Page 8 of The Caretaker
I arrived at the museum three hours late, but the party was in full swing with no signs of ending anytime soon. I kept close to the perimeter of the room as I scanned the crowd for Patrick. Many people danced in their ballgowns and tailored suits, others laughed and conversed in dim corners, and some admired the artwork plastered along the walls. It all felt very sophisticated and over the top, right down to the red carpet stationed outside. I was out of my element but did my best not to show it.
I’d been about to ask someone if they’d seen Dr. Patrick Cunningham, but then I spotted him across the room. He wore that private sly smile of his that I hadn’t seen in a while. The one that said he was up to no good. When was the last time I’d seen that mischievous smile? It had to have been my thirty-third birthday. Right before he’d slathered cake frosting on my face, then proceeded to lick me clean before taking me right there on the kitchen floor. That was more than a year ago.
I took a moment to admire it, to miss it, to join in with one of my own. What remained of my world came tumbling down when I followed the direction of his secret smile.
A slender woman in a yellow dress danced with a man who stood at least a head taller than everyone in the room. His hands were positioned on her waist, his eyes closed, nose buried in her golden hair as they swayed to the intimate song. Her cheek rested on his chest, but whereas he seemed completely enraptured by her, she only had eyes for my husband. A chill skated down my spine.
The song ended, something more lively taking its place, and she accepted a kiss from her dance partner before pointing in the vicinity of the restrooms and excusing herself.
Patrick set his champagne flute down before discreetly weaving his way through the crowd to follow her. His trajectory would take him right past me, and I should’ve thought about hiding, but the suffocating pain made it impossible to move. It didn’t matter anyway, because his fixation on her made it easy for him to breeze right by me without even noticing.
The dark-haired man she’d been dancing with now sat at a table conversing with the couple seated across from him. One of them must have said something amusing because he tossed his head back, laughing with his whole body, as if all was right in his world. I found myself envying his ignorance, because at least he wasn’t now forced to choose between two options when either of them would ruin him. Didn’t matter if I left now and told myself it was nothing or if I followed Patrick in order to prove that theory wrong. Either way, he’d damaged what was left of me.
The restrooms weren’t single occupant or gender neutral, so they clearly hadn’t gone in there. I kept moving, venturing past a velvet rope with a metal stanchion in front of it holding a sign that read “Museum Personnel Only.”
It was dark on this side of the museum, the music fading the farther I crept. I rounded corner after corner, peeked into every exhibition space I passed, willing my heart to slow so I could hear something other than my own blood pounding in my ears.
I was beginning to think I’d imagined things, was seconds away from heading back to the ball to find Patrick. He’d likely stepped outside for fresh air, I told myself. Or maybe he’d gone into another restroom. There had to be more than one. But then the murmuring of voices reached me from a private room at the end of the last hall. The door had been left ajar. I recognized one of the voices as belonging to my husband, and the spinning in my head ensued.
“I hated seeing his hands on you,” Patrick said.
“But I only had eyes for you,” a woman replied.
“Knowing that brought a smile to my face,” he said softly. “Are you going to tell him tonight?”
“No,” she answered. “I was thinking…” She trailed off. “Maybe we should wait until we get back. It seems cruel to drop this on them right before running off for three months.”
I propped a hand against the wall to keep from falling, my other hand clutching my abdomen.
“You’re right,” Patrick whispered. “Of course you are. I’m just ready to start my life with you. I can’t take the hiding anymore. I can’t take not waking up to you anymore, knowing that you’re waking up next to someone else.”
“I know,” she said. “Me either.”
“We’ll have the next three months together, and although it won’t be the most glamorous three months, I plan on having my hands on you every chance I get,” Patrick said passionately. “No more passing each other in the halls of the hospital with no more than a polite nod. No more sneaking away between rounds, no more fucking you in random hotels or in the back of my car like you’re some whore.” He sounded disgusted by it, but she giggled.
“Well, I kinda like being your whore.”
“Thank the heavens.” He exhaled, and she giggled louder. Patrick shushed her.
“I love you,” he professed, his awed tone unfamiliar to me.
“Show me,” she demanded, and the sound of lips and bodies coming together followed. The echo of a zipper lowering rang out, and I backed away, both arms now banded around my stomach, holding me together.
I made it back to the velvet rope without passing out from the pain, but if it weren’t for operating all day on an empty stomach, I would’ve retched right there. I stopped, panting, anger forcing its way through the self-pity and the ache of betrayal wrapping around me. How could he do this to me?
Without thinking, I marched back to that room, shoving the door so hard it rebounded off the wall behind it.
She yelped, dropping her legs from around his hips. Patrick muttered a curse, releasing her wrists from where he’d had them pinned against the wall.
“What the—” Patrick’s words came to a halt as his eyes landed on me in abject horror. The woman spun away to fix her dress as his now shriveling cock hung out of his pants. “S-solace,” he stammered.
“What have you done?” I asked, unsure of how I managed to utter that much. He hadn’t worn a condom, and the implications of that, the carelessness, the disrespect. The resulting wound nearly took me to my knees.
“I-I can explain,” he said, tucking himself back in.
“Don’t bother,” I seethed, vision blurring. “How long?”
The woman now had her clothes situated but kept her back to me, as if hoping I’d forget she was there. Patrick then shoved the figurative knife a little deeper into my chest when he shifted to block her from my view. To protect her from this.
