“You’re right.” I wrap my hand around my ponytail. “It feels weird being here without Aunt Sara or any friends. And now I’ve got an unwelcome neighbor.”
“I don’t know, Linds. Unwelcome?” I could practically hear her brows wiggling through the phone. “A sexy neighbor may be the perfect diversion.”
I suck in my breath. “Jill, I’m not looking for a new man. I should be marrying Rob in a few days. Just because I’m hurt doesn’t mean all that love disappears overnight. And I haven’t totally given up on the relationship, either. Contrary to everyone’s opinion, I didn’t run away. I came here to think.”
“Sorry,” she says. “Have you spoken with him yet?”
“No. I’m still too angry.” I don’t admit to the hours spent sifting through the little details of our relationship to unearth clues to his deception only to come up empty-handed. “Like I said yesterday, he only confessed when forced. It’s like he has no integrity. I can’t pretend that fact isn’t significant. If I take him back, won’t he just feel free to do it again?”
“I doubt forgiveness would be viewed as a free pass to cheat again.” She pauses. “By the way, did you get your test results yet?”
“I’m supposed to hear back today.”
“I’m sure you’re fine. Try to relax. Hey, I’ve got to run to a meeting. Talk later?”
“Sure.” I sigh. “Maybe you can come visit?”
“Sounds fun. Bye!” The line goes dead.
Jill’s being at work reminds me it’s Monday. Unlike her, I don’t have to rush to the office. Quitting the magazine is a welcome change even if it is a horrendous career move.
When I first took the writing job, I’d hoped to empower women by getting them to focus on inner beauty. It sounds ridiculous now, since the managing editor and publisher ultimately dictated content. And who was I kidding? No matter how often we claim outer beauty isn’t important, we still want to be at least as attractive as the next woman.
But despite its flaws, my job gave me an identity. I’d put on a great outfit, go to my office, work with a team, and feel a rush of pride each month when an issue appeared on the stands. A pleasant routine but not an intrinsically rewarding one. Much as Rob’s preoccupation with mergers and acquisitions annoys me, I envy his passionate commitment. He really loves his work. I want that fire for myself.
Of course, that requires having a better sense of my own interests. I suppose that’s part of the reason I’m sitting here in Malibu, too. I’ve come here to find myself. How trite.
Seagulls’ cries capture my attention. What a difference from the ambulances, horns, and truck engines I’m used to hearing outside my window. I walk to the open door and smile when greeted by an ocean breeze. Determined to begin my internal exploration, I take a quick trip to a local drugstore for some beach essentials.
An hour later, I return home with a new folding chair, sunscreen, and a stack of magazines. Outfitted in a bright pink-and-orange tie-dyed bikini, I fill my eco-friendly bottle with ice water, grab my towel and magazines, and brave the beach—white skin and all.
In anticipation of the rising tide, I set up in the sand near my steps. I inhale the salty sea air and grin. The sun’s warm rays enhance the decadence of sitting surfside on a Monday. Donning my sunglasses and hat, I insert my earbuds, crank up my iPod, and settle in to see what subjects other magazines are publishing today.
While reading a depressing article about another insider trading scandal, I notice him, in my peripheral vision, descending his steps. As he pads toward the surf, I study his well-defined, V-shaped physique, all of it accentuated by his shorty wetsuit. Carrying a surfboard under his arm, he jogs directly to the water, drops a water bottle in the sand, and then tosses his board in the ocean. Once he paddles beyond the waves, I return my focus to Forbes.
From behind the veil of my glasses and hat brim, I steal glimpses of him surfing and swimming, and then chide myself. Yet I can’t refrain for long, just like when I first saw him in Florida. Good grief. Obviously, I should switch to a more captivating magazine.
Psychology Today looks promising, with marriage-centered themes promoted on its cover. Maybe an article or two will help me sort out my situation with Rob. Closing my eyes, I picture him canceling all of our plans. Did it sadden him? Is his remorse genuine?
Forty-five minutes later, I’m seriously rethinking my choices. These dreadful articles force me to question my own behavior and responses, rather than simply blaming Rob. He cheated, not me. Don’t I deserve the freedom to cast him in the “black hat” role? Must I consider what kind of partner I’ve been, and whether my actions or neglect contributed to his straying?