Page 11 of The Wrong Husband
Not now.
Not ever.
I wait… Wait… As she takes a step in my direction.
5
Phoenix
I take a step forward, scan the street, then stop. Once again, there’s no one. But the hair on the back of my neck prickles. That now familiar feeling of being watched is back.
I take in the parked cars, including the VW van I passed earlier.
I look across the street. Other than the cars, and the lights on in my neighbor’s house, there’s nothing to be seen.
It’s probably heightened vigilance. A response to the stress I face daily in the ER… Add to that, the situation with Drew, and yeah, it’s probably my amygdala firing overtime after too many sleepless shifts and too much cortisol.
My mind isn’t betraying me. It’s just overcompensating. That’s all.
I shake my head and turn toward my place. No one’s following me. Maybe, I’m so exhausted that my mind is playing tricks on me.
Still, I hasten my pace and only let myself relax when I’m behind the locked doors of my house. I can tell it’s empty.
The door to the guest room is slightly ajar. Drew must have left it that way. Thankfully, he’s away on his shift. I’m glad he’s not home. I’m not ready for another confrontation with him.
I head into my bedroom. A quick shower later, I heat up a microwave dinner, catch half a movie, and am in bed by 9:30 p.m.
I broke up with Drew, but my routine hasn’t varied. Nothing feels different. This is why I told him we were barely a couple. Whether I’m with him or not, there’s no discernable change to my life. Except for the guilt I carry around in my heart.
I fall into a troubled sleep, punctuated by dreams of someone watching me. I’m awake before my alarm goes off. I don’t feel very refreshed. By 6:30 a.m., I’m showered and dressed.
Carrying my backpack, I head into the kitchen to get a coffee and come to a stop.
Drew sits at the tiny breakfast nook. He’s hunched over a glass of water, staring into its depths.
He prefers to use the back door to come and go. He also parks his bicycle near the back of the house, where he can access a bike path to the hospital.
I've accepted it the way I've accepted the scratchy blanket he added to our—I guess, mine again—bed. Without complaint. Without emotion.
Maybe, it's because he’s my superior in the hospital, and I've allowed that to influence my behavior toward him at home.
The one thing I was adamant about—we didn’t publicize our relationship.I didn’t want anyone thinking I was getting special treatment at work.
I walk over to the other side of the breakfast counter. He looks up—his face expressionless, his eyes heavy with exhaustion.
Something tugs at my chest. Maybe pity. Maybe guilt.
I don’t love him. I never have. But after nearly a year together, of which we lived together for nine of them, part of me feels responsible, for him.
This was my house. I found it, made it mine. Then he moved in and made it his too.
I didn’t want that.
I knew from the start, he wasn’t the man I’d spend my life with. But he was so sure, so convinced, that I went along.
Now, I want him to move on, but he’s struggling. I can see it in the slump of his shoulders; in the way he clings to this place. I get it—change is hard, especially when you’re leaving what you’ve come to call home.
In some ways, this is my fault. If I’d told him no, back then—if I’d set that boundary—we wouldn’t be here. And because of that, I want to see him land on his feet.
