In the Cards(12)
When I arrive at my Upper East Side building, the doorman nods and tips his head to greet me in the lobby. Waving hello, I go directly to the elevator. I burst into our apartment and call out Rob’s name but hear no reply. I reach our bedroom to find Rob’s suitcase packed and ready to go, on the floor beside the bed. My own, sadly, lies open, partially packed, and surrounded by outfits and accessories yet to be selected.
Crossing my arms in front of my chest, I mentally pick through the items strewn across the bed. Why am I making such a production of packing? Typically I’m not that particular about my attire, nor do I struggle with basic decisions. I pray the overwhelming details involved in planning my wedding are the basis of this recent mental paralysis. If so, I’ll return to normal soon. If not . . . well, I really can’t consider that option.
I stand at the edge of the mattress, lost in thought, until his voice breaks the silence.
“Lindsey?”
“In here!”
Rob finds me still standing, perplexed, at the foot of our bed. Approaching me from behind, he encircles me with his arms before planting a kiss on my temple. “How’s the dress?”
“What dress?” I scan the bed searching for a dress absentmindedly.
“The wedding gown?” He chuckles and cuddles me again. I spin toward him with a smile.
“Really beautiful. I hope you love it!”
Wrapping my arms over his shoulders, I properly kiss him hello and thread my fingers through the back of his hair. Rob eases himself away before slowly removing his suit coat and hanging it over the back of a chair. He sighs and I notice the strain in his deep-blue eyes.
“What’s up, honey?”
“I need to tell you something.” He rakes his hands through his wavy, black locks before bringing them together over his face and drawing in a deep breath. “Why don’t you sit?”
Robert Whitmore III typically oozes confidence, charisma, and authority. Born and bred to be in charge by his father, one of the top M&A lawyers in New York, he takes to his role well. Now, however, he’s pacing the room while averting his eyes.
My internal alarm clangs violently as questions ricochet in my mind: a work crisis, a problem with the wedding plans, illness? I’m still seated at the edge of the bed when he finally looks at me.
“What, Rob? Spit it out.” My hands fist in my lap. “Are you canceling our trip?”
“I wish it were that simple.”
A pit opens in my stomach.
“That sounds ominous.” I wait, my lungs stilled, while he fumbles for words. “Please, Rob, the suspense is terrible. Just tell me what’s wrong.”
“You know how much I love you. I really do love you, Lindsey. But,” he starts, “I have a confession. . . .” He looks at me, his expression resigned. “I was with someone else a few weeks ago.”
A low hum resonates in my ears as if I’ve experienced an abrupt change in altitude.
“What?” I blink, unable to process his remarks. Did I hear him correctly?
“When you went to Boston with your friends the other weekend, I went out with friends from work and ended up sleeping with a girl who was at the club. It was stupid, I was drunk—all the clichés—but it didn’t mean anything, Linds.”
He kneels before me, clutching my hands. When he looks up, his eyes and forehead wrinkle with regret. I stiffen, too astonished to think, let alone speak. Eventually, I find my voice.
“I went to Boston a month ago. Why are you telling me only now?”
He cringes at my accusatory tone, but I’m working on pure instinct. While awaiting his reply, I repress the nausea swelling and boiling inside.
“I promise it was only the one time,” he starts, “but she called me this morning at the office with upsetting news. I need to, uh,” he mumbles, before breaking off and rubbing his hand over his face again. “You need to be checked out by a doctor for chlamydia. Apparently you can have it a long time without any symptoms.”
He stands up and bends over at the waist. Grasping his knees, he lets out a small whoosh of breath, obviously relieved by his admission. Accustomed to fixing problems once they’re exposed, I know Rob believes telling me the unpleasant news is the worst part.
Fury replaces the sickness in my stomach. I jump to my feet, shrieking, “You had sex with some slut and now I might be infected with an STD? Are you?”
“I don’t know yet. But either way, you need to be tested, Lindsey. It’s easy to cure with antibiotics, but if left untreated, it can cause irreversible damage. I couldn’t take a chance with your health just to conceal my indiscretion.”
I lunge at him and pound my fists against his chest. He grabs my wrists after allowing two or three punches to land. I break into sobs, withdrawing from his touch as if he’s burned my skin.