched in the name ‘Dee’s Café’ and let the navigation screen guide me.

Why was I doing this? Had my grief been so powerful as to alter my judgment, warping the concepts of right, wrong, and flat out embarrassing? Or was it some brand of curiosity that urged me to know the woman everyone thought I’d married a little bit better?

But shame. Shame was gnawing through my insides as I reminded myself that I was driving down the busy streets of New York to spy on my assistant. Feeling like a disgusting creep, I wondered if I had ever reached a lower rock bottom in my life. The answer was a glaring negative.

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