Page 10 of Unravel Me

Normally I’d be planning a dinner out for Thursday night to one of his favorite places, maybe even inviting some of Jackson’s friends to keep him entertained. But the thought of socializing turns my stomach, and there’s a small, satisfying relief in knowing I’ll never have to play host to Jackson’s circle again.

Chapter seven

Audrey

Tuesday morning began the web of lies. Lie number one: I told Ed I was sick and needed to work from home. ‘The flu’ , I told him. Lie number two: when my father called to ask me if I was promoted, I said yes. Technically, I was offered a promotion, one I’d been entertaining in my head. The third lie, or omittance of truth, was that Penny knew neither of these things, thinking I was doing fine. I told her I was busy with work, and I’d love to see her on Saturday for a girl's night. I suggested something low-key, like movies and wine.

I didn’t love the lying; in fact, it ate me up inside. But the truth was beyond painful right now. My emotional state could only be described as whiplash. One moment I was walking past the dresser, seeing the Tiffany's picture frame holding our engagement photo, and bursting into tears. The next, I was scrolling apartment listings in New York, blasting angry music so loud the historic walls in the living room shook. The worst though, was sitting on the sofa, numb.

Tuesday night, in the middle of another restless slumber, it dawned on me that if he cared about me, if Jackson ever truly loved me, he would’ve booked a red-eye flight home Saturday night. His absence was the answer I had always feared.

Wednesday morning greets me like an ice-cold slap to the face, even though it’s a hot June day. I yearned for time to slow down because I still had no idea what I would say to Jackson when he walked through the front door tonight.

My kitchen, which once smelled like fresh cut flowers, was taken over by the copious amounts of takeout food I’d ordered in the last forty-eight hours. And I had not replied to a single work email since last week.

I contemplated baking, perusing the internet for new recipes. I didn’t have the appetite to eat anything, but baking usually helped me get out of my own head. And Jackson had no ground to shame me for my favorite hobby anymore. But by the time I found a recipe, it was late afternoon, and the reality that I'd have to face my ex-fiancé soon crept into my bones and took over.

I closed my laptop, concluding work for the day from my dining table—if you can call what I did work—and slipped into the shower, attempting to quiet my mind. I attempt to scrub the worry from my skin, using every product within reach and when that doesn’t work, I sit at the vanity in my bathroom, and blow my hair dry. I spend an hour there, doing a complete blowout like I am going somewhere nice. My chocolatey, brown hair cascades down my back, my pale legs poking out from under my silk robe as I sit staring at myself while my stomach ties itself into vicious knots.

Padding into my walk-in closet, I pull my prettiest silk pajama set from the hanger and slip it on. I apply lotion slowly to every inch of my five-foot six frame but can’t manage to look at myself in the mirror as I do.

I hate this.

I hate how nervous I am to see Jackson. I hate that I'm desperate to appear fine, unscathed, when he had sliced me open mere days ago. I hate that I put on his favorite perfume behind my ears and on my wrists when the idea of him even touching me viscerally repulses me. And I hate that when my mother called me earlier today to tell me the plans for Labor Day weekend this year, a party at their Hamptons home, I feigned excitement. Like it was a normal Wednesday, like my world wasn’t crumbling or that her and my father didn’t burn me, too.

At 7 p.m. on the dot, rustling keys sound from the front door, and it opens with a woosh louder than I ever noticed before.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

With my feet frozen to the tile floor in the kitchen, I watch in horror as my tall, polished, ex-fiancé snakes his way into the apartment. With one arm held tightly against my body and one hand propping me up on the counter, I wait like helpless prey.

It’s nearly eighty degrees outside, yet Jackson dons a pullover, khakis, and loafers. His chestnut hair is perfectly coiffed back. I can picture it; I’ve watched him get ready a million times. I know how he places his comb on the counter, how he brushes his teeth, how he sings Frank Sinatra in the shower when he is in a good mood. And right now, he looks like he could sing. He’s polished, like he’d just woke up from a solid eight-hour sleep. His eyes flit over me and a slight frown tugs on the corner of his lips.

Almost like he forgot I’d be here, that I live here too.

“Audrey.” Jackson’s voice was cold, like he’s addressing one of his subordinates at the office who disappointed him. How dare I even exist in his universe.

“Jackson.”

Nothing could’ve prepared me for this moment. This conversation.

When he left, I believed there was love between us or a semblance of love. Now, I see a man I don’t even recognize. A stranger in my home. And I have so many questions, but I know for a fact that I don’t really want to hear the answers to any of them.

When Jackson used to get home from business trips, I would be over the moon to hear my name on his lips again, vying for any ounce of admiration from him. He gave it sparingly, but I cherished it like a fool.

“How are you?” he asks, the tension thick in the air between us. A tightness clawed at my chest.

“I’m fine,” I bite out, adding, “I’ve found a new living arrangement and will be moving out next week. Thought you’d like to know.”

Jackson shifts from one leg to the other, taking his hand off his rolling luggage.

“Oh—wow.” He lifts his eyebrows. Did he expect me to fight for him when he should be the one groveling at my feet? But I remind myself this isn’t a movie. This is real life. My life.

And the men in my life don’t fight for me and never expect a fight out of me.

It wasn’t as if I thought he’d show up with flowers and tears in his eyes, but part of my heart still aches as I stand here, feet from him in the apartment that I desperately tried to make a home.

“Well, I figured a clean cut would be best. The sooner, the better.”