I need to do something.
Cleaning? My mother used to say dust and feelings could be swiped with the same cloth.
So I scrub, alphabetize the bookshelf, vacuum, thenrearrange the bookshelf by color. Turn the crystal vase we got as a wedding gift because it has a hair crack that would drive Richard crazy.And maybe because some flaws are better left hidden.
By the end, I think I've wiped away my own fingerprints. Even thought about erasing my memories too, but honestly? I wouldn't.
It's the kind of crazy everyone knows—there's always that one person who takes you to hell, and still, you'd choose them again because hell's just a breath away from heaven.
And Ben's definitely been my inferno.
Next discovery is a rolled-up rug in the closet. I hid it as soon as I got it because my mother said it was "unsuitable" for Richard's curated aesthetic.
I roll it out. Wild green and mustard splashes on the grey floor, like a meadow interrupting a board meeting.
Something tells me I should roll it back.
I don't.
When I collapse at my desk, my screen glares back.
And then, for the first time in weeks, something finally comes. Not the story I wanted to write, just this:Once, there was a very special person in my life. Dangerous, too.
Not because he'd lie or cheat or intentionally hurt, but because the world was always a little dimmer next to him.
Men like him are easily misread, and more so unforgettable. They blur the line between no and yes and maybe-just-this-once.
And when they leave—because they always do—they break your heart clean open and burn everything you thought you neededto survive.
But they also leave you braver—brave enough to admit that sometimes, the only way to find yourself is through the wreckage.
I sit with it.
This isn't fiction. This feels like excavation.
With a neurotic thud, I finish:Be careful what you wish for. I'm so, so screwed!
The front door clicks.
Richard's home surprisingly early. He never comes home before five.
He's on the phone, laughing politely. "I told Father not to bother with that legal clutter at his age... So the Petersons aren't invited anymore? I knew that divorce was a matter of time... Yes I saw your new Italian fountain, isn't it a bit too big, though?... No, my elbow still hurts... I know, I know, but I love billiards... Sure, we miss you too. I'll tell her. Bye, Elaine."
Elaine is Richard's mother. He calls her by her first name out of custom, not affection.
She's been more of a figurehead he'd glimpsed between charity galas in those two months when he wasn't at boarding school.
Of course, he'd never dare call his father William—or God forbid, Bill—that would imply equality, not dynasty where sentiment is smoothed over with expensive scotch.
"Em?"
"Here!" I sing out, trained to be cheery whenever he walks in. Not that he ever asked me, I just do it—don't really know why.
Richard appears in the doorway of my office, crisp in his navy suit. The color always makes his blond hair stand out.
He is very handsome.
I'm not into blonde men but he has that classic Guy Madison look, you know. It gets me every time.
