Page 89 of More than Paper

All month, I’ve had limited contact with Jamison. I told him I needed some time to process everything.

“Nothing has changed. You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved, and I want to spend my life with you. Whatever I need to do so you’re comfortable moving here, and to make up for this, I will. We’re meant to be together, doll.” He kissed me like I was his entire world. We were at the airport, and I blinked back tears as I left him behind.

When I got through security, I got a text. “I love you.”

I went into the bathroom stall and broke down sobbing.

Jamison keeps asking to come to Chicago or for me to come to New York for the weekend, but I keep making excuses. He keeps sending me flowers every day, but instead of the happiness they used to bring me, I now feel sadness with each new delivery.

It’s a reminder of how everything felt so right with him, yet so much is so wrong.

The month away from him has done nothing for my heart. Every day I’m not with him, the ache deepens.

I’ve thrown myself into my writing to pass the time and not run after him. But also to give me something besides thinking about how this could work between us, knowing he’s married.

Jamison and Valeria told me all the details. The day after I learned the truth, I talked further with Valeria, and she even gave me Cindy’s number. She told me that if anyone understood what I was going through, it would be Cindy and that she was waiting for my call. She also told me that she waited two years to tell Cindy about Jamison.

Logically, I know I should call Cindy if only to talk to someone about what is going on, but I don’t. So I suffer in silence all day, thinking about whether Jamison and I can really have a life together now or not. And I try all day not to cry anytime I think about not having him in my life.

Nighttime is the worst. I not only cry myself to sleep, but my mother’s and brother’s voices are in my head. And I can’t hide from them.

I am a mistress.

“Stop saying that. You are not my mistress,” Jamison adamantly says whenever I bring it up.

“I’m the textbook definition of one,” I always reply.

“Quinn, why can’t you let this go? I’m not a husband cheating on his wife. You know the situation. We can have the same fabulous life together we were going to before you found out.”

“What does that make me, then?”

“The woman I love. My heart and soul. The one I choose to spend my life with and take care of.”

I never respond. I don’t know what to say to that, and I always end up in tears.

My phone buzzes, yanking me out of my thoughts.

“Doll, I’m in town for work. Can I take you to lunch, please?” Jamison writes.

My heart rate increases.He’s in Chicago?

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“Sorry. You used to like it when I surprised you.”

Stop being nasty. He’s right. It’s something I love about him.

“I’m sorry. That didn’t sound very nice. Where do you want to meet?”

“I’ll pick you up.”

“Let’s just meet. I’m not in the office right now,” I lie to him.

Do not get in a car with him. Being out in public is safe. Stay in the safe zone.

“I can swing by wherever you are.”

“It’s okay. Just tell me where to meet you.”

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