Page 54 of The Husband I Left

“You’re welcome, Mr. Sinclair,” she says softly.

The next couple of days pass in a haze of withdrawal and restless sleep. My head pounds, my hands shake, and my temper frays to a razor’s edge. But true to her word, Mrs. Stewart has removed every drop of alcohol from the penthouse. And I know because I looked.

By Saturday morning, I’m sober for the first time in days and absolutely miserable about it. The sunlight streaming through the windows feels like needles in my eyes. Every sound grates on my nerves like sandpaper. But worst of all is the clarity. Without alcohol to blur the edges, everything is in sharp focus: the failure of my marriage, my childish behavior at work, the pathetic creature I’ve become.

I can’t stand being in the penthouse a moment longer. The walls seem to close in on me. I need air. I need to move.

“I’m going out,” I tell Mrs. Stewart as I pass the kitchen.

She looks up from her task, surprised. “That’s a wonderful idea, Mr. Sinclair. Would you like me to call your car?”

“No,” I say, already heading for the door. “I’m walking.”

I don’t wait for her response. I just grab a coat and leave, not caring where I’m going as long as it’s away from here. Maybe I should sell the place and find somewhere new. Somewhere closer to the office, perhaps. The commute has always been a hassle.

The November air is crisp and cold, and I realize it’s been more than a week since I’ve been outside. The streets are full of people window shopping, walking dogs, living their lives. I’ve been so absorbed in my own misery that I’d forgotten the world continues to turn.

My feet move of their own accord, carrying me down familiar streets that I’ve driven many times but rarely walked. I notice things I’ve never paid attention to before: the intricate stonework on an old building’s facade, the way sunlight dapples through bare trees, the sound of children laughing somewhere nearby.

I realize I’m standing at the entrance to Prospect Gardens, a park I must have passed hundreds of times but rarely entered.

The park is filled with people despite the chill in the air. Joggers circle the pathways, their breath forming small clouds with each exhale. Families wander along the pond, children running ahead of their parents. Couples walk hand in hand, huddled close against the cold.

I walk deeper into the trees, away from the main paths. My feet crunch over fallen leaves, and I pull my coat tighter around me. I should have worn a scarf. Genny always insisted I wear a scarf when the temperature dropped too low. Said my ears turned red in the cold. Another memory I don’t want but can’t seem to shake.

Finding an empty bench, I sit and watch the world pass by. A group of tourists take pictures. A child has a tantrum when his father tells him it’s time to leave. An old man feeds the pigeons, ignoring the signs that clearly forbid it.

It‘s strange to be among so many people and feel so completely alone. I wonder if this is how Genny felt at all those society events my mother dragged her to. If she were as lonely in a crowd as I am right now.

Movement catches my eye: a young couple spreading a blanket on the grass not far from my bench, partially hidden from view by a cluster of bushes and a large oak tree. They can‘t see me from where they’ve settled, but I have a clear line of sight to them. I should look away, give them their privacy, but something about them holds my attention.

They’re young and simply dressed in well worn winter coats and jeans. Her hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail; his is hidden under a worn Red Sox cap. The way they look at each other makes my chest ache.

“Are you sure you’re not too cold?” the man asks, his voice carrying to me on the breeze. “We could go somewhere else. Somewhere indoors.”

“I’m fine,” she answers, settling beside him on the blanket. “It’s perfect out here. Besides, you promised me a picnic.”

“And I always keep my promises,” he says, pulling her close.

She rests her head on his shoulder, and they sit in comfortable silence for a while. I know I should leave, find another bench, go anywhere else. But I remain frozen in place, a voyeur to this quiet moment.

“I love you,” he says suddenly, turning to look at her. “You know that, right?”

“I love you, too,” she replies, her smile audible in her voice.

He shifts, reaching into his pocket. “I wanted to wait, but I can‘t anymore.”

My stomach drops as I realize what he’s about to do. I should definitely leave now, but my body refuses to cooperate.

“I know we talked about waiting until my new job was more stable,” he continues, “and about saving for a house first. And I’m fine with a long engagement if that’s what you want. But I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

She cuts him off, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her lips against his.

I stand abruptly, needing to be anywhere but here. My movement is enough to crack a twig underfoot, and the couple breaks apart, the man looking around for the source of the sound. I duck my head and walk quickly away, feeling like the worst kind of intruder.

As I hurry along the path, my mind replays my own proposal to Genny. She’d been worried we didn’t know each other well enough; it hadn’t been long enough. I’d told her I wanted to give her the world. She’d said yes, having no idea that the reason I wanted to marry her was because I wanted to annoy my father. Prove he couldn’t control me. The ring I’d slipped on her finger had probably cost more than that young couple’s first house will.

Whenever I felt guilty in the early days of my marriage for convincing Genny to marry me under false pretenses, I’d remind myself that I could give her the world. I could give her anything her heart desired. And hadn’t I? We’d traveled together to places she never would have been able to travel to on her own. Anything she wanted, I’d buy for her. With me, she’d lived a life of absolute luxury.