The Girl He Loves Read online

  “That’s okay. I understand,” I say. I understand that you’re a stuck-up fashionista. Whatever.

  I really don’t know what I was thinking, coming here. Did I think I’d find a clue hidden in the pockets of a jacket? There is no way I can go from here, to becoming BFFs with Renee. Which would be the only way I could get proper information, only if we were close enough pals to share confidences over cocktails or glasses of wine. Buying a skirt at her stupid store will not get me there.

  Her fingers dance over the cash register as she inputs my items. “May I take your name and email?” she asks kindly. “It’s for our mailing list.”

  My pulse quickens. “Uh… no, it’s okay.”

  She cocks a brow. “Are you sure? I can email you info about special sales and discounts.”

  I’ve never been good under pressure and don’t want to appear conspicuous. “Uh… My name is… Lara Smith.” My heart is frantic now — I hate lying. “Uh… my email is [email protected]," I say, making it up on the spot.

  She clicks in the info and then smiles. “How would you like to pay?”

  “Uh… cash.” I nervously dig into my Nine West bag and fish out my wallet. Yes, definitely cash.

  As she cashes me out, I spot the business cards sitting next to the bowl of mints. HALL HAIR DESIGN. I instantly reach for a card. I would normally never dream of going to a new hairdresser. I love Katrina, my current stylist. Yet, desperate times call for desperate measures.

  “Oh, he’s great,” Renee tells me. “You should definitely check him out. It’s where I get my hair done.”

  Well, look at her, pimping her husband — she is the perfect advertisement indeed. Of course she has no clue that I know they’re married. I also know he buys her flowers, just because. I know he collects socks. I know they both love to have margaritas and nachos and guacamole on Friday evenings. I know they’ve been married for sixteen years. I know she has family in Montreal. I know they’re both obsessed with Santa Clarita Diet at the moment.

  I fucking know it all.

  * * *

  I need to work late again to catch up on my accounts. Brian is reading a book and the boys are holed up in their rooms again — I swear, sometimes I’m not even sure they live here at all. If it weren’t for mandatory family dinners, I might never see them on some days. I usually make an effort to go peek in to check up on them. “How was your day?” I ask. “What ‘cha doing?” I’m typically met with grunts and eye rolls, especially from Trevor. Tristan is occasionally chatty, when he’s not immersed in his phone.

  I don’t dare tidy their mess when they’re in it — although the urge is all-consuming. I know better. I do it during the day, when they’re at school. We’ve come to an agreement — they know my nature, and they respect the fact that this is my house (or condo), and they know this is a fight they can’t win.

  I miss the days when I’d catch them playing with Legos, or drawing a picture. When they’d shoot me a big grin as soon as I stepped into their rooms. Am I feeling neglected? Am I bored now that they don’t need me anymore? Is that why I’ve become obsessed with Ava and her family?

  I don’t ponder these questions too long because I have a lot of catching up to do. Today’s little excursion netted me a few new items of clothing, but it cost me a good three hours of my time.

  Brian kisses the top of my head. “Working late again? Those people are slave drivers.”

  I glance up from my papers. “I actually went shopping today,” I tell him. “I bought some jeans, a skirt, capris and a top.”

  “Oh, cool,” he says. “You should do that more often… take some time during the day for yourself. You work yourself too hard.”

  He does have a point. Other than coffee and a weekly lunch with the girls, it’s go, go, go. Work, the gym, housework and cooking.

  “I’m almost done here,” I tell him. “Then we can watch something.”

  “Sounds good.”

  We haven’t had sex since I found Ava’s photo. After fifteen years of marriage, our sex life has waned. I’m not sure if it’s the years or the kids. But when we get together, it’s good. Damn good. I’ll take quality over quantity any day.

  Brian is good in bed, always has been. He knows exactly where to touch me and what filthy words to whisper in my ear. Does he whisper in Ava’s ear? I shake my head. I can’t let my mind go there. I refuse to until I know more. Could Ava have something to do with the drop in frequency of our lovemaking? I’m not sure if it’s just my imagination, but it seems to have been even less frequent these days. I try to think back to the last time we had sex. I can’t even remember. God, that’s sad.

  10

  I study the wedding photo of us, on my desk. When we were first married, we used to go at it all the time.

  Needless to say, because of the surprise pregnancy, the wedding was rushed. For many, weddings can take a year to plan. And for a perfectionist like myself, one year might not be enough.

  As it was, I had three months. Our baby was due in December, and I didn’t want to look pregnant at my wedding. I smile at the thought of that now. Everyone knew I was expecting. Yet at the time, I thought that a bride with a huge baby belly was in poor taste and not classy at all. And I was going for a whole Queen Elizabeth vibe, and a baby bump just didn’t jive with that whole esthetic. At four months, I could still conceal my growing stomach.

  I had three months to plan my wedding. And of course, everything had to be perfect. I’d chosen pink and white lilies, and dusty rose for the bridesmaid dresses. Since I had no close friends at the time, my sisters were my bridesmaids. Small bottles of red wine and alcohol-free champagne were handed to our guests as a thank you gift. The invitations were printed on a tasteful paper, accented with silver accents.

  Thankfully, Brian’s parents had dear friends who owned a horse estate which hosted weddings in the summer months. I’ve never particularly liked horses but the setting was beautiful, and most importantly, it was available and discounted.

  I oversaw the table arrangements, linens, and the decorator. Everything needed to be absolutely perfect. My life might have been falling apart but my wedding would be flawless. I’d been extremely stressed, and had had terrible morning sickness. I’d actually managed to lose weight, and my doctor was concerned. On the plus side, I looked amazing in my wedding dress.

  I’d come to rely on my rituals more than usual. Strangers eyed me with confusion as I rolled my neck repeatedly, tapped my fingers, counted out loud, and closed my eyes and breathed. I knew that my stress would only increase once the baby came, and that concerned me to no end. I was so scared of the future.

  I’d just finished my Bachelor of Business Administration, but Accounting school would have to wait a few years. I was going to be a full-time mother while Brian would teach.

  It was the big day and thankfully, I was feeling well. Gone were the days of morning sickness. I was in good spirits and looking forward to marrying the love of my life.

  I felt beautiful in my wedding dress. It was not too different from the one I had envisioned as a girl, but this one was sleeveless, the skirt round and big. And the corset top was embroidered with a silver design. I had the long veil, just like Queen Elizabeth. I wore sensible chunky heeled white shoes because I knew there would be walking on grass. I was accompanied by my mother and my sisters as I exited my uncle’s black vintage 1966 Mustang.

  There were a few people milling about outside and my breath hitched at the sight of them — they were all strangers. I shifted my gaze to the horses in the field off in the distance to calm myself as I made my way into the blue building. It was a beautiful day, and I told myself that I would get through it, that it would all be over soon. Don’t get me wrong — I really wanted to marry Brian. I loved him with all my heart, but the whole wedding thing was really freaking me out.

  When I entered the building, we immediately headed to a private room, designated for the bride and her bridal party to get ready. It was right next
to the pretty chapel, which was just lovely — greenhouse-like, filled with greenery and topiaries, windows all around. White chairs sat in rows, and a pretty white archway full of flowers stood at the front awaiting us and the Priest.

  As I stared at my reflection and touched up my makeup, my pulse raced. I knew there were tons of people out there, sitting on those white chairs, the pretty ones with the sheer ribbon bows — so many faces I wasn't familiar with because there were quite a few more guests from Brian’s family who had been invited, than my own. Brian’s big Italian family wouldn’t have it any other way. I knew the Priest was probably standing on the stage, next to the lovely white archway covered with pink flowers. Brian’s aunt Colleen would be at the piano in the corner, waiting to get the go-ahead. Brian’s brothers were probably standing in their black tuxes, impatient.

  I started to visibly shake and found it difficult to reapply my lipstick. I was clammy and breathless. It was happening again. A full-on panic attack. And that realization only made it worse. Before long, I couldn’t breathe at all. I needed some air.

  I dashed out of the dressing room, and when my mother and Anika attempted to follow me, I screamed at them and begged them to leave me alone. I told them that if they took one more step, I would throw myself in the small pond nearby. And since I’ve always been a little crazy, they weren’t taking any chances. They backed up obediently.

  As I ran away from the hall, every step brought me closer to serenity. I breathed in the hot summer air and felt free. I no longer had to worry about anything. It was just me and this beautiful land; fields, trees, blue skies and horses in the distance. I wasn’t sure where I was going or what I was doing, but I headed in the direction of the red barn.

  Once inside, I felt even calmer, in spite of the not-so-pleasant smell; manure and hay. The place was dark, like my mood, and deserted. It was perfect — I just wanted to be alone. A few horses poked out their heads curiously. They were kept in individual stalls and I wondered if they liked it, if it was all they ever knew, or if they longed to escape. I could relate at the time because I felt trapped. I loved Brian with all my heart, but it was all too much for someone like me.

  I hiked up the skirt of my dress as I slowly ventured in. I walked around, saying hello to the horses. A beautiful white spotted beauty drew me in and I tentatively reached out to her. I spotted an orange cat sneaking out of a room and decided to go explore. When I opened the door, I found a laundry room of sorts. On one side was a washer and dryer and an industrial sink, shelves of supplies, and on the other side, saddles and reins hanging on the wall. Names were printed under each saddle: WINSTON, PUMPKIN, OSCAR, PEPPER, and so on.

  I smiled when I caught sight of another fluffy grey cat, nestled in a cozy cat bed, right on top of the dryer. When I approached him and stroked him under the chin, he purred, loving every second of it. As I was petting him, I could feel my heartbeat slow and my pulse ease. Just then, I spotted another cat camouflaged in the supplies on the shelf. Black and white, he was stretched out comfortably, sleeping. He reminded me of one of those I SPY books I loved as a kid. Can you spot the kitty?

  Just then, I heard a sound outside and my breath hitched. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be in there, especially in a wedding gown. I was quite the sight, I was sure. My heart skipped a beat when I saw his face. He was beautiful in his black tuxedo. We weren’t supposed to see each other before the ceremony.

  “It’s bad luck for you to see me in my wedding dress,” I said, my words just above a whisper.

  He smiled. “You’re not usually the superstitious type. I’m surprised you believe that.”

  “I don’t, really.” I stared down at my billowy dress.

  “I had to come and find you,” he said sweetly, no hint of anger or disappointment in his voice. He understood. He knew me like no one else.

  “I just needed a breather,” I explained. “I panicked. I’m so sorry.”

  He inched closer and closed the distance between us. “It’s okay.” He scooped me up in his arms, and I held on tightly to him for the longest time.

  “You still want to marry me?” I asked, afraid of the answer.

  He laughed. “I do. I know what I’m getting into, Mischa. There’s no one else for me.”

  I looked up at him, tears in my eyes. “You’re too good to me.”

  “I knew this day would be hard for you.”

  I looked away, embarrassed, ashamed of the unstable person I was. The cat on the shelf was studying us curiously. I turned my gaze back to Brian’s. “I really want to marry you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. It’s just this whole wedding thing…”

  He held me tighter. “I know.”

  After a long while, he finally convinced me to walk back to the chapel, and with him by my side, I found the courage to face all those people, to take that giant step.

  To marry the man I loved.

  11

  My compulsions have driven me to this not so pleasant spot again; sitting on a public bus, sandwiched between a small asian woman and a large portly man. The man has body odor, and the woman’s perfume is overwhelming — the mix of the two is completely nauseating.

  Thankfully, I am in need of a haircut. I usually go every six weeks or so. I flick Joel’s business card between my fingers, a nervous habit. I’ve written my appointment time on it. I’ve specifically requested Joel. I told the receptionist that a friend strongly recommended him. I’m really doing this.

  I dig into my handbag and place the card in my wallet. I grab my phone, and I’m strongly compelled to check his profile again on Facebook. I love his profile photo — he’s so beautiful. But is this photo deceiving? People are generally much more attractive on social media than they are in real life. Although it certainly wasn’t the case with Ava and Renee — they are both stunning. I wonder if he’s as nice and fun as he seems on Facebook. His smile is playful, and his big brown eyes are friendly. There’s also something bedroom-ish about them.

  I scroll through his feed, giddy. I hope he’s as extroverted as he seems in these photos. Although Renee was very polite and welcoming, her friendliness felt somewhat forced. She was essentially a saleswoman. It must be exhausting to have to deal with people and be polite and charming all day. I could never do it. I’m way too introverted, and have a bad tendency to be too honest. I’d be too truthful, not able to sell a woman a dress if it didn’t suit her figure. Unfortunately, we’re not all built like supermodels, and many styles don’t work for most women. I know I look ridiculous in wide bottom pants and puffy sleeved tops.

  I wonder if I’ll be able to get closer to Joel than I did Renee. Will I be able to get some answers? Most hairdressers are chatty by nature. Katrina doesn’t shut up, but I like it because I can just relax and listen — I don’t need to make dreaded small talk. I really hate talking about myself.

  The woman next to me scares the pants off me when she blurts, ““Very handsome. Is that your boyfriend?”

  Oh God, I’m mortified. “Um… no.” No, just someone I’m obsessively cyber stalking. I’m taking it farther today… stalking him in real life.

  “Oh, I see. You want him to be your boyfriend?”

  Jesus. The gall of people. This woman is so nosy. I’m many things, but impolite is not one of them.

  “No, I’m married,” I tell her. “He’s… uh, a client,” I falter a little as I concoct my story on the spot. “I… I’m a psychic, and I need to read his essence, you know. To get a feel for him.”

  God, I hate public transportation.

  She cocks a brow, dubious. “Really? Can you tell people’s futures?”

  “Uh… yes, that’s one of the things I do.”

  She eyes me suspiciously. “Really?”

  “Yes… really.” I say, a dash of annoyance etching my words. How dare she question my skills. Fictional skills, yes, but still. “Oh, look at that. My stop is next.”

  I stick my phone back in my purse, and am very happy to stand and exit thi
s cesspool of germs and rude nosiness.

  But as soon as I’ve stepped out of the bus, I’m breathless again. It’s the thought of walking in there, and looking at him in the eye, speaking to him. I’ve been hiding safely behind the screens of my phone and my laptop, gazing at his image. But IRL (in real life, as the boys would say), it’s different.

  Despite my reservations, my legs lead me to my destination, one foot in front of the other. My stomach is queasy and my armpits feel damp. I run a hand through my hair — I’ve styled it. It’s crazy to style one’s hair before heading off to the hairdresser. It is certainly counter-productive. But this is Joel. And I’m not sure why, but I want him to like me. I want him to find me attractive.

  I laugh at myself. He’s married to a supermodel for crying out loud. I’m sure I’ll seem like nothing but ordinary to him.

  I’ve already given my real name to the receptionist. Could he possibly find a link between my name and his daughter’s life? Could that stir up some interest in him? A clue?

  I know I’m searching for a needle in a haystack, and I’m sure to prick myself. But I can’t help it. The urge is stronger than any common sense I might have.

  A beautiful woman with amazing hair exits the salon as I walk in. It’s busy — that’s a good thing since it makes me feel more inconspicuous. When I walked in Renee’s store, I was the only customer there, and that made it all the more nerve-wracking.

  The space is beautiful; the walls are painted soft shades of blue and taupe. Dark shaded chandeliers dot the ceiling, mixed with soft fluorescent lighting. Six black leather swivel salon chairs and silver framed mirrors are lined in a perfect row on one side. On the other side, is the cash register and a products section. Bottles of hair products are aligned perfectly, color and size coordinated — this pleases me, and my breathing eases a little. There’s a dividing wall with a beautiful mural painted on it, a colorful cityscape. A row of chairs, a loveseat and a coffee table are tastefully arranged in the waiting area.