Am I mad because he’s the jerk who used me or am I mad because I’m the fool who loved him for it?
My mind reels with possible scenarios as to what is really happening. However, it’s about to take a holiday because the numbness of the shock is wearing off and pure, raw emotional energy is taking its place. Like a generator that has reached critical mass, I fume and throw things. I walk around in circles alternating between cursing Mark and berating myself for falling into this scheme.
The table, still filled with the paperwork for my rejoinder, my father’s medical bills, and old resumes I’m trying to update in case the worst should happen, serves as a reminder that the worst most definitely has happened.
“You son of a bitch!” I say again, pushing everything off in a flurry. Files and documents fly across the room. “Your brother stole my company, his lawyer stole my money and you, you, stole my love. I have nothing. Nothing!”
Silent and unmoving, the table refuses to comfort me or refute my charge. In fact, fighting with the table proves to be a completely unsatisfying experience. But I know what wouldn’t leave me empty and cold. Marching into Mark’s pristine office and throwing some of his files around. As prissy as he is about his paperwork, he’ll probably collapse and then when he’s down on the floor collecting his precious accounts and transaction ledgers, I’ll kick him right in the balls.
The plan makes every kind of sense in the world to me. I rush to get dressed, choosing a pair of black jeans, leather boots and a T-shirt. I’m in a shit kicking mood and I know just the piece of shit who has it coming. I grab my purse and begin a whirlwind tour of my apartment playing the “where did I toss my keys last night?” game.
Last night. What a difference a day makes. Last night I was a sane, settled woman who confessed my love to a man and meant it. I thanked him for bringing warmth and necessary changes into my life and envisioned our paths growing in hope and goodness. Last night I was Julia Sharp. Today, I’m Pissed Off Julia, Queen of the Damned.
“Wait,” Mark’s voice called from somewhere deep inside my psyche. “Wait and think.”
He’s right. How cruel a fate is that? Even when he has wronged me, he’s right. I am Julia Sharp, not Miss Shark. I am smart, together, and in charge of my world. I don’t run around half-cocked shouting and acting the jackass just because I’m not getting my way. All this month I’ve been on the rollercoaster of my emotions, learning self-respect and self-control, and this is the test. Not Mark’s test, my test. If I can take this betrayal and scrape some kind of good from the bottom of my broken heart, I can conquer anything.
I put down my purse and sit on the couch, collecting the pictures back into the envelope. I can’t go charging into Sandstone Ventures and make a scene. I’ve already been humiliated once in that office, and Blake has that restraining order against me. I probably shouldn’t even make a call. It would be traced, catalogued and I’d be before the judge in time for lunch.
Taking a deep breath, I try to focus as the first tears begin to fall. I think of Mark, his sense of humor, and warm gentle touch. The way he holds me after sex, nurturing and replenishing my energy. The rough and confident thrusts he makes in my body, taking me as an entitled being–raw sex and real power put together. The caring way he cooks, and teaches. I can stare at him for hours and feel nothing but peace and anticipation of the next time our bodies merge into a surging, consuming wave.
I love him.
The small flowing tears turn to big, heart wrenching, throat clogging sobs. I loved him, and the whole time I was loving him, I was loving a lie.
When I’m able to breathe, I pick up my phone and call Mark’s cell.
“Hi, this is Mark,” he says cordially. Does he answer the phone like that when it’s Valerie? I know I’m distracted. Everything I think comes right back to her.
“I need to see you, right away. Right now.”
“It’s not a good time, and I’m at my office now,” he says with an edge in his voice meant to tell me I’m putting his big plan at risk.
“Well, this is the only time there is.” It comes out a lot more mystical sounding than I wanted. I flatten my voice into a stone, like my heart. “Go home for lunch. I will meet you at noon.”
“This really isn’t a good—”
“It’s not an offer, Mark. It’s a demand and you’ll meet it.”
“What on earth has gotten into you?”
“The truth, Mark. The truth has finally worked its way into my deluded head.”
“What? What truth?”
“Meet me at your apartment at noon. And, Mark. I’m not sneaking in the back door this time, or ever again. I’m coming through the front door so you better be in the lobby when I get there.”
I hang up the phone before he responds or I lose my nerve. I don’t bother turning on my radio because the song in my head is already playing too loudly to allow anything else to be heard. That song is titled, “What a Fool I’ve Been.”
I remember when he was talking about how dangerous it was for me to be seen at his place. Mark told me Valerie lived near him. He told me that he needed me to sneak in and use another name in order to protect me, and I bought it not even realizing that it’s a perfect way to sneak your mistress past the doorman, who probably knows Valerie by name. Names matter. Like how Mark never calls her Miss James, and frequently calls her Val. He called me Miss Sharp all the time until the day he screwed me over his desk.
Then, another shot to the heart: Mark asked me the day we met with Janice to give “Val” whatever she was looking for in my office. Thank God I decided to hold on to the Wall Street story. It’s the only card I’ve got left, and he would have had me just hand it to her–his girlfriend–on a silver platter along with my business.
It’s all so clear.
Now that everything makes sense, I’m more angry than sad. So angry, in fact, I drive right past his building and have to make a U-turn and come at it from the other direction to pull into the underground parking garage. The fact that so many meaningful moments in my life happened in this building and I don’t even know how to enter it correctly is not lost on me. I arrive about ten minutes early and sit in the car looking at the envelope full of the pictures in the front seat and trying to think of what my approach to this is going to be. I can’t just run around his apartment throwing things and sobbing. I’m leaving him, but I’m taking my dignity out the door with me.