Page 31 of To Feel Like This Again
Using work as an excuse to stay up late on the weekend, I am glued to my Hewlett-Packard. It’s not unusual for me to work late on the weekend but notthislate, especially after a hectic workweek. On Saturday nights I usually unwind with a glass of wine and a good romance novel or a movie. It’s 2:00am on Sunday, way past my bedtime. I pour another cup of 100% Blue Mountain coffee as I’m in desperate need of a caffeine fix to keep me going.
On my laptop, I close the spreadsheet with the consolidated financials and open the Word document to finish my speech for the opening of a new fulfilment centre in Texas. On the 32-inch extended monitor, I glance at the live feed of the camera at the front of my penthouse. Nothing happening there.
We had a break-in at the penthouse last year (thankfully, Emily was not there at the time). The security team — incompetent or dishonest — did not see what was happening and, worse, was unable to retrieve the files from the CCTV cameras due to some, according to them “technical glitch”.
Needless to say, I was fuming mad and had instructed the proprietors, in writing, that I’d be installing my own CCTV cameras, in addition to their cameras, to ensure there wasno repeat of this incident… And that my personal security team would also monitor the penthouse along with the other properties they keep an eye on for Alex.
For my piece of mind, I ensured I had access to the footage as well. The proprietors and the property managers were not happy about my decision but, I can only imagine, felt compelled to comply with my request. It didn’t hurt that I’m a director at the Bank of Brooklyn, the same bank that financed their recent major acquisition of prime real estate in the city.
I shouldn’t be doing this… this is wrong.
I don’t know what’s gotten into me, intruding into Emily’s private space is not something I do. Even during those rebellious years at college when she would invite over some questionable characters, I didn’t interfere. I never ever wanted her to feel uncomfortable nor to think that I was prying, so I gave her space.
I know I’ve crossed the line, but I can’t stop. It’s too late for that. And truth be told, I don’t have the willpower. Ineedto know.
At 2:30am, still no movement in the hallway. I get up from the desk and walk across the room to pour another cup of coffee — about my fourth for the night — without taking my eye off the extended monitor. “Shit!” I scream, as I feel the searing pain on my left hand. The result of pouring coffee into the cup without paying attention to what I’m doing. As I flash my hand and blow crazily on the burnt spot in an attempt to relieve the pain, my eyes remain fixed on the monitor.
The pain increases and so I dash to the powder room, turn on the faucet and let the cold water run over my hand, all the while peeping out the door to view the monitor. Getting some relief, I go back and fill up the cup. This time paying attention before returning to the desk to resume writing thespeech. Near done with the speech, I move on to reviewing the Business Continuity Plan, hoping to take my mind off sleep by switching things up a bit.
Yawning at the end of every sentence I read, I check the clock — it’s 3:00am. Exhausted and on the verge of dozing off in the chair, I’m ready to call it a night. I’m not sure what madness has overtaken me but I can’t fight the sleep anymore. Probably for the best anyway.
Just as I’m about to shut down the laptop I hear the elevator ding — it’s 3:06am. My heart begins to pound nervously in my chest. Staring at the monitor, I see the elevator door open and Emily and Nick step into the hallway. My hand goes automatically to my forehead and I begin to pace. I will myself to look away but lose the battle. I cannot, and so like a moth to the flame, I continue staring at the monitor.
My heart continues to race. Did he just look into the camera? Am I seeing things? Is it fatigue? Or am I going crazy?
With my stomach in knots, I move the chair closer to the desk, pulling the monitor to my face. It’s almost touching my nose and reaching for my glasses, I put them on even though I’m nearsighted.
When Emily goes into her bag for the key, I hear him say, “Well, I had a really good night”, before opening his arms to hug her.I feel hopeful.
But then, Emily lunges towards him and begins to passionately kiss him.I feel hopeless.
She keeps going and he seems withdrawn. Maybe because of me?I feel hopeful.
Emily opens the door and goes inside. Then, she does something inside and from the way he rushes in, I know what’s going to happen next. I see him slam the door shut, the noise reverberating throughout the hallway. I can’t see anymore butwhat I’ve seen is enough and the image, like a tattoo, is permanently seared into my brain.I feel hopeless.
For the first time in eleven years, since my mother passed away to lung cancer, tears run down my cheeks. I try to hold it together, but I can’t. Sobbing uncontrollably, I bury my face in my hands and slide to the floor, tuck my knees into my chest and rock back and forth for comfort. The sound escaping my lips unintelligible.
Dazed, I get up, shut the laptop and head upstairs. Before climbing into bed, I look at our family picture on the nightstand. What kind of person am I? Alex is right … I always make everything about me.
I toss and turn for the rest of the night, unable to get Nick out of my mind. Unable to get Emily out of my mind. Unable to fall asleep. Unable to stop crying.
Chapter 19
Lisa
Sunday afternoon at 3:30, I give Alex a peck on the lips while he is sitting on the couch watching the Celtics. “Off to play Kalooki. Are you sure you don’t want to come?” I cheerily ask, as I always do.
“No, sweetie. Have fun with the ladies. Going to go grab a beer with the fellas tonight.” No surprise there.
“Maybe next time.” The sigh is automatic. Not that I really want him to come but it’s something I’ve developed over the years. I sigh every time he turns me down — which is every. single. time.Sigh.
I punch in the address for the shopping mall Nick had sent to my personal email and speed off in the BMW X3 to pick him up. On the highway, and away from Alex, I message him OMWas per his specific instructions:“Message me OMW when you’re out of the house.” Driving way above the speed limit, I reach eight minutes earlier than the Google Maps estimate. I’m usually a careful driver, but today I am jittery from lack of sleep and having a lot on my mind. I am livid and I’m not even sure I have reason to be upset.
“I’m parked by the Cheesecake Factory,” I message him when I reach the mall.
He gets into the vehicle and gives me a quick peck on the cheek. “Hey, babe”. And although I’m fuming, I try to contain my anger. “Hey, babe,” I reply.
While fastening his seatbelt, he checks, “Did you delete the email from your inbox and trash, plus the two text messages you sent me?”
