My Life

Viola McCoy

I blink through my tears as I drive back home. A part of me is aching but another part of me isn’t surprised. Julian has had a few scandals with a few women over the years which he always denies. So I shouldn’t even feel anything.

My grip tightens around the steering wheel as I step on the gas. The cool night air does nothing to make me feel better. What I should feel though, is the urge to run. But I also know I never will because leaving isn’t an option when you have nowhere to go.

No family to run to. A spiteful step mother who wants nothing to do with me would never accept me. And my step siblings are no good either. I could run to my parents but they’re both up there. In heaven, probably watching their daughter settle for less and less everyday.

So, yes, I keep driving. Past the streetlights, past my pride, past every version of me that deserved better.

When I finally arrive at my home—a spiraling penthouse in the heart of Chicago, I let myself breath. Julian’s favorite car isn’t in it’s parking space. He’s not home yet. I get out of my car and start walking towards the front pouch. Walking in, the house is empty. I had given the helpers the rest of the evening off so Julian and I would have some alone time after the dinner.

But I don’t see any of it happening now.

I push myself to walk up the vast stairs. My footsteps echo in the quiet hallway. The penthouse is built in a Roman style. I reach the second floor, and walk down a long hallway, push open one side of a set of French doors and walk in.

The master bedroom is enormous. The vaulted ceilings makes it seem even bigger, and the smallish furniture adds to the effect as well. The bed is a queen size, almost like Julian had decided from the start that I would be all alone in this room. He never sleeps in the master bedroom. On days where he actually comes home, he says he’s too tired to walk up the flight of stairs so he sleeps in one of the rooms on the ground floor.

I slowly sit at the edge of the bed. The other side of the bed is bare. The side I sleep on has a lamp on the night stand, a cell phone charger, my laptop, and a couple of paperbacks sitting under an e-book reader.

My laptop never leaves my nightstand because working at Reynolds Publishing requires you to be ready for emergency work. Julian doesn’t care enough to stop me from working at Reynolds publishing even though he knows I share a bit of history with that name.

But Julian and I both know that name will only continue to remain in my past. The name Logan Reynolds, the man who I used to be so in love with and dated for four years. But three years ago, he left. He broke up with me and moved far away to take over one of his father’s company branches. He didn’t choose me. He never even tried to make our relationship work.

Once, I was Logan’s. Once I had his initials tattooed. Then he left and Julian made sure to erase every trace of him from me including the tattoo.

I bite my lower lip, gripping the sheets beneath me. I haven’t thought about Logan in a long time. But one part of me wonders if he would even recognize the girl he left behind if he ever came back to Chicago? I’m not the same girl anymore. And the truth? Logan is in my past. He gave up on me.

And then Julian came along, only to give up on me too.

A drop of tear trickles down my cheek. I’m surprised I’m still able to cry. I thought I'd exhausted all my tears at the restaurant earlier tonight. I wipe my face with the back of my palm and get on my feet.

I quickly strip out of my tight dress and throw on a robe. Maybe a shower will make me feel better. It doesn’t. My heart still feels so heavy and I hate it. I’ve gotten so used to Julian’s disappointments so much that I would’ve gotten over him skipping my birthday dinner by now.

But for some reason, my stupid heart still aches. I dry my hair and throw on my night dress before walking back into the quiet living room. I sit there staring at the clock. It’s almost midnight.

I finally hear the reckless screeching of tires from outside. I know from my heart that it’s Julian. He’s drunk, he only drives like that when he is drunk, even though I’ve told him lots of times not to drive while he’s drunk. But then again, when has he ever listened to me?

Julian finally staggers through the front door, barely able to hold himself together. I flinch, getting on my feet to help him but he immediately shuns me.

“I’m fine…fine.” he slurs, staggering towards one of the couches. “Don’t touch me.”

He reeks of alcohol with a whiff of citrus and

sandalwood. My heart squeezes. That’s not his cologne, it’s definitely another woman’s. Maybe the woman the media caught him with tonight? The woman who by tomorrow morning, he’ll probably tell me is one of his colleagues?

I take a deep breath as I watch him finally slouch on the couch. He’s asleep now. I continue to stare at him. Dark blond hair, navy eyes, a sculpted face set in a semi-permanent pensive expression. It wasn’t a face that smiled easily. When was the last time either of us had smiled at the other the way we used to before we got married?

When was the last time he touched me? Not for sex, but for casual affection. The knot in my stomach pulls tighter, restricting the flow of oxygen. I swallow past it and force my lips to curve upward.

This is your life, Viola.