Page 12 of Am I the Only One

“Maybe she was just a friend who was in trouble,” I mutter, breaking the silence in an attempt to go along with the theory that it wasn’t what it looked like. “It did look like the girl had been crying.”

Mrs. Montgomery’s response is that of a simple nod.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be intrusive.”

“Emma, it’s fine. You need to focus on your last exam and let me focus on whatever happened back there, which like I said, was probably nothing. My husband is a busy man who deals with many people, so ...”

“Of course,” I agree, not wanting to upset her any more than she already is. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“It’s fine. Now, which building is yours?” she asks when she pulls into the campus housing where I live.

I direct her to my building, but before I get out of the car, I turn to her. She still wears the mask of indifference, yet her eyes expose the nasty beast of horror at what the both of us just witnessed.

“I guess I’ll see you later this week at our normal time?”

“Yes,” she responds with a forced smile. “Good luck on your exam tomorrow.”

Carly

When Emma shuts the door and walks into her building, I drop the façade of calm I’d been clinging to. My hands grip tightly around the steering wheel as my arms begin to shake. I allow the heat of my wrath to emanate from the core of my soul, the one piece that is most tender, the piece I felt safe enough to hand over to Tripp only to have him incinerate it.

I’ve tried so hard, exhausting myself to keep my world from falling apart. Holding tightly to my temper, I rarely ever let my frustrations boil over. I’m always the one to swallow the bitter pill of hostility to avoid a quarrel, but I’m at the end of my rope. How much longer do I have to stand by while my husband gets to live out his fantasies with women I can’t dare to compete with? I don’t compare to the twenty-something floozy he’s fucking around with when I’m fast approaching my forties. No amount of nips, tucks, or Botox can reverse the years that have etched their existence on my body.

Tears run rivers down my cheeks as I drive back to Maryland. Tears that hold everything I’ve been hiding. Each one is a salty cocktail of anguish, hatred, loss, jealousy, desperation, and animosity. His audacity to bastardize our marriage rips fissures inside me. Wounds I doubt he could heal because, in this moment, my whole world, the world I built around my love for Tripp, completely disintegrates.

So I cry.

That’s all I can do because no amount of screaming can erase the asshole my husband has turned in to.

With every blink, I see him withher. Static clips of him undressingher, kissingher, touchingher, pushing intoherplay in color the whole drive home. I move in a haze through the home we’ve made together, up the grand staircase where he made love to me the first time he brought me to this house, and through the French doors of our bedroom. There isn’t a single room that is untouched by the burning love we once shared.

Now, I stand and stare at our bed in dead silence. A room that used to be filled with laughter and passion is now filled with cunning jabs and insults, lies and deceit. In a crashing instant, the overwhelming feeling of loss sends me to my knees, and I wail my pain out, loud and ugly. My cries echo through the house as I sob and sob until I eventually wear out and force myself to my feet. Needing to distract myself, I move to the kitchen, grab a glass of wine, and bury myself in work until the sun sets and the night closes in.

Hours have passed with no word from Tripp—not that I want to hear from him. When I decide to turn in for the night, I lie in bed and curl into myself. There’s no concept of time as I brood in the darkness. My mind is a labyrinth of agonizing torment. I laze in it because, what other choice do I have? I give in, allowing it to fester and create the fuel I need to find strength, hardening my softest parts and sharpening my once-smooth edges.

The stairs creak under Tripp’s feet, and my stomach churns in disgust at the thought of what he’s been doing that has kept him out till nearly one in the morning. I pretend to sleep as he makes his way into the closet and strips out of his clothes. When he finally comes to bed, I fear this marriage is over. That very thought makes it impossible for me to think about anything other than the memories of how our marriage began.

“What are you doing in here? You’re not supposed to see me! It’s bad luck.”

“Fuck luck,” Tripp says when he closes the door behind him, turning the lock so no one can barge in.

I stand in nothing but my undergarments, uncomfortable with my flaws even though Tripp worships my body as if it were a shrine built solely for his worship.

He walks across the room, which is one of many in his parents’ home. The home in which he grew up. The home in which I will marry my love today.

Knowing that his language only turns crude when lust ignites in him, I grow tense when his hand touches the bare skin of my hip.

“Stop. Your parents are downstairs. What if—”

“What?” he interrupts. “What if someone catches me making love to the woman I’m about to marry?”

“Well ... yes.”

His smirk is devilish. “That’s what locks are for.”

“Tripp.”

“Mmmm, say my name again.”

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