Through His Eyes Page 2

I kept telling myself we were just in a rut. His job is stressful. His father puts a lot of pressure on his shoulders. But at some point, I realized it was me. In my husband’s eyes, I was no longer beautiful. No longer attractive. I didn’t make him smile or laugh anymore. I didn’t turn him on. He saw me as a burden, a nuisance. I was no longer his queen who was meant to stand by his side. Instead, I became a prisoner he kept holed up in this condo, waiting in the background to be at his disposal. I once was building a successful photography company, but he demanded I stay home. He said it would be an embarrassment for his wife to be working. We were trying to have a baby, and he told me he wanted me to be a stay-at-home mom just like his mother was. If I were working, people would think he couldn’t take care of what was his. He cared more about the outward appearance than what was actually happening in our home.

  I place Rick’s shoes neatly on his shoe rack, then grab a hanger to hang up his jacket. As I’m shaking out the material to ensure there are no wrinkles, I catch a whiff of perfume. Bringing my nostrils to the lapels, I inhale deeply and confirm it. His jacket smells like a woman. My stomach roils in disgust. My hands begin to tremble in fury. My husband is having an affair. I am now officially the cliché.

  The thought of him cheating on me sparks something inside me. I’ve given up everything for this man. Meanwhile, he’s out screwing another woman. I don’t doubt she’s gorgeous. She’s probably a size one with perky breasts, silky blond hair, and has flawless skin with zero tattoos—pretty much the exact opposite of my black, lifeless hair, dull black eyes, and tattoo-covered overweight body.

  Peering out of the room, I see he’s sitting at the dining room table, eating his dinner and texting on his phone. And a plan surfaces. Changing into a pair of sweats and a tee, I go pee and then lie down in bed, closing my eyes and pretending to fall asleep. As I wait for Rick to finish eating, I think about the woman’s scent on his jacket. This isn’t the first time I’ve smelled woman’s perfume on his clothes, but I chose to remain in denial, making excuses—he was probably standing too close to his secretary, or he had lunch with his mom. I didn’t want to admit my husband was having an affair. But deep down I always knew. It’s only now, that I’m pregnant and carrying an innocent precious baby in me, I’m finally opening my eyes and looking around me.

  A little while later, Rick enters our room without saying a word. I hear the bathroom door shut, and I jump out of bed. He takes a shower every night when he gets home, after dinner, and he always brings his cell phone into the bathroom with him. Because of the bathroom being so big, he can’t see me enter, but the door creaks, and he calls out, “Quinn?”

  “Sorry,” I say, “I need to go pee. I’ll be right out.” When I don’t hear him respond, I peek around the corner and see him standing in the shower under the water.

  Cheater. Asshole. Home-wrecker.

  Snatching his phone out of his pants that he has folded on the vanity, I type in his passcode and pull up his messages. I click on the first one: Sylvia. The name sounds familiar. I think she’s his secretary. Just as I’m about to click out and go to the next one, I spot their most recent thread.

  Sylvia: I miss you already.

  Rick: I’ll take you out tomorrow night. Send me a picture.

  Sylvia:

  Of course he’s cheating on me with his damn secretary. Because my entire story wasn’t cliché enough, it had to add the young, hot blond with huge, fake breasts. I skim through a couple more texts before I get nervous of being caught. I’m not sure why I even care. Our marriage is obviously over, but something in me screams that I need to tread lightly. It’s no longer just me. I now have my baby I need to protect. Screenshotting the messages, I text them to my phone and then send Sylvia’s contact information to myself as well. I quickly scroll through Rick’s other messages and find several other women he’s been messaging with. I send all their info to myself, then delete all the evidence I was ever on his phone. Exiting out of his apps, I lock his screen and put his phone back where he left it, tiptoeing out of the bathroom and climbing back into bed. Putting my phone on silent, I store it in my nightstand drawer, so he won’t see it, just in case.

  When he gets out of the shower, he walks over to the dresser with a towel wrapped around his waist. I take a second to check him out. He’s not fat like I am…he’s skinny. Not toned or muscular, but thin and lanky. His skin is tanned, not a tattoo in sight. His brown hair is wet and combed over, and his face is clean-shaven. He’s a good-looking guy, but he isn’t like Wow. His looks aren’t what attracted me to him, though. It was his charm and self-confidence. He was so sure of himself, sure of his place in the world, and even though I came across like I was just as strong and confident, I felt lost. I thought when he found me, I would feel like I finally belonged, and I did…until he decided I was no longer what he wanted, and he left me alone once again. Now I’m more lost than I was before, and my only hope is I somehow find my way on my own.

  “What are your plans this weekend?” he asks, not looking at me as he drops his towel and pulls his boxers up his legs.

  “Celeste is throwing Sky a birthday party at their place. She’s turning eighteen.” Skyla is my niece—Jase and Celeste’s daughter. When she was younger, before Jase and Celeste got together, we were close. Helping Jase to raise her is what made me realize I wanted my own family. I wanted someone to love and to love me back. I wanted to feel wanted and needed. Once Jase and Celeste got together, Skyla and Celeste hit it off straight away. They’re like two peas in a pod. I’m glad Skyla has a full-time mother-figure in her life, but I can’t help but wish we had the bond they share. Maybe one day I’ll have the kind of relationship they have, with my son or daughter.

  “I have to work, so I won’t be able to go.” I don’t know why he’s letting me know this. He never comes to any of my family functions anymore.

  “Okay, will I see you at home afterward?”

  He stills in his place for a split-second, and if I wasn’t looking for it, I wouldn’t have noticed. But now my eyes are wide open, and I’m definitely looking. “Probably not,” he says. “I have a late meeting.” He clears his throat then continues. “I might not make it home. I’ll probably just stay at the office.”

  Liar. Cheater. Asshole.

  “But tomorrow is the weekend,” I push. I never push. I never question. I just accept. And I hate I’ve become that woman who just accepts. “Why would you spend the night when it will be Sunday? You don’t work on Sunday. I was thinking we could go to the farmer’s market like we used to. Pick up some fresh fruits and vegetables.” When we first got together, we used to go to the farmer’s market every Sunday. We would check out each booth, hand in hand, laughing and talking about our week. Even when he was busy, he would make sure he left Sundays open for us.

  “Maybe next weekend,” he says, his eyes meeting mine through his reflection in the mirror. “This meeting is too important.” And it’s in this moment I know without a doubt my husband cheating on me isn’t something new. His flat tone and blank expression are identical to the ones he’s been giving me for too long. Of course, I couldn’t have dug my head out of the sand before I got pregnant by my lying, cheating husband. And of course, after years of trying, and failing, we were successful the one time he came home sloppy drunk and actually wanted me—only to wake up the next morning and not even remember it.

  He pulls his shirt over his head and says, “I have work to do. Goodnight,” then leaves the room as quickly as he came.

  Two

  Quinn

  I’m sitting in the backyard of my brother and Celeste’s home, at Skyla’s birthday party, watching everyone’s kids run around and play. The laughter that fills the air should have my heart swelling with love, but instead, it fills me with dread. I was going to tell Rick this morning I’m pregnant, but when I woke up, he was already gone. No note, no kiss goodbye, not even a text message. Some would say I’m crazy for telling him I’m pregnant. I should run
as far away from him as possible, but I know better. This isn’t some romance novel. I’m not going to escape and find myself some perfect single guy next door to fall in love with while I attempt to rebuild my shell of a life. This is real life, and in my reality, I have to deal with the cards I’ve been dealt. If I don’t play nice, I know Rick will have no problem taking our baby away from me. He has more money than God, and I’ve seen the cruel and ruthless way he does business. There’s a reason the companies he and his father run are so successful. My husband is a smart, conniving, businessman who never holds back. The last thing I need is for him to do what my father did to Jase and Jax’s mom—prove me to be an unfit mom and take my baby from me.

  I’m going to have to play nice. Let Rick take the lead. He’s apparently busy screwing his way through New York, and as long as I continue to turn a blind eye, he will continue to do so while I raise our baby. His money will pay for everything materialistic our child needs, while my love will provide everything he, or she, emotionally needs. That is if I can somehow keep him from putting me down in front of our child… I will not allow my baby to suffer like I did. I won’t argue with Rick. I won’t fight against him. I won’t let my baby become a pawn in this horrible game I’m being forced to play. I’ll do my best to be the wife he wants me to be, so I can give my baby a stable and loving home.

  I listen as Celeste and Jase’s friends laugh and joke with one another. At one point, their friend Killian announces he and his wife, Giselle, are expecting their second baby. Everyone congratulates them, and then Olivia, another friend of Celeste’s, announces she and her husband, Nick, are also expecting. It will be their third, and they are beyond ecstatic. Not able to take another second of being surrounded by all these happy couples—knowing my husband is somewhere most likely fucking his secretary—I duck out quietly and head inside. I’m not ready to go home yet, but I also don’t want to be around people, so I slip into Celeste and Jase’s bedroom, so I can use their bathroom without running into anyone.

  I go pee, wash my hands, and then find myself sitting on the edge of the tub, unsure of where to go from here. What if I did run? What if I took whatever cash I could find and bought an old, used car to drive away from here? Would he search for me? Hell, he doesn’t even like me. I don’t understand why he even wants to keep me. He doesn’t know I’m pregnant. If I ran away now, would he even think twice about me? I could send him divorce papers from wherever I end up and hope he signs them. I could raise my baby in a loving home by myself. But what if he comes after me? What if one day while I’m walking down the street, taking the baby for a walk, he finds me? He would take my baby. I know he would. He would make me regret leaving, every single day for the rest of my life.

  I’m not even aware I’m crying, until a soft voice interrupts my thoughts. “You okay?” I look up and see Celeste standing in front of me.

  “I think I’m pregnant,” I admit nervously.

  “And that’s a bad thing…” she says carefully. I hate that she treats me like I’m fragile, but it’s my fault. Both my brothers are happy and in love, and I want what they have. I want to be in love, and being around them every day has become harder and harder. So I’ve just stopped coming around. It’s easier this way.

  Not knowing what to say to Celeste, I just shrug.

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out.” She pulls a box of pregnancy tests out from under the counter.

  “You keep tests on hand?” I ask, shocked.

  “We’ve been trying for the last year,” she admits. As she rips the test open, she tells me how difficult it’s been for them. The first time they got pregnant, it happened rather quickly, and they had twin daughters, Mariah and Melina, who are now two years old.

  She hands me a disposable cup to pee in, and I blurt out, “I’m sorry, Celeste. Here I am, unsure if I’m happy or sad that I’m most likely pregnant, and you’re wishing for a baby.”

  “Everyone has their own stories,” she says with a soft smile. “Take it, and I’ll be right here with you.”

  A few minutes later, the test confirms what I already knew. I’m pregnant. Celeste, as if she knows exactly what I need in this moment, pulls me into a hug. “Jase and I will be here for you no matter what.” Not wanting to lose it right here in her bathroom, I thank her and tell her I’m going to head home.

  “Okay. If you need anything, call me.”

  When I get to my car—a Porsche Cayenne Rick bought me for my birthday a couple years ago—I lay my head against the steering wheel and let every emotion out I’ve been holding in. As my chest racks with gut-wrenching sobs, I allow myself to mourn over the loss of myself, my future, the loving family I long for. With every tear that falls, I’m one step closer to accepting my fate. And when all my tears have released, and I’m incapable of shedding another drop of salty liquid, I turn my car on and drive home.

  * * *

  The sound of my phone continuously vibrating against the top of my nightstand wakes me from a restless sleep. I contemplated leaving Rick more than a hundred times last night. Packing up my stuff and taking off. But in order to do that, I need to plan, and by the time I figure it all out, I’ll already be showing and he’ll know I’m pregnant.

  Reaching over, I grab the phone and press answer without even looking at who’s calling. “Good evening, I’m calling from New York General Hospital. May I please speak to Quinn Thompson?” New York General?

  “This is she,” I say, sitting up slightly. Pulling the phone from my ear, I quickly check the time: two a.m.

  “For security purposes, can you please confirm your current physical address and date of birth?” she asks.

  After I rattle off my home address and date of birth, she thanks me and says, “You are listed as Richard Thompson’s next of kin. We need you to come in, please.”

  My heart pounds against my ribcage and my breathing becomes labored—out of fear or hope, I haven’t determined. “Did something happen to my husband?”

  “Unfortunately, we can’t give any information over the phone. We’re going to need you to come in.”

  “Okay,” I say, robotically standing and finding clothes to put on. I’m about to head to the hospital when Celeste’s earlier words come back to me: “Jase and I will be here for you, no matter what…If you need anything, call me.” I don’t know how, but something tells me I’m going to need my family.

  Not wanting to wake up Celeste and Jase since they have two little ones, I dial my brother Jax’s number. He answers on the first ring, his voice groggy from sleep.

  “I need you,” I whisper.

  Twenty minutes later, he picks me up and we head over to the hospital. When I get to the front desk, I give the receptionist my husband’s name, and she gives me directions on where to go. As we step around the corner, I spot her. Blond hair, petite body, perky, young breasts. Sylvia, my husband’s secretary-slash-mistress is sitting on the couch of the waiting room, bawling her eyes out. I’ve seen her a few times when I visit Rick at work, but he’s never formally introduced us. I only knew she was his secretary by her name because she always answers the phone when I call.

  Averting my gaze, I walk straight over to the desk I was told to go to and give them Rick’s name. The woman types on the keyboard for several seconds before her eyes meet mine and she gives me a look of sympathy mixed with sadness. “The police have requested to speak with you.” She stands and walks me over to the two men in uniform. Both are standing in the corner, near the coffee machine, but only one is drinking a cup of coffee.

  “This is Richard Thompson’s wife,” she says, and both men’s eyes widen.

  When neither of them say anything, Jax loses his patience. “Can someone please tell us what the hell is going on?”

  “Yes, sir,” the cop, who was just drinking the coffee, says. “We received a call tonight about a man who was held at gunpoint.” My body begins to tremble as I take in the words he’s saying.

  Pulling me into his side, Jax a
sks, “What happened?”

  “A homeless man, under the influence and armed with a stolen weapon, approached your husband when he was getting into his vehicle. According to the witness—”

  “What witness?” I ask, already knowing the answer, but needing to hear him say it.

  The cop without the coffee, frowns. “The woman who was walking with your husband to his vehicle.”

  “Who?” I push. My hands fist at my sides in frustration.

  “We’re not at liberty to say, as the case is still under investigation,” the cop with the coffee says, but his eyes dart over to where Sylvia is sitting. I nod once to thank him, and he grants me a sad smile.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the cop without the coffee says. “According to the witness, your husband was asked for his wallet when they were coming out of the restaurant. Unaware the man had a gun, he told him no, and when he turned his back to get into his vehicle, he was shot from behind. The man took off, and the woman called nine-one-one. He was brought in, but didn’t make it through surgery.”

  Jax’s arm around me tightens, and when I look over, his gaze is flitting from the officers to Sylvia. He’s putting the pieces together.

  Liar. Cheater. Asshole.

  “Did you catch the man who shot him?” I ask.

  “We did. We found him shooting up on the corner. He wasn’t even trying to hide. He’s been arrested, and is being held, while we complete the investigation, but we wanted to be here to tell you what happened ourselves.”

  “Thank you,” I tell the cops, fully aware my voice isn’t even cracking. This is the part where I’m supposed to cry. Even though my marriage was in shambles, and my husband hated me and was cheating on me, I should still feel something. Anything. I was with him for just over four years—married for almost three of them. Surely, that has to amount to at least a tear. But standing here, in the hallway of the hospital, I can’t conjure up a single damn drop of moisture. Maybe it really is possible to run out of tears…