Shadow (noun) : a dark area or shape produced by a body coming between rays of light and a surface.

The bitter cold of an East Coast winter had arrived, in these weeks before Christmas.  Icy air whipped through the bare trees, whistling as it blew, while cheerful warm Christmas trees lit up living rooms in houses all around.  White lights lined roofs and happy snowman smiled from front porches. It was an especially cold start to the season, and chimneys all over were breathing out the thick fragrant smoke of wood fires.

It was as if we had never been apart.  I was happy and he was very busy working on completing the interior of a restaurant he was building.  As the project manager, he had hired out for the plumbing and electric, but he was handling all things that made the restaurant beautiful. And it was. The place was an upscale “quick stop” sort of place, where you could get deli sandwiches, grilled foods, gourmet ice cream, coffee … but instead of bright plastics and harsh colors typically associated with that sort of place, it had a very handsome interior with mixed textures such as various metals, brick, stone, and concrete. It was very “New York” and I loved it, even before it was finished. He had the perfect vision for what the owner wanted and executed it brilliantly. His talents cannot be overstated, and those talents were a very magnetic draw for me.

I would go after work and help out when he needed it, just so happy that he was back, spending time with him any way I could. He always put me to work, which I was glad to do, because it felt like “couple time”, even though his men would look at me and chuckle. “Wow,” they’d say. “I can’t get my wife to vacuum the damn house, let alone clean out a vent full of sawdust!” or “Aren’t you a lucky man? My girlfriend makes me do things for her, and here you have your girlfriend doing all of this?” He would usually answer with, “Well, she’s a hard worker,” or “Yeah, but Shannon is as good as having two more extra men on the job.” Sometimes those comments would sort of embarrass me. I wondered if the showgirl ever rolled up her sleeves and got filthy dirty helping him out.

This day, he asked me to come and help him in the evening, so I finished my second job and went straight to the restaurant.  One of his guys was there to help him, and he was in an unusually chipper mood. He was very affectionate that night, and he kissed me almost constantly. When I walked past carrying a box of something, he’d catch me by the waist and kiss my neck. Or when I was climbing a ladder, he’d smack my bottom. He would swing me into his arms and kiss me full on the mouth behind a wall, just the two of us, murmuring, “We’ll continue this later.” I was filled with anticipation and happiness to be “us” again, and so swollen with love that I was forgetting everything from before, and thank God for that. He was playful, and he was laughing a lot, joking and pretty upbeat, considering he was behind schedule; the owner wanted to open just after the new year, and Christmas was close. The radio played his newly favorite country music in the background and it was a nice atmosphere. Since when did he get into country music? Oh well. I didn’t mind. I sort of liked it! I used to listen to country all the time. I loved when he was in this kind of mood.

… but, I noticed, too, that he kept checking his phone. He laid it face down on a box against a wall, walked away, completed a task, came back, flipped it, swiped it, and placed it face down again. When I suddenly “noticed” it, right on cue, my stomach twisted up and the bells clanged in my head. I knew what he was looking for, and as much as I tried to wave the thoughts away, they kept floating right back. I told myself that if he really was checking for her, he’d keep that phone in his pocket. But, maybe he just got lazy again with it, like last time, confident in my love for him, assuming it would keep me fooled again. But we were really doing great! We spent weekends away. We saw each other more often than before, even. We were in constant contact. But so many times over the last few weeks, I “caught” little things that I immediately recognized as large full color signs, capital letters and illustrations to go with them, telling me to listen to my gut. I knew what I was seeing then, but I had learned how to ignore these signs so I wouldn’t cause trouble and destroy what we were rebuilding. So once again, I shook my head at my stupid suspicions and told myself to stop looking for trouble. But the black sludge in my gut was churning again, and like thick quicksand, it was pulling me down. The harder I struggled against it, the stronger the suction. That deep intuition had me by both legs and I could not walk away from it again, like I had at Thanksgiving.

“Hun,” he said, snapping me out of my thoughts, “Want to go get us our dinner? Maybe run to the diner down the road and pick up?” “Oh, yeah, sure,” I said. “Thanks,” he said. “Why don’t you grab the menu on your phone. It’s online.” “Ok,” I answered, watching him as he again flipped his phone, swiped and put it back, face down. Please don’t be doing what I think you are. He walked over and turned the radio up louder, nodding his head to the song as he reached down for his toolbox. I found the website for the diner and took a screenshot of the menu, debating whether or not to even allow this suspicion to grow legs.  But he came back and again looked at his phone, swiped, flipped it face down, and walked into another part of the building. Seeing that yet again, several phone checks in not even an hour, I exhaled, shoving my hands into the back pockets of my jeans, tipping my head back to look up at the beams of the unfinished ceiling. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t look at it. It’s none of your business, it’s invasive and it’s just not ok. Stop. Willing myself to not look at his phone, I called out, “Hey … so, I have the menu here. It’s here. I … you want to look at it or … ” and he called out from the other part of the building, “No, hun, the menu is for you. We know what we want.” “You don’t want to even take a quick look? Maybe there’s something you’d like instead?” “Nah,” he said, “besides, I’m stuck in here right now. I’m coating the floor and it has to be done all at once, section by section.”  … He’s not coming out. He left his phone here. And as if I were being pulled on a rope, I walked over to the box, picked up his phone and swiped it open. I could almost feel the good angel on one shoulder clasping her hands, pleading with me to not do it, and the bad angel on the other shoulder jumping up and down, cheering me on. I went to the text log and scanned, but she wasn’t there, nor were any other women. There was nothing. Nothing. I was wrong, he wasn’t texting her, he wasn’t doing anything. Oh, thank God. I shook my head, and blew out my breath, so glad to have found nothing … I rubbed my face with my hands a few times and the anxiety in my stomach was immediately gone; I was flooded with instant relief that I had found nothing, after expecting some big barrel keg reveal, and then I was flooded with regret and shame for not trusting him. When am I going to knock this off? I shook my head at my own near miss of ruining a nice evening with him. What if he had come around the corner and seen me looking at his phone? I would have been responsible for causing a big fight. You’re going crazy. You are imagining all of this. You’re one of those wretched women.

Feeling the weight of fear slide off of me, giddy with relief, I walked toward the door to pick up our dinner. Singing along in an exaggerated country twang to the song on the radio, I placed one hand on the glass and one on the handle, opening the door … and as I squeezed the lever to release the lock, I stopped, dead in my tracks, staring straight ahead, every background thought screeching to a halt. I stood there frozen in place, not even blinking, just staring straight through the glass at the cold winter night blackness outside.

Wait.

With my mouth closed, breathing deeply in and out through my nose, I slowly released the door handle, turned around and went back to the box where his phone was. I stood there for a moment, just looking at it, as if I expected it to slither away.  I picked up his phone, and swiped it open. The radio thumped loudly in the background, echoing in the cavernous unfinished building, while he and his friend talked and laughed around the corner. With my heart pumping, already knowing what I’d find, I tapped his gmail and my eyes ran down the contents. Nothing. I tapped the sent folder and still, nothing. I shook my head and put the phone back, face down.  There’s no way I’m imagining this.  About to walk away, I stopped. I picked it back up, swiped it open again and went to the trash folder. … and there it was.

He had deleted it to hide it, but didn’t think about the trash folder. There it was.

From him, to the showgirl, dated that day, time stamped only a few hours prior, subject: “I really miss you”.  I couldn’t even breathe.

No wonder he was in such a great mood. No wonder he was so effervescent and happy. He was expecting her to respond and rekindle their relationship. He had kissed me passionately around corners that night, hoping to be with her again. He had slapped my bottom as I climbed the ladder, hoping to be with her again. He had kissed my mouth and murmured into it, “We’ll finish this later,” hoping to be with her again. Right in front of me, over and over, he checked his phone, waiting to hear from her, hoping for another chance. He was planning to leave his truck there over night, ride home with me, sleep with me in my bed, and I would take him back there in the morning on my way to work … while he was hoping to be with her.  He had absolutely zero guilt about deceiving me, for her, again. He had zero guilt about taking me to bed knowing how much I loved him, while he waited to hear from her. He had just emailed her right before he asked me to come and help him. This was not only “not over”, he was not over her.

With my hand over my mouth in total disbelief, I read his email to the Showgirl:

“I am doing some work on a new project tonight and you keep popping into my thoughts. Everything is going well. Work is good. Family is fine. I’m almost done with my holiday shopping. I handled the legal issue at my parent’s place. I even made it back to the gym after an extended absence. However, none of that has overshadowed the fact that I feel sad and there can only be one reason why. I must have looked for you a dozen times when I was closing the house that Sunday. I didn’t expect a visit as I know that’s logistically difficult, but I was disappointed just the same. I don’t want you to be gone from my life. I’m so sorry I contributed to your change in feelings for me. It’s really not your fault and I understand. I do wish I could have made you feel happy and safe. I hope you and everyone are doing well. I love you, I will always love you, but for now I will just say that I really miss you.”

What? What Sunday? What Sunday were you waiting for her down the shore? … Where was I ? When was this?   I read the email again, the black sludge in my gut rising from a simmer to a rolling boil until it traveled up and up, invading my cracked heart until it oozed out, filling my whole body.  My eyes greedily drank in the words of his email, immensely and perversely relieved that I wasn’t going crazy and I was indeed right, and there really was a reason I kept feeling “that feeling” again.  And you looked me right in my eyes, and kissed me and held me and dissolved me in bed while you were still chasing the Showgirl behind my back, with absolutely no conscience about it what so ever. You dirty liar.

I read the email again. It was utterly pathetic and it turned my stomach.  He was positively grovelling, telling her that even though he had carried on with his life, he just couldn’t shake his “sadness” that she had stood him up when he was closing his shore house for the winter.   Sad? Sad?  You don’t seem so sad every time we’re in bed and you get whatever your heart desires, which is at least 5 times a week. You didn’t seem so sad every time I showed up to get filthy dirty helping you lay tile and grout and lug heavy boxes and climb into the ceiling space to vacuum out fiberglass.  You weren’t sad when I cooked countless meals for you, tried my best to show you that I love you … saw no sadness then. No, in fact, my “reward” for those good deeds was always time alone in the bedroom.  Yeah.  I don’t recall stopping to give you a tissue so you could dry your eyes and blow your nose because you were feeling “sad”.   The radio blared in the background, and I was thankful for the obnoxious auto commercial that chattered over my sniffling.  My emotions were all over the place. Tears streamed down my face, but unlike him, I wasn’t “sad”.  I was furious.

I shook my head and and tapped the back button on his screen to close it out.  Before I shut his phone off, my eyes caught the very bottom email on the long list in that trash folder.  It was dated November 25, 6:31 p.m. and it was to her, subject: Happy Thanksgiving, I miss you.

November 25th.  … 25th?  That’s … that’s Thanksgiving Eve.  Oh my God.  They were in contact during Thanksgiving?   I immediately remembered how he had suddenly walked away from the table that night and began texting … and me, standing there holding my champagne glass like a fool, watching him text her right in front of me.  I closed my eyes and covered my face with my hand.  “I’m so stupid,” I breathed out.  It was her that night. He had expertly lied to me again, convincing me that it was the restaurant owner, pushing him to hit a deadline.  Hot tears spilled down my face again and I quickly wiped them with my forearm, taking a jagged breath into my elbow.  Why the Hell did you even come BACK if you were just going to keep chasing her?  You should’ve just stayed gone.  Blinking back tears so I could see, I read his email:

“I wanted to send a quick reply before heading to PA for the holiday.  The only reason I outlined what happened was not to beat a dead horse.  It was because the last message you sent me, stated that you had somehow been ‘duped again’.  I need you to realize that at no time have I lied to you.  Everything I said to you was true, and deep down, you know I was being honest. The problem is, you love me. You love me, too, and that is what scared you so much, and I understand why.  Second, you forget that I fell in love with you first. Fact is, I started to fall for you well over a year ago, I just didn’t understand it at the time.  I have only seen you as I always have, the most beautiful girl the the most honest eyes I have ever looked into.

It is important for me that you know I have always considered you feelings throughout our time together.  I never want to hurt you.  You don’t deserve that.  I never, ever want to hurt you. You don’t deserve to be hurt or deceived and I would do everything I could to prevent that from happening again.  I want to be there for you when your faith in people and love returns.  I want you to love again, like I know you love me, like you know you love me.  Like you know I love you. Fact is though, so few people are genuine and so many wish to do us harm that it’s hard to believe in much of anything.  I just want you to know I am one of those very few people.  I do hope you realize that.  I ask for nothing more than for you to be happy.

I will be at my at my house down the shore until around 3pm Sunday, closing up for the winter. If you could stop by, I’d love to see you, even if it’s just for a quick visit.  Don’t tell me if you’re coming or not, I really like surprises, too.  All the good stores are by me so you can always use that as an excuse to get away for a while.  I won’t hold it against you if you can’t make it.

You and your family have a great Thanksgiving.  Pictures are always welcome. I love you. I miss you.”

They’re fighting. … this never ended. This was never over. Oh my God.

It felt like giant waves were crashing inside of my chest, this hurt so much.  I actually believed they were over.  I actually believed she was gone.  He had convinced me.  Reading his own words, how he crawled after her, after he did everything he could to show her his love, while he let me die all alone.  I just couldn’t wrap my head around this; and the way he spoke to her … it was in no part anything like the man that I knew.  These words, this emotion, I had never seen from him. My heart was slamming against my ribs and my face was burning hot.  “Hey, hun?” he called from the other part of the building. Totally startled, I frantically tapped the back button to get out of his emails and with a shaking hand, flipped it face down on the box, and I sprinted to the middle of the empty dining room, quickly sitting on a large 25 gallon paint bucket. He came around the corner. “You’re still here?” he asked. “Yeah, I … I was checking emails.  I’m going now, though.”  He walked over to me, bent down and tilted his face to kiss me.  “Are you okay?” he asked. “Your eyes are super red and glassy.”  He felt my face with both hands. “You’re burning up.” “Oh, no, I’m okay,” I lied. “I mean, maybe I’m coming down with something, but … yeah, I feel fine.” “Hmm,” he said, kissing me again.  He pulled me to my feet, reached around and playfully grabbed my bottom, pulling me against him.  “Really wish we were alone right now,” he said as he kissed me, deeply.  Liar. You don’t wish we were alone. You wish your showgirl were here instead of me, but you wouldn’t dream of asking her to crawl around the attic with a face mask, vacuuming fiberglass.  I tilted my head and whispered, “me too.”  “Later,” he said. “If we get out of here early enough, we’ll have all night.”  “Mm-hhmm,” I said. He patted my bottom again and said, “You better get going.  Grab the food, we’ll break to eat and I’ll get rid of him.  Then we’ll clean up, lock up and get out of here. ‘K?” “Yes,” I answered, swinging my purse on my shoulder, holding my keys in my hand.  “Peach tea?” I asked. “If they got it,” he answered. He kissed me again and turned to walk away.  I watched him walk to the box, flip his phone, swipe it open.  “Hey,” I said. “Hmm?” he answered, looking up at me. “You’ve checked your phone a thousand times tonight. Are you talking to her again?” He stared at me. I stared back.  He rolled his eyes and said, “Yeah … I’m carrying on right in front of you, Shannon.”  I know you are.  “When’s the last time you talked to her”? I asked, knowing that even though I had only seen 2 emails, there were definitely texts that he had deleted. He just forgot about the trash folder in his emails, too.   “I don’t know, I don’t even remember. I don’t even know where she is.  And I don’t care.  I don’t give a single fuck about her, Shannon. Let it go already.  This is how you’ll lose me again. Stop accusing me of things that I’m not doing.  Knock it off.” I nodded my head, and murmured “Sorry,” as I looked at my feet, absolutely seething inside.  You lying bastard. You dirty lying heartless bastard.  I raised my head, smiled, and said, “Be right back.”  Rascal Flats “Broken Road” moaned loudly over the radio as I pushed the glass door open and walked outside.

I pressed the unlock button on my key fob, slid in my car, started the engine, still smiling. I shut the door, watching him through the glass, his head bent over his phone.  Pulling out of the parking lot, heart slamming, I drove down the dark, deserted road in that little town on the way to the diner.  I gripped the steering wheel with both hands, breathing deeply in and exhaling in long shaky breaths.  Unable to contain it any longer, feeling it erupt out of me like a volcano, I let out a scream that I have never heard from myself before.  I pulled over in the dark, pulled the brake and screamed out my hurt and betrayal and disbelief that he was doing it again to me … scalding tears flowing, my hands balled into shaking fists, feeling angrier and more hurt than I ever had, even when I first found out about her, about all of them.  “Thanksgiving?!” I shrieked out. “You emailed her the night before Thanksgiving that you miss her?! That you love her?! That she ‘doesn’t deserve to be hurt or deceived’?? BUT I DO? I DO? I deserve it?“  Nearly hyperventilating, I leaned back in my seat, eyes closed, chest heaving. “… you’ve done nothing but deceive me,” I whispered, tears streaking my face.  Wiping my face with my sleeve and willing myself to calm down, I remembered the drive to his brother’s house on Thanksgiving.  I clearly remember how distant and aloof he was; how totally gone he was in his head, and now I know he was thinking about her, hoping against hope that they could start over and be together again. … with me on the side until he just shrugged me off of his back, like last time, without a single thought to how it would destroy me … because he simply didn’t care. The showgirl was the one who brought him to his knees.  She was all he wanted and now I saw it.  I shook my head and started my car, and drove to the diner, thankful for the chance to collect myself.

I picked up our order and drove straight back to the job site, back under control.  I pulled into the parking lot and fixed my makeup, and blew out a long jagged breath, still shaking my head in disbelief.  I noticed his worker’s car was gone, and I was glad we were alone.  Getting out of my car, I saw he was again standing against the wall, head bent over his phone.  It sickened me.  Did your whore showgirl answer you yet?  I opened the glass door and walked inside.  The radio was off, and he had already begun cleaning up.  “Hey,” he said, putting his phone face down on the box. “My guy left, so we can eat real quick, finish cleaning up and get out of here.”  I set the food order on top of the counter he had built and said, “Change of plans.”  “Change of plans?” he asked. “Yeah,” I answered.  “I’m going home. You stay here and do your thing … check you phone another thousand times, you know, in case she answers you.”  He looked straight at me and said nothing, but I could see his wheels turning.  “Sorry I’ve been so insensitive,” I continued, “I had no idea you were feeling so sad ever since she stood you up at your shore house.”  His face changed and he connected the dots.  “That must’ve been a terrible slam to your delicate ego, huh? Your shimmering showgirl turned you down. Again. Awwe. Well, good thing you had me, your old standby worn in comfortable shoe. Right? Well, those days are over, too.” He placed his hands on his hips and shook his head. “You fucking looked at my phone. You FUCKING looked at my phone.” I shrugged. “…and,”  I continued, “you told her you ‘didn’t want her to be gone from your life’ … and you wish you could’ve made her feel … what was it … oh, yes … ‘happy and safe’. This was never  over … you two have never been out of touch … she comes and goes so you grovelled after yet again. Now I know what I must look like, grovelling after you.  So go.  Go down to Atlantic City and dredge the bay; see what other scumbag whores you can find in the filthy mud until she comes back.  And she will, because she’s a user.  She uses you, Idiot. When I saw all of her texts before, it was obvious.  She’ll be back, but I won’t.”

He raised his eyebrows, nodding his head, saying, “We’re done. I told you if you ever fucking went through my phone again, that would be it. And you did. You can’t be trusted, Shannon.  I can never fucking trust you again.”  Blinking rapidly and shaking my head, I asked, ” … are you serious?” “I’m FUCKING serious,” he answered. “You cannot be trusted, you jealous bitch. I can’t be with a woman I can’t trust.”  He never calls me names. Ever. Oh my God.  He continued, “What I said to her, what’s going on between us is none of your fucking business!” “It is my business when you’re with me.  But here you are, chasing after her yet again, following her trail of poker chips and glitter. Chasing and following her, doing all you can to get back with her.”  He nodded. “Yeah,” he said under his breath, “and why do you think that is?”  “Because you love her,” I challenged, ” … you love her.”  He chuckled and nodded his head. “Yeah, I love her. So?”  ” … what … what about me?” I asked, shrinking inside by the second.  Fully exasperated, he arched back with his hands on the sides of his head, squeezed his eyes shut and shouted, “I don’t love you! I don’t LOVE you!”  I took a deep breath and held it, shock ringing through my body, my eyes transfixed on him.   “Why do I have to be punished for how I don’t feel about you? I don’t love you! I have NEVER loved you! I don’t think I ever WILL love you,  Shannon. I don’t know why! But I don’t. Okay? … and you expect me to fall in love with you when I can’t even trust you?  This is done. We’re done.”

His words hit me with a force I was unprepared for.  I couldn’t breath.  He had expertly turned this around on me and delivered a punch that ended the round.  I was annihilated.  Suddenly out of words, out of thoughts, out of fight, I slowly backed up, blinking as hot tears spilled down my face, my mouth open, my chin shaking.  With the very last bit of dignity that I had left, I bent down to pick up my purse, sliding it on my shoulder.  I stood there for a second and I looked at him. I whispered, “You don’t love me … and she doesn’t love you.” Breathing through his nose, he said, “Just get the fuck out.”  Completely crushed, I turned around and pushed open the glass door, walking outside into the bitter cold air. I felt him behind me so I turned around. “We’re fucking done,” he said through the glass. He locked the door and walked away, disappearing around the corner.

I stood there, staring blankly into the empty, unfinished restaurant, until my eyes eventually sharpened into focus out of my dead gaze.  I had been blissfully living in the shadow of the showgirl the whole time.  I caught my reflection in the glass; it was raining and I was soaked, but I felt nothing.  I didn’t feel the rain or the sharp ice wind. I could only feel the heaviness of his rejection, the ache of his brutal honesty that he was still in love with her because she had never been gone … and my confusion at what the hell had just happened, and why he returned to me at all.  Just like that, we had gone backwards and I had fallen out of the artificial light that had bathed me for just a little while.  Just like that, he was gone again.

To be continued …