The Perfect Marriage: a completely gripping psychological suspense Page 2
I’ve always felt like Sarah was taking on the world, while I was just struggling to live in it. That’s the woman she wanted to be, a powerhouse, a one-woman show where I just happen to be cast as an extra. It wasn’t always like that. We met while I was in my third year of undergrad at Duke and she in her first. She was studying political science, while I was studying literature. Back then, we both dreamed of greatness. Sarah wanted to be a successful lawyer, and I wanted to go down as one of the truly great writers of our generation. Fifteen years later, one of us is still waiting.
Well, I suppose success flickered for me, for a moment, and went away just as quickly, and has yet to come back again. That’s the funny thing about dreams. You always eventually wake up from them. My first book was a success, not from a mainstream or commercial standpoint, but from a literary perspective. One critic even called me, “The next David Foster Wallace,” which I liked. The book has a nice cult following to this day, and I thought I’d duplicate that success, but books two and three have flopped by all standards, literary included. I’m surprised my agent has kept me on, and I’m sure if the book I’m working on isn’t a success, I’ll be getting the ax soon enough.
I’ve tasted a small sampling of triumph, but I haven’t exactly lived out my dreams. Sarah’s dream was to be a criminal defense attorney, one of the best. She’s not one of the best: she is the best—like I always knew she would be. I just never thought I’d resent her so much for it.
But like I said, it wasn’t always like this, and when I say this, I mean me running off to our second home any chance I get and her practically taking up residency at her office. After all, you don’t become the best criminal defense attorney by loving your husband.
One would think that living in solitude and wallowing in my own self-pity would make me one of the great writers, like a modern-day Thoreau or Hemingway. But to date I have all the alcohol usage of Hemingway, just none of the success to go along with it.
Sarah has her work, and I have mine, and there was a time when we had each other, but that time has passed.
We had met at a party, a complete stroke of luck as it was out of the norm for Sarah to attend one, she would go on to tell me later that night. She’d much rather have her face in a book than be surrounded by sticky, hormonal bodies in a basement of a college house—but there she was, standing in a corner, casually sipping cheap beer out of a Solo cup, looking more out of place than a nun in a brothel. She held a partial smile trying to mask her discomfort, but her body language gave her uneasiness away. She was leaning against a wall, one leg crossed over the other, the Solo cup hovering near her lips, glancing around the party, one arm crossed over her chest tucked underneath her other arm. She was trying to make herself as small as possible, blending into the background, going unnoticed. But to me, she was the only person in that room.
Her shoulder-length blond hair was practically glowing under the black lights, a staple of any college party in the mid-2000s. Her green eyes that were speckled with flakes of yellow held all the mystery in the world. Her slender body was covered in a form-fitting white tee and flared blue jeans. An inch of her midriff was peeking out, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off it. A sliver of her exposed, milky-white skin aroused me more than my ex’s fully nude body had. I watched her. I studied her. Before I had ever uttered a word to her, I had memorized every curve, every line, and every freckle that I was privy to in that dingy basement. I pictured what she looked like underneath her clothes, and I would later find out that what I had envisioned was wrong. Her body exceeded the limitations of my own imagination. She was perfect, something I could neither conceive, nor comprehend.
It wasn’t until an hour later when her eyes finally caught mine that I worked up the courage to go and talk to her. I towered over her petite body, but right from the beginning she always felt bigger than me, and I knew as soon as she realized it, she would be an unstoppable force.
At first, she was a little standoffish, giving one-word answers. I asked her name. She told me it was Sarah. I asked her who she was here with. She pointed to an inebriated, brunette grinding on a guy on the dance floor. I asked her if she wanted to dance. She said no. I told her she was beautiful. She shrugged her shoulders. I told her my name was Adam. She took a sip of her beer. I asked her what she was studying. She tapped her beer signaling she needed a refill and started to walk away. I grabbed her cup and poured my full cup of beer into hers. She smiled up at me taking the cup back and returning to her position against the wall.
“Smooth,” she said as she took a sip.
I leaned against the wall next to her, and we stood in silence for what seemed like hours. Right from the beginning with Sarah—it always felt like forever. She casually sipped her beer, while she scanned the party and kept an eye on her drunk friend. I pretended to study the room with her, but my only focus was on her. At minute nineteen, Sarah’s friend told her she was leaving with the guy she had been grinding on all night. Her words slurred, her eyes glazed over, and her hair fell in front of her face as she held on to the hand of the man she would soon spread herself apart for. Sarah didn’t seem pleased, but she told her to have a good time and to call her in the morning. It was the most I had heard her speak all night. Sarah remained composed, casually sipping her beer.
At minute twenty, she finished her drink and dropped the cup onto the dirty basement floor, kicking it into a corner. She stood there a little longer, her eyes bouncing around the party and then to the side at me. She shifted a little uneasily, and I wasn’t sure if she was moving toward me or away from me.
At minute twenty-one, I decided to find out, and I asked her if she wanted to get out of here. She said yes. When I got her safely back to her dorm room, I expected to give her a kiss on the cheek and tell her goodnight. Sarah didn’t seem like the kind of girl to give into her impulses. As I went in for a small peck on her cheek, she pulled me inside, ripped off my clothes, and she puffed and gasped breaths of yes for the rest of that night.
Three years later, I asked her to marry me, and she said yes again. And although she has said yes to me countless times since then, I think that was the last time she truly meant it. If she hadn’t been consumed with law school and then practicing law, I think we would have been—
The breeze sucks the front door closed with a slam. It startles me for just a split second, but I know it’s her. Without even seeing her, I know her freckles are prominent from a day working the outside patio at the café. I know her brown doe eyes are lit up—filled with hope and joy. I know her long tousled hair sits underneath a hat she knitted herself earlier this fall. I know when she pulls that hat off, she’ll still look effortlessly beautiful, messy hair and all. I know she’ll be braless, wearing a form-fitting top and a dark thigh-length skirt. I know the waist of her shirt will be creased from where her apron sat all day. I know she’ll smile when she sees me, and it’ll take me less than sixty seconds to be inside her.
“Babe, I brought leftover baked goods from the café,” she calls from the foyer.
I hear her wrestle her shoes, knee-length socks, and jacket off. I pull two glasses from the wet bar. I pour scotch into each glass, and just as she enters I have one drink outreached to her. With a little bounce in her step, she takes the glass from me, chugs it, and sets it back down on the wet bar. The heat from the stone fireplace warms her skin, and I notice the goosebumps on her arms flatten.
Before I can take a second sip, she’s unbuttoning and unzipping my pants. She drops to her knees and looks up at me with a devilish grin.
I drop her legs on the bed and walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind me.
I can still hear her panting from the other side of the door, trying to regain control of her own breathing. She doesn’t make a sound, and I assume she’s still lying there. I hope it’s in ecstasy and not pain. Sometimes, I take things too far—it’s like I black out and when I come to, I realize the error of my ways. I can’t help myself. Kelly just does that to
me. When I’m with her, my animal instincts take over.
Sarah used to do that to me. But now around her, I’m barely a man let alone anything else.
At the vanity I look at myself in the mirror. A five-o’clock shadow has taken over my face, and my hair is out of place. My otherwise blue eyes are clouded with red. I can only stand looking at myself for a few seconds before I must look away. I’m not ashamed of who I am, but I’m not proud either. I splash some water on my face and then onto my chest, abs, and dick. I’m too tired to shower. I pat myself dry with a towel.
“Babe?” Kelly yells from the other room.
“Yeah, hon?” I answer as I start brushing my teeth.
“Your wife texted you.”
I spit the toothpaste into the sink and rinse my mouth out, wiping my lips with my hand. Back in the bedroom, the lights are on now, and Kelly is sitting in bed, wearing a nightgown, while holding my phone. She smiles up at me.
“What did she say?” I slide a pair of Ralph Lauren pajama pants on.
“She wants to know what you’re doing.”
I take a seat on the bed next to her, pushing her long brown hair back. I gently kiss her neck and shoulder.
“Tell her I’m about to fuck the girl of my dreams again,” I whisper. Kelly laughs and begins texting back.
“Your wish is my command.” She giggles. I swipe the phone from her playfully and get out of bed. I quickly text back.
Since you couldn’t make it to me, I’m coming back tonight to see you. No need to wait up. Love you.
Before I can set the phone down, Sarah texts back.
I love you too. I got a chance to read the new pages you sent over lunch, and they’re incredible. I’m so proud of you XOXO.
I smile for a brief second, before a wave of guilt spans over me. I let out a sigh.
You’re the best, babe. Let me take you out for dinner tomorrow night. Say yes.
My phone vibrates.
Yes.
Sometimes, I get a glimpse of who we used to be, and I think we can be that couple again. But I’ve fucked up too much for that to ever happen, and Sarah’s career has always come first—before me, before a family, before everything. I don’t foresee that ever changing.
I thought when we had kids, she’d slow down, but she told me five years ago she didn’t want kids. I thought I’d be able to change her mind. I couldn’t.
I set my phone down on the dresser and plug it into the charger. I look over at Kelly who is giving me bedroom eyes. She can never get enough of me, and I can’t get enough of her. But I know that won’t always be true. There was a time that Sarah and I couldn’t get enough of each other either. That time passed long ago. Occasionally, those feelings resurface, but they’re short-lived and usually induced by alcohol or time apart. Don’t get me wrong, I love Sarah. If I didn’t, I would have left her long ago. It’s that love that I hold on to—not the money, the security or the houses. Kelly gives me the love that Sarah can no longer. They both complete me. It’s sick I know, but it’s true. I need them both.
“Are you ever going to tell your wife about us?”
“Are you ever going to tell your husband about us?” I retort.
She huffs and folds her arms across her chest. “It’s not the same.” Her words are quiet.
I leave and return with two full glasses of scotch, handing one to her and taking a seat. I put one arm around her and pull her close telling her I know. She lets out a soft, silent sob and as quickly as the cry left her body, she pulls it back in, regaining her composure. She takes a large gulp of the scotch and doesn’t even flinch at the burn. She leans into me. We sit there in silence, drinking our glasses of scotch, trapped in loveless marriages where we come second to the people we love. When Kelly and I are together, we come first. I refill our glasses twice more, and then we have sex again. This time, I don’t fuck her—I make love to her.
3
Sarah Morgan
I’m poring over case files, the papers shifting and falling like the snow of a freshly plunged avalanche. I had planned to go into the office for just a few hours to prep for the week, but here I am sipping at my twelve-hour old coffee with oil circles floating on top to remind me of its age. My corner office is on the fourteenth floor, which is as high as one can get in D.C. without erecting a phallus taller than Mr. Washington’s. It has floor-to-ceiling windows and is one of the biggest in the firm, and no one would contest as to why I was given it.
With several high-profile cases and the most case wins out of any attorney here, I more than earned my place as a named partner at Williamson & Morgan. The tips of my fingers rub my forehead, slowly massaging my temples as if to conjure myself back into a state of peace and normalcy. I slide my reading glasses off and drop them onto my desk with a resounding crash to punctuate my frustration. The clock on my phone reads 8:04pm. An exasperated huff exits my mouth to let the non-existent audience in my office know how taxed I am.
I send a quick text to Adam:
Sorry, I really wanted to be with you today. I miss you.
I drop the phone back on the desk. Grabbing the fork from on top of the Styrofoam container, I stab it into the Chinese food that has been sitting out for a few hours. I take a couple of quick bites, then slide the whole thing in the garbage can. My hair is pulled into a bun at the nape of my neck, every strand perfectly in place, even though I’ve been working for the past thirteen hours. I adjust my high-end black blouse and brush off my tailored skirt. I straighten my desk, which is in complete disarray and not typically how I live my life. With court dates and depositions looming over me, a little mess is going to have to do. I look out the windows of my office, admiring the lights of the city, the cars moving in unison, the people out and about enjoying their last few hours of the weekend.
“Anne, are you still here?” I call out.
The door of my office opens, and my sweet-looking assistant pops her head in. She’s a petite woman with shoulder-length brown hair, and although she doesn’t turn heads, she’s pretty in a modest way. Her eyes while faint light up and she smiles at me, ready and eager to please. While I am the only other person in the office right now, it is not uncommon for Anne to scramble into work once she starts to see me sending work emails.
“Yes, Mrs. Morgan.”
I drop my hands on my desk and give her a sympathetic smile. “Anne, how many times do I have to tell you? Just because I work ridiculously long hours doesn’t mean you need to, and what’s with the Mrs. Morgan?”
“Sorry, Mrs.—” She begins and stops as I put my hand up and stand. I approach Anne. The office has plush carpeting, which I picked out myself as it feels incredibly soft beneath my bare feet. I made sure to decorate so it had a homey feel, with a plush couch and recliner, a coffee table, pillows, a bookcase stuffed with books for both work and pleasure, and beautiful artwork on the walls. This office is my home away from home, as I’ve spent more time here the past eight years than I have at my actual home. I even got a treadmill for it, which sits in the corner facing the Washington Monument.
I reach Anne and put a hand on her shoulder. “Anne, you have worked for me for five years. We eat lunch together every Friday. We occasionally grab drinks after work. You travel with me for business. You’ve been to my house on countless occasions. You’re my friend first and my employee second. Please for the love of God, never call me Mrs. Morgan again.”
Anne shakes her head and smiles. She slides past me and slumps into the couch taking a load off. “Ugh, I’m sorry. I’ve been pulling double duty for Bob since his last assistant quit. He demands that I call him Mr. Miller. It’s just become a force of habit.” She rubs her brow.
I take a seat next to Anne. I put my bare feet up on the coffee table, let out a sigh, and pull my hair loose from its tight bun. Anne kicks her heels off and puts her feet up on the table too. We share a look of solidarity and understanding. Although she and I are different in nearly every way, we are one and the same. Two women trying to
make it in a man’s world. We work twice as hard as our male counterparts to make it just an inch ahead of them.
“That’s because Mr. Miller is an asshole. I’ll make sure he has a new assistant by the end of the week, and if the next one doesn’t work out, I’ll make sure he doesn’t work out here either,” I say with a laugh, although I’m completely serious. Bob is a decent attorney, but he has a huge ego and no respect for anyone else, except those that have more money or more power than him.
“Thanks, Sarah. You’re too good to me.”
“No—you’re too good to me.”
“You know who’s not too good for anyone?” Anne asks.
“Who?”
“Bob.”
We both laugh, and it feels good. I’ve had my head buried in case files forever. I miss this. I miss just hanging out without the weight of the world on my shoulders or someone’s life and future in my hands.
“Oh, I wanted to show you these.” Anne pulls out her phone. She opens her photo app and flicks her finger across the screen a few times.
I take the phone from her and look at each photo—a man crossing the street, a woman walking up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, a falcon swooping low over a lake, a child looking up at the Washington Monument. “These are beautiful, Anne. You have such a good eye,” I say admiring each picture.