Surrender (2 page)

A small shudder runs up my spine as I turn back to the painting. There’s a certain poignancy in every stroke of color, an aura of love and feeling. How sad! I think, imagining the kind of emotions that would have made the poor woman do what she did. And the painter, how did he feel in the end? Was he resigned, or desperate with the knowledge that he would never see the woman he loved again?

“The student…” I wonder out loud, “She was the girl in the painting.”

“It was his first painting in about fifteen years, and it does fit the time.” Trey smiles wryly. “The family gave it to the university after their deaths, and when it was auctioned a few years later, we bought it.”

My eyes go back to the girl, naked except for a little crease in the bed sheet that covers the most intimate parts of her backside. I imagine her turning around and saying something to the painter, a light teasing smile on her face. “Who was she?” I ask.

“Who knows?” Trey replies, shaking his head, “Just another student who fell for her professor.”

That night I dream about the painting, the unmade bed with the rumpled sheets. I imagine the painter, his eyes filled with desire as he sketches his lover. I imagine the girl, her smile turning into a laugh as she turns around, green eyes dancing, her face as familiar to me as my own.

I’m wearing a bright red t-shirt with the words ‘Welcome to Empathy Zone’ printed across the chest in a bright, yellow text, the same words I’m supposed to say with an upbeat cheery voice whenever anyone walks into the store.

My first few days, I kept the big, fake smile within reach, ready to hide the unhappiness I felt, as soon as anyone walked in. Not many people have walked in, thankfully. Well… thankfully for me, not for Jan Rippon and Larry Moss, my bosses, two middle-aged best friends who started the t-shirt company together back when they were still in college.

From what I’ve learned, the Empathy Zone t-shirts were very popular back in the day, with their signature quirky art and inspiring text. The business succeeded in making both my bosses very rich at a young age. Years later, it’s less successful, with most of the new orders coming in from nostalgic old customers.

I suspect that even Larry and Jan don’t do it for the money anymore. They’re both divorced now, with grown children, and, I assume, investments they live on, because they hardly seem concerned about the lack of sales. Most days, they’re content to sit in the back office playing video games while half-heartedly sketching new designs to display on the website.

My job is to process the online orders and forward them to the company that actually makes the t-shirts. I also track the deliveries to ensure our customers get their orders on time. Even though it sounds like a lot of work for just one person, based on the volume of customers, it isn’t really. Right now, it’s still morning, but I’ve already caught up on all the pending orders, so I actually have nothing to do.

Naturally, my thoughts return to David.

David.

Even thinking his name causes a hollow ache in my chest. How long will it feel like this? When will I be able to think about him and feel only a faint yearning, or even better, nothing at all?

I read somewhere that the real reason most people can’t get over an ex is that they don’t want to. Deep down they hold on to the hope that they’ll get back together, and that hope prevents them from moving on. These days I can relate to that. The thought of moving on and leaving my feelings for David behind makes me unbearably depressed. The thought of David moving on, the idea of him happy with someone else, it causes a physical pain in my chest that feels like my heart is being torn apart.

He haunts me, day and night, like some part of him is still buried inside me. My memories possess me, keeping me in a state of painful longing. I have to force myself not to freeze whenever I see any random dark haired man with even the faintest resemblance to him. It takes all my will not to cry myself to sleep every night, not to succumb to the dreams where I’m not lonely, not heartbroken, where I’m still happy, and still with David.

Sometimes, my will is not strong enough.

My phone starts to vibrate on my desk, interrupting my thoughts. The silver and black plasticky device is a far cry from the sleek smartphone David bought me, but that was one of the things I left behind when I left him. The fewer things I have to remind me of that life, the better for me.

I’m not surprised to see Stacey’s name flashing on the screen. She’s been calling me almost every day since I finally told her about leaving David. Though she warned me at the beginning not to rush into marriage with a man I hardly knew, she hasn’t given me any ‘I told you so’ speeches. She’s just been incredibly supportive, and I’m very grateful for that.

“Hello.” I inject as much cheerfulness into my voice as I can manage.

Stacey isn’t fooled. “Hello dear,” She replies, the old sound of worry back in her voice, “How’re you doing?”

“Perfect.” I tell her, still trying to be cheerful. She’s been trying to convince me to move back to Ashford and take a job at the local grocery store. In her opinion, I won’t be as lonely there as I am in Bellevue, but I know that’s not true. I’ll be lonely everywhere. I’ll be lonely in a roomful of people, as long as David isn’t there.

“You don’t have to pretend with me Sophie,” Stacey says kindly, “I know it’s got to be hard.”

It is hard. Every day is more painful than the last. I feel like an awful, yearning, mess inside, but I don’t want to talk about it.

I don’t want to talk about him.

David.

When I stay silent, she sighs. “I wish you’d consider coming back to Ashford.”

“I can’t.” I tell her earnestly, “and it’s not just that I don’t want to, as soon as I have enough money saved I’m going to take some courses so I can get a job in jewelry design sometime in future.” I pause, hoping that this time, she’ll actually be convinced to drop it, “I have a better chance of doing all that here than back in Ashford.”

“Oh well.” She agrees reluctantly. “At least you have a plan. That’s a good thing.”

I sigh. “I hope so.”

She is silent for a few moments. “Have you heard anything from David?” She asks softly.

Just the sound of his name and I feel as if I can’t breathe. The permanent yearning ache in my heart intensifies, and I have a sudden desire to burst into tears.

I was so sure when I left him, that it was the right thing to do. When I told him I never wanted to see him again, it was because I was so sure that what I needed most was to start over, without him, that being alone was a better option than being with the man who declared that our marriage, our entire relationship, had always been only about sex.

Now I’m not so sure. After weeks of carrying my loneliness and my desire for him around with me, I’m not even sure how I feel about anything anymore.

Have I heard anything from him? Well no, and that’s the part that hurts the most.

The last time I saw David, I told him I never wanted to see him again. He left, and even though I desperately hope that I’m wrong, I’m afraid that now, he has no intention of seeing me again either. I try not to think about how barren, how empty my life feels now, how the possibility of that barrenness stretching for eternity tortures me. I feel like I’m barely holding on, as if any moment I’ll break, shatter into pieces that only David can put back together.

The day after I left the hotel and moved into my new apartment, Steve delivered two cases packed with some of my stuff from David’s apartment. When the doorbell rang, my heart leapt with the hope that it would be David again, coming to insist that I return to Seattle with him, just like he had at the hotel. I’d been battling with anticipation and dread when I opened the door and saw Steve’s bulky frame dwarfing the whole hallway.

“Good evening Mrs. Preston.” He’d said, waiting for me to move aside before carrying the cases inside my apartment. If he saw the disappointment on my face, he didn’t show it.

I didn’t waste any time wondering how David knew that I had moved, and where to. It was David after all. I lingered at the door, looking down the hallway, unhappy at the dawning realization that Steve was alone.

“It’s just me.” I heard Steve say, his voice a little quieter, graver than I remembered.

I swallowed, embarrassed, then my eyes went to the cases he was still carrying, waiting for me to tell him where to put them.

“What are those?” I asked warily.

“I don’t really know.” Steve told me. “Mr. Preston wanted them brought here to you.”

“I don’t want them here.” I said. I didn’t care what they were. My yearning had already turned to resentment, at David, at myself, at how eager I was to see him again.

“I could take them back,” Steve said quietly, “but Mr. Preston would just have me bring them back, or maybe bring them himself.”

For a moment, I was tempted. I imagined David in my tiny apartment, beautiful and implacable, fiercely demanding that I listen to him. I flushed, my traitorous body reacting to the image in my mind. No, I decided, his presence would only break down my resolve and fill my mind with the knowledge of how much I want him, not how much he hurt me. I sighed. There’s nothing as hard as wanting someone so much it’s almost unbearable, and knowing that being with them would be so much worse.

“Just put them down Steve.” I said, giving in.

He placed the cases on the floor in a corner of the living room, the largest part of the space that had been artfully split into a sleeping area, living area and a kitchen area. All together, it was still much smaller than any one of the three bedrooms in David’s apartment.

Steve straightened. I waited, hoping pathetically that there would be something else, a message from David maybe. “Would you like something to drink?” I offered politely.

“Some water.” He accepted, surprising me. I don’t think I’d ever seen him eat or drink anything before. I went to the counter that marked the kitchen area and poured him a glass of water, gesturing for him to sit on one of the stools next to the counter. For some reason, I wasn’t eager for him to go. Even though he wasn’t the object of my obsession, his connection to David made his presence welcome.

“Have you been with David long?” I asked, trying not to be too obvious about the fact that I just wanted to keep talking about David with the first person I’d seen in a few days who knew him too, perhaps more than I did.

“You could say that.” Steve replied with a small smile. “I used to drive him around when he was a boy.”

I didn’t know that, and my face betrayed my surprise. If Steve was surprised at my lack of knowledge about my husband, he didn’t let it show.

“What was he like?” I asked, imagining a teenage David been driven around in a chauffeured car, even then he would have been beautiful to look at.

Steve contemplated my question for a few seconds, and then shrugged. “Clever, curious, and adventurous,” He said, finishing his water, “Like most boys that age.” He paused. “He was also the loneliest boy I’d ever met.”

He looked almost sad for a moment, but his usual taciturn expression soon returned. “Mr. Preston also asked me to give this to you,” he continued, digging into the inside pocket of his jacket and retrieving an envelope, which he placed on the kitchen counter. “Thanks for the water.” He said, getting up.

After he left, I opened the envelope and found the cards for the expense account David had set up for me. I’d left behind in David’s apartment for my own reasons. The cases contained some of the things I’d also left behind, clothes and jewelry, phone and tablet. I put the cards in one of the cases and left them all in a corner of my bedroom.

That was almost two months ago. Since then I’ve heard nothing from David. I’ve taken to scouring the news for any mention of him. The few articles I’ve managed to find about his work aren’t nearly enough, but I devour them hungrily. Sadly, there’s usually nothing about his personal life, nothing about our marriage or separation, nothing about us.

I may very well never have been a part of his life.

“Sophie?” Stacey’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts.

“No, I haven’t heard anything from him.” I reply to her question. And I shouldn’t care, I tell myself. In time, I will get over him. I will forget the short time I spent as a billionaire’s wife. I will forget David Preston.

Even if I don’t want to.

“Have you tried talking with him?” Stacey persists. Sometimes, I think that she imagines that my separation is just temporary, a little hitch waiting to be smoothed out, but she wasn’t there, she didn’t see the scorn on David’s face when I told him that I loved him.

This has always been about sex.

“There’s nothing to say.” I tell her.

“That can’t be true.” Stacey urges. “He’s still your husband.” She reminds me. “Unless you mean to…” She stops talking abruptly, but already I know what she was about to say, unless I mean to get a divorce.

Heaven knows I should want that. I should want to do something about the fact that I’m still legally married to David. It’s the clear first step to moving on with my life.