Page 69 of Compassion

“Maybe.”

I run my hand slowly over until our fingers can fold together. “You don’t have to keep fighting by yourself. Not the memories. Not the emotions. Not the paperwork. None of it. We’ll eat the elephant together, baby. One bite at a time.” The expression on my face softens. “You’re not alone anymore, Archer. I’m here for you. Day and night. And you know what? I’m not going anywhere.”

He squeezes my hand but doesn’t say another word.

Honestly, I don’t need him to. As long as he heard me, that’s what matters. I was already determined to prove that I can be here for him; however, now that I know just how deep he really needs someone, I plan to double my efforts. Show him the world isn’t just the cruel place he’s come to know. Like I said. We’ll take everything ontogether.Day by day. Nibble by nibble.

Chapter 15

Archer

I make my last trek to the recycle bin for the night, thankful that this part of my project is finally fucking over.

Don’t get me wrong. I love renovating this house – our house – but putting together Jaye’s fancy fucking weird shaped desk for her new home office was a goddamn nightmare. So many little pieces. So many strangely shaped parts. Oh, and the fact some asshole forgot to pack a set of English directions for the fucking thing didn’t help either. Watching tutorial videos on YouTube from my phone was somehow both helpful and infuriating. Maybe because I didn’t think the stupid thing should’ve been so complicated or maybe because the dude was drinking a beer while he did it like the shit was far from difficult.

Letting the last of the boxes fall to my feet while I open the gate to the area occurs at the same time that I hear a door slam shut from the neighboring house. Training myself not to even look there wasn’t exactly a hard habit to create; however, keeping my mouth shut during Mrs. Prescott’s tangents regarding how useless I am and how my attending HOA meetings with my girlfriend is a disgrace to the entire community has been a whole other beast to battle.

And I don’t wanna politely continue to eat that elephant. I wanna fucking scream at it. Put a mirror in its face. Show it where I can see the wrinkles and crows’ feet and say some asshole shit like no wonder why your husband is fucking someone else.

Unusual feminine giggles have me cutting my gaze the direction I know to avoid just in time to see Mr. Prescott pull the blonde-haired woman by her barely covered ass against him. “Come on, Justine. Don’t be pissed at me. I brought you here, didn’t I?”

Justine dramatically pouts on a bounce that jiggles the tiny tits spilling out of her corset top. “You told me we could stay.”

“I know, Ju Ju,” he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, “but Gwenith is coming back from her mother’s earlier than expected, so we can’t.”

See. I told you he was cheating.

Resuming my discarding of the trash unfortunately doesn’t make it any more difficult to overhear their conversation.

“Then I wanna stay at The Frost Luxury Hotel.”

I fold the boxes to fit better in the bin as he caves, “Whatever my little Ju Ju wants.”

“Roses.”

“Done.”

“Champagne.”

“Two bottles.”

“Room service.”

“We’ll put it on the company card.”

She squeaks in excitement prompting me to shake my head and work a little faster.

Why fucking cheat on your wife? Yeah, Mrs. Prescott is a raging bitch; however, there’s no need to pretend to love her while banging someone else. I’ll be the first one to say, I believe she deserves a lifetime of obnoxious podcasts about karma and a long overdue session in the self-help section of a bookstore but not this. No one deserves to be cheated on. Some people never come back from that shit. And some of us…well, for some of us, it takes a fucking miracle to heal. And I guess in a lot of ways that’s exactly what Jaye is. My own little miracle.

Back inside the house, I wander towards the kitchen island where Jaye has been working on her children’s book for most of the day since the office isn’t quite ready yet.

She says no rush, but I want her to have a space that’s hers to create in. I think she needs it more than she realizes. Before renovations and reorganizing, this place was Chris’s house that his fiancée lived in when he wanted. Now? Now, it’s beginning to look like a couple resides here. I’ve done everything I could not to have much of a say, yet Jaye refuses to accept ‘whatever you want’ as an answer. The results? Copper style cookware. New shelves as well as hooks in the laundry room. And a new rug for reading on in front of the fireplace, which is something we’ll probably do later tonight.

I brace one hand on the edge of the island and lean over to plant a supportive kiss on the exposed portion of her shoulder.

The action receives a hum of gratitude followed by another panic spiral I am assuming are just part of an artist’s creative process. “Maybe I should do a book about owls? Or foxes? Those can’t be that hard to draw, right? Maybe teeth? Should I do a tooth book? What about something involving doctors or the doctor’s office? You know remind kids that the place isn’t that scary? Oh! Oh! Maybe something abouttherapyoffices?” She swiftly peers up at me. “You know there are a shit ton of children who have appointments there, too? Maybe it would be comforting to have a book on the subject to help the transition?”

Inching myself around so that we can be face to face, I ask, “You’re still thinking about my appointment from earlier this week, aren’t you?”

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