I stare at the Rolex on my wrist, the one Casey gave me when I graduated law school. I think about the first one she gave me, the Breitling. I think about the papers in her safe with my name on them, and how, with Ellen gone, had she not brought George in the way she had, no one else alive would’ve known about what I have with her.
I have been willingly complicit in my own erasure over all these years. Was that my price? Two watches worth more combined than my mother likely ever earned in twoyearsof practically killing herself to make a living to support me and Emma?
George and Caseystillhaven’t texted me today.
Privately, I mean. They’ve both texted and e-mailed me work-related stuff on my work cell.
Somehow, that makes the lack of a private good-morning reply sting even worse.
They’ve told me they love me. And I guess I believe them.
I want to.
But in darker, private moments like this, with my brain too loud for my own good, my personal ghosts rise up from the depths to howl at me and remind me I’m nothing, that I’m never going to amount to anything.
That I can be easily discarded and pushed aside.
That I work my ass off for others’ benefit and pleasure and can never take any public credit for it.
That I whore my ass to two powerful political people who—
I can’t take it. I know after lunch that Casey has meetings outside our office suite. I set an out-of-office voice mail message for my landline and my work cell, grab my crap, and head out after telling our AA that I’m gone for the rest of the day, taking PTO time, and that I’ll see her on Monday.
I don’t tell her where I’m going because I honestly don’t know.
There are some errands I need to take care of, so I handle those—a trip to the cleaners to pick up my suits, buying groceries I might or might not get to eat depending on what happens this weekend and next week, and changing the sheets on my bed and washing the dirty ones, not that they’re gross or anything. I sleep alone when I’m there.
It’s a hot, muggy day, increasingly overcast and with a threat of afternoon thunderstorms looming while emotional thunder deafens my normally steady mind.
I throw on a T-shirt, running shorts, and sneakers, and grab the small waist pack I wear when running to hold my keys, ID, and phone. Then I set my personal cell toDo Not Disturbmode, activate my run tracking app, leave my work cell behind, and head out.
Avenged Sevenfold, Cage the Elephant, and Dropkick Murphys today.
Not even apologizing.
I don’t know where I’m going, at first, until I realize I’m heading toward Shelby Bottoms. The park and greenway run along the Cumberland River and it’s early enough in the afternoon it’s not crowded. Sweat pours down my back as I push myself, digging deep and settling into a punishing pace that finally begins to drown my loud, angry thoughts and allows me to zone out.
Am I naive for thinking anything good will eventually come from my relationship with George? Sure, I’m helping him, but if he wins in November, that’s four more years of secrecy.
Last night, George told the boys everyone was getting what they wanted and needed, but…am I? Really?
At least before, with Casey, I knew the full score, understood everything, the whys of her methodology for keeping us a secret, but I felt like I was a fully participatingpartnerdespite belonging to her.
George found a sub-basement access into parts of my psyche I didn’t even realize existed before and effortlessly took over my very soul. That’s what it feels like.
Who am I now,really?
I’m halfway up the greenway when I’m alerted to an incoming text on my phone, which means it’s from one of two people if it’s bypassingDo Not Disturbmode—Casey or George. It’s not from the Signal app, either, so I doubt it’s personal. Probably something work-related.
Dammit, I’m entitled to take time off.
I thumb it away without reading it or even breaking stride, and I keep running.
About fifteen minutes later, I receive another text. I finally slow to a walk and check.
Both from Casey.
You left work early?
