Page 89 of Just Ten Seconds

When I get into my car, I watch as she walks away. I put my hand on my racing heart and then curse up at the ceiling. The place I once came for solace is now the last place I should ever visit again.

I couldn’t sleep last night. That’s not unusual, except this time, I wasn’t thinking about the past. I was upset over the future.

For three years, I haven’t thought much about what happens next. My eyes were always looking behind, as I relived the wretchedness and walked in fear. While I put on a brave face, I am anything but. I am like the jack-o’-lanterns that graced the front porch a few weeks ago. A shiny shell with a hollow inside.

And then something started to happen. A light burned inside. I illuminated in the dark, and it felt good to be noticed.

Why didn’t I just tell Dean that first night over coffee that Benjamin wasn’t dead? Would he have cared? Maybe. Maybe not. Truth is, I was the one who cared. I’m the one who carries disgrace and embarrassment. I didn’t want him to look at me with shame, hate, or just plain pity.

I’ve been lucky these last few months. When the murder first occurred, everyone knew Benjamin’s name. As his financial crimes were unveiled, they knew mine too. This is the only case where time has been on my side. As the news cycle changes, so does people’s interest and their memories.

While most people have heard of my name, they don’t remember what I look like. Makes sense, I suppose. If Bernie Madoff’s wife passed me on the street, I wouldn’t do a second take. But if you told me Ruth Madoff was in the room, I’d zero in on her based on name recognition alone.

That’s why I requested my maiden name in the divorce.

Mara Greenfield is a villain.

Mara Williams is a saint.

I sat at my computer for hours last night, writing to Dean. Penning my thoughts and trying to put into words why I’d kept this from him. It wasn’t easy, and it’s still not done. I have to finish it soon because the longer I wait, the harder it’s going to be.

I sit at my kitchen table and play with my hair while my coffee brews. The room still smells like burned paper from me destroying Benjamin’s letter last night. I didn’t cry or have a panic attack at the sight. I’ll chalk that up as a win.

I rap my feet on the floor, trying to expel this nervous energy. My eyes land on the darkened corner of the room and the cardboard box my mother sent me. It’s been lying there since yesterday, idly waiting to be opened.

My coffee is done, but I don’t drink it. Instead, I kneel down by the box and pull on the tape, opening the folds. A plume of fabric pops, the box stuffed to the gills with memories.

Inside are my old costumes. Christine from Phantom of the Opera, Belle from Beauty and the Beast… they’re all here. The playbills with my fresh faced headshots in the credits are piled neatly at the bottom.

I lift the yellow ballgown and hold it up. I remember how awesome it felt to have on when I played Belle. The polyester fabric feels itchy in my hands, but the first time, I put it on like a silk gown tailored especially for me. Running my hands down the sleeves, I recall dancing around the stage and singing my heart out, back when I thought I had a stellar voice and legit acting chops.

Because I need something to do with myself, I put the dress on. I’m a bit thicker than I was in high school, so I have to hop around my bedroom as I tug the zipper up. My breasts are spilling out the top, and I’m heaving with heavy breaths from the workout of putting the damn thing on. When I’m in, I look in the mirror and twist my face at my reflection.

“It’s not that bad,” I ruminate.

I pull my hair up and do a twirl. The dress swooshes at my feet. It still has life to it, and the color hasn’t faded. I’ll donate the costumes to the theater. Maybe someday, Amanda will wear one of these in a starring role.

Amanda … I might lose her too.

I stop my twirl and bite my cheek, worrying myself into a daze.

There’s a knock at the door. My head snaps up as I stare at the closed door, wondering who in the world it could be. I open it before asking.

To my surprise, it’s the one person I’ve been trying to work up the courage to speak to.

“Dean!” I say at the sight of his smirk.

His eyes rake down my body with lifted brows.

“Hi, Mara!” Amanda peeks out from around her father’s side.

I look down at her sweet face beaming up at me.

I place a hand over my boobs that are falling out. “What are you guys doing here?”

“We’re going to see a Broadway show, and we want you to come with us!” Amanda opens her arms like she’s doing the finale of a performance.

“Now?” I ask incredulously.