Regaining Trust

Chapter 1“Law. Man. Don’t go in there!” The noise level in our apartment—did the volume dial on the stereo get stuck on eleven, and how come the neighbors haven’t called the cops?—overwhelms the heads-up shouted in my direction, and although I hear it, the meaning doesn’t register in my brain until it’s too late and I’ve already opened the bedroom door. The music is so loud, none of the people in the room seem to hear the door opening, but as I take in the scene before me, the warning sinks in. Whoever called out to me clearly knew what was going on and didn’t want me to see it. Or he didn’t want the people in there to get caught, didn’t want me to find my fiancé in our bedroom with a guy that isn’t me. Frozen to the spot, my gaze zeroes in on Frankie. He sits on the edge of the still neatly made bed, his face turned toward me, but his eyes are closed so he doesn’t notice me. His shoulders are slumped and he’s wringing his hands and caressing the wide platinum engagement ring on his finger. His usually impeccably styled hair stands up in wild disarray as though someone’s dug his fingers into it and held it in a tight grip, and his lips are red and puffy. Well-used. There’s no doubt what’s been going on in here just before I entered, and any uncertainty I might’ve harbored, disappears the second I shift my attention to the other person in the room. Even though his back is turned to me, I recognize the movements of someone tucking his d**k back into his pants. A d**k that recently was deep into my fiancé’s throat, in our bedroom, in our home, with the place full of people who apparently knew what was going on in here. My eyes—the only parts of my body still able to move—flicker back to Frankie. Franklin Ennis, the love of my life, the usually so happy and bubbly Frankie, whose head is hanging, whose mouth is downturned, whose body is folded in on itself. Something heavy presses down on my chest, making my breath stutter in my throat. My lungs stop working, my head swims, and I rest my hand against the doorjamb so I won’t fall. I try to take a deep breath, but nothing happens. My free hand flies to my chest, and I can feel it rising and falling underneath my palm, but I’m suffocating. The steel band around my chest expands, takes over my belly, my throat, and I curl my hands into fists as I try to help my brain understand that oxygen is reaching my lungs, I am capable of breathing. But despite understanding intellectually, I’m choking. I’m still struggling when the guy is all tucked into his pants and turns around. “Who the hell are you?” he barks when he catches sight of me. Frankie’s head snaps up, eyes opening wide, and face crumpling when he sees me. His d**k-swollen mouth forms my name, but I can’t hear him over the noise, or maybe he’s not saying it out loud. Oh God, Lawrence, I’m sorry. He shakes his head as his glassy eyes flow over and tears trickle down his cheeks. But he doesn’t try to hide; he lets me see every emotion that washes over his face. Guilt. Sadness. Remorse. My first instinct is to envelop him in my arms and offer comfort. I even take a step forward, but a huffing laughter coming from d**k Guy stops me. I whip my head in his direction; he’s checking me out with a smirk painted across his face and pelvis jutting out, as though he’s offering me a taste of what he’s got. He tilts his head in Frankie’s direction. “He yours?” Neither Frankie nor I say anything, and our silence must be all the answer d**k Guy needs because he chuckles and saunters past me. “Thanks for loaning him to me. Now I’m giving him back.” His degrading words and cocky tone make me want to plant my fist between his eyes, but I still struggle to breathe and process what I just walked in on, and don’t move a muscle. Can’t move a muscle. He throws the door closed behind him, making me yelp and snatch away the hand still resting on the doorjamb. The noise outside barely dulls, the bass is thumping in my ears, in my chest, in my stomach. Or is it my heart? “Lawrence.” This time I hear him; his voice is raspy and hoarse as though the guy’s d**k has pushed its way deep into Frankie’s throat, into his goddamned lungs. Bile finds its way into my mouth. I gulp it down, refusing to throw up all over the floor, and the huge swallow of air burns a hole down my airway, and I can finally breathe. Eagerly, I drag down a breath and the feeling of fresh oxygen in my bloodstream unfreezes my limbs, and I’m moving. I cross the floor on wobbly legs, heading for the closet—the reason I’m even home in the first place. I spilled coffee on my shirt and have an important Zoom meeting in a couple hours with a potential client in Asia and needed a fresh change of clothes. My hand is shaking as I throw open the door and grab a shirt without looking. With Frankie’s gaze burning a hole in my back, I snatch two more shirts and a sweater—hangers and all—for good measure. When I turn around, Frankie’s standing. His Adam’s apple bobs, and he blinks rapidly. “I’m sorry, Lawrence.” “Why?” I don’t even know what I’m asking. Why did you do it? Why are you sorry? Why, why, why? I have a hard time reconciling the Frankie I know, the only person I’ve ever trusted, with someone who would cheat on me. It doesn’t compute. Frankie’s shoulders shake and his mouth opens and closes as though he doesn’t know what to say. “I have a meeting,” I mutter. “I only came for a clean shirt. I spilled on this one.” I gesture to the stain on my chest. Stop talking, my broken heart yells at me, and I snap my mouth shut. I don’t need to explain to him why I’m in my own home. I don’t need to stay here and listen to excuses for why he felt the need to suck off another guy in our bedroom. I can’t stay here; I have a f*****g meeting I can’t skip even though all I want to do is ask questions until Frankie finds his words and explains what just happened. But at the same time, I’m not sure I want to know. I’m not sure anything he’ll say will be able to erase the sight of his swollen blood-red lips or the sound of a well-used throat. Not even the devastated tears crisscrossing his deathly pale cheeks. So I grab onto the damned meeting with both hands, using it as a shield, as an excuse to take me away from the “whys” and the “have you done this befores” and “how many times?” Away from wrecked brown eyes and shaking shoulders. As I walk out of the bedroom, I wish I could also walk away from the burning in my belly, the ache in my chest, and the sound of my heart breaking in my ears. * * * * I don’t remember driving back to the office or taking the elevator up to our floor. Not until the familiar smell of bad coffee, warm electronics, and stacks of paper the height of Mount Everest wraps itself like a warm blanket do I wake up from my trance. I disappear into the first bathroom I find and lock the door behind me, shrug out of the suit coat, tear off the tie, and step to the sink. I avoid looking into the mirror; I don’t want to see the internal chaos staring me back in the face. I don’t want to see dull blue eyes full of hurt; that would make them look too much like my mother’s when my useless dad broke his promise yet again to do his best to keep a job. Or on the nights he came home reeking of booze and women as I grew older. The tension makes my head ache, and I rub my fingers over the deep furrow between my eyes, trying to massage it away. When it doesn’t help, I turn on the faucet, cup my hands under the cold water, and splash it on my face. Again and again, I douse myself as though I’m trying to wash away the deep crease between my eyes, the image of c**k-swollen lips that just won’t leave my retinas, the memory of a face wet with tears and remorse. I don’t stop until my skin starts going numb from the chill of the water. After drying off, I unbutton and remove my soiled shirt with stiff, uncooperative fingers. As the clean garment slides up my arms and over my shoulders, I can breathe a little easier, and the tie and jacket help even more. When I turn back to the mirror, I almost expect to see a medieval-type armor complete with a helmet and shield, but it’s just my regular suit. But it’s not the first time the familiar clothes have acted like armor, and it helps me relax. Dressed impeccably in this office where I spend so much time, I know how to act. The looming meeting helps me focus on something other than what just happened, and when I step out of the bathroom, I feel more like myself. This I know how to do. I might not know how to handle—or even react to—an unfaithful fiancé, but I can do meetings with important potential international clients in my sleep. Everything else can wait. * * * * It’s almost two in the morning when the meeting finally ends, and Mr. Waters, my boss, pats my back and says, “Good job, Law. Go home to that fiancé of yours, he must wonder where you are. Oh, and take tomorrow off. You’ve earned it.” He’s out of there—always eager to go home to his family—before I need to come up with a reply. I wander into my office and sink into my comfortable chair without turning on any lights. Everything comes rushing back now that the meeting is over. Frankie’s tears, his apology that sounded sincere enough. The guy, his cocky smile, his swagger. I groan and bury my face in my hands. He must wonder where you are. I shake my head. Frankie knows where I am; it’s not the first time I’ve stayed late at the office, though I’m usually home before midnight; two AM is excessive even for me. He knows how devoted I am to my work and the company. Considering recent events, he’s probably wondering if I’m coming home at all. Letting my hands fall to my lap, I straighten, throwing a glance at the couch. I could crash here; I’ve napped on it before. Granted, it was for only an hour here and there, and it wasn’t very comfortable, but it’s a possibility. No doubt, it’ll be better than whatever’s going on at home. Sighing, I pull off my tie and toss it on the desk. I rub my knuckles over my sternum; the pressure distracting me from the ache deep in my chest, but for only a few seconds. My gaze falls on my phone I left on my desk during the meeting. For a second, I consider not looking at it. For a second, not knowing whether Frankie tried to contact me or not, being in the dark is soothing. If I pick it up, I’ll know. What if he didn’t call? What if he did call? I don’t know which option I’m hoping for. With a huff, I snatch it off the desk and wake up the screen. Seven missed calls. Fourteen messages. All from Frankie. I start with the messages. My eyes start to burn as I read the second one. “I’m so f*****g sorry, you have no idea. I understand you’re angry, but please call me.” He always texts in complete sentences with correct punctuation and everything. All of the messages are the same variation on the theme, his tone more and more desperate with every text. I can hear his voice in my head when I read the last one. “I understand if you can’t forgive me. But please come home. I need to see you. I need to talk to you. Please. I love you.” I swipe the back of my hand over my eyes, as if wiping away tears, but my face is dry. Before I make a conscious decision, I’m on my feet, my briefcase slung across my chest and the phone and keys tucked away in my pockets. I hurry to the car, drive through empty streets, and park on the street in what feels like just moments later. The apartment is dark, unlike hours ago when I stepped into a wild party. I know we were supposed to host a dinner tonight, but Frankie sounded understanding when I told him I couldn’t be home because of the last-minute meeting. I don’t know how “guests for dinner” translated into a party rivaling a frat house. Or no. That’s a lie. I’m pretty sure Dylan happened. After being best friends for so long, they both know how to manipulate the other into doing stupid s**t, even if it’s been happening less and less the last couple years. But maybe Frankie was more upset about me having to cancel again than he let on. Inside smells of bleach, and the chemical stink hides the usual scent of our home; the sweetness of the honey he always puts in his tea and the fragrant aroma from the culinary herbs he grows in pots in the kitchen window. I wrinkle my nose as I toe off my shoes. There’s not a single piece of evidence left of the party; every surface is shiny, the dishes are clean and put away, and even the recycling is taken care of. I pad through the dark apartment until I reach the den. A single lamp casts a dim light over the room, just enough for me to make out the figure curled up on the couch. Frankie. His breathing is slow and regular, and his eyes closed, but his face is still marred by deep lines. I sit on the coffee table and look at him. He’s curled up into a ball and looks so small even though he has four inches on my own six feet. His skin is irritated and has a pink tinge, as though he’s scrubbed himself in scalding water or bathed both himself and the house in a vat of bleach. He’s wearing his favorite sweatpants—they used to be a deep blue but now they look more like faded denim—and the “Frankie says relax” T-shirt I bought him as a gag gift after we binged old reruns of Friends and he wouldn’t stop talking about how he wanted a shirt like the one Ross wore in whatever episode it was we were watching. His phone is pressed to his chest, and when I try to wiggle it out of his hand and lay it on the table so he won’t drop it on the floor, he opens his eyes. Frankie swallows several times before he speaks. “You’re home.” I nod, my throat suddenly closing up and making it impossible for me to produce a sound. His hands twitch, as though he wants to touch me. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. I nod again. “You have to believe me. I’m so, so sorry.” He chokes on the words. I force my mouth to cooperate. “I believe you.” His gaze meets mine, penetrates my very soul as he searches for answers. “But you’re angry.” I avert my gaze. Am I angry? Heartbroken, devastated, yes. Is my trust betrayed? Yes. But angry? I don’t know. In the end, I settle for a shrug. “Will you talk to me? Or at least listen when I talk?” I scrub my palm over my face and hang my head. “I’m tired, Frankie.” “Please, please, please.” I straighten. “Not tonight. I have tomorrow off. We’ll talk tomorrow.” “Okay.” “Go to bed. I need a shower.” “Will you join me? After?” “No.” He jerks as though I slapped him. “I need some space,” I explain. He curls up even more and swallows a whimper. “I understand. You take the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.” “You’re too tall for the couch.” “I don’t care. I deserve to be uncomfortable.” I don’t have the energy to argue so I nod and get up and walk into our bedroom without looking back at him. After my shower, I pull on an old T-shirt and soft sleep pants—more armor—but as I climb into bed, I remember Frankie curled into a tiny ball on our too-short couch, and I sigh. I grab a blanket from the closet and one of his pillows from the bed and return to the den. He’s not sleeping but he doesn’t say anything when I enter, only follows my movements with his gaze as I approach. “Head up,” I mumble, and when he obeys, I slide the pillow underneath him, then spread the blanket over his curled-up frame. To avoid looking at him, I don’t linger. As soon as I’m done, I turn and start walking away. His broken voice stops me. “Why are you always so thoughtful? Even now?” I want to walk away without answering his question, but I promised myself a long time ago to always communicate, to not be like my parents, so I can’t ignore him. It’s not who I am. “I love you,” I say. “I don’t just stop loving you, no matter what.” “You love me.” He sounds as though he hasn’t expected me to say it ever again. I nod, back still turned to him. “But I don’t know if that’s enough. Sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”