Respect Me, Part 1 by Nia Arthurs
Jerrison
My wife left me.
Reality refuses to bend to my will. The silence is cold. It leaves an oily film on my skin. A heavy cloak that descends the moment I step through the doors.
Stark reminders. Rugs. Photographs. Chandeliers and harsh silence.
The air’s changed in the house.
Time changed too.
Twenty-four hours feels like a year.
The clock continuously surprises me.
Has it only been a day?
Yes.
A glance at my watch.
A glance at my phone.
No responses to my texts.
Radio silence.
Cold as winter.
Harriet is gone.
Am I living in an alternate dimension? In what world would Harriet leave me?
I shake the melancholy. Push myself to sit up in bed.
The closet screams for her clothes. Barren arms mourn the loss. The shelves shiver from their nakedness. Something’s missing. Her bonnet. The lotion she liked. Shampoo. Conditioner. So many things. So many pieces of her.
I feel the absence of those things like I’m staring into an abyss. I reach for things that should be there but aren’t.
It’s been twenty-four hours.
I gave those hours to her. A precious gift. Space to clear her head.
She’ll be back.
I know she’ll be back.
My wife did not leave me.
She didn’t…
But there’s the sunshine creeping into the bedroom, whispering that her side of the bed is still empty. There’s my cell phone that has yet to light up with a text or call. There’s the closet revealing empty spaces and dust I never cleaned.
I tell myself I should get out of bed. Bathing is important. Work is… there’s money to be made. Signing with a top-level athlete like Fuentes made other top athletes interested in the agency.
No time to wallow. The world is spinning even though my home has fallen into a stand-still.
I check my phone again.
Notifications pop up.
Ashley.
Patrick.
Not a word from Harriet.
My fingers dig around the cell phone. I punch it into the bed.
Maybe she got kidnapped?
Evidence crumbles when I inspect it from all angles.
She walked out on her own.
If I’d doubted that for a minute, I would have run to the police. I would have plastered Harriet’s face on the television, sketches of her, photographs of her smiling in the sunlight. The world would have known her name. Rewards and human decency would have flooded the streets with volunteers holding flashlights and calling a name that means nothing to them.
I consider going to the cops. Let it sink into me for a minute.
The notion falls apart in my hands.
Harriet’s box of mementos—the one with precious keepsakes from her mother—are gone. They’re worthless to anyone but a grieving daughter. The only reason they’d disappear is if she’d moved out of the house.
She left me.
Shock ricochets through my heart. An invisible hand slams into my stomach, grabs everything inside and squeezes tight. Gutted, I push off the bed and stumble to the bathroom.
The counter is too clean.
Her toothbrush is gone.
Did she have to take her freaking toothbrush? Mine looks lonely, waiting in the cup that was made for two.
I press my palm against the sink and work to make sense of the unthinkable.
Why?
How?
She blindsided me.
My nails dig into my palm. My teeth clench tightly.
The past two weeks, she went out of her way to take care of me. Hot breakfast in the morning. Lavish dinners. Fluffy towels. Clothes ironed and spread out for me. She treated me like a king while planning to stab me in the back.
Bitter laughter pours from my lips.
I fell for it.
Idiot.
I’d even started to feel more for her. Tenderness. Gentleness. I’m not made of stone. Seeing my wife go out of her way to please me, to serve me, made my heart turn a little more in her direction.
It was all part of her plan to tear me to pieces. Leaving when we were at odds wouldn’t come as a surprise. She knew. And so she planned to make her escape at a time when it would leave the biggest hole.
She definitely got the effect she wanted.
My emotions cycle like a giant tornado. It starts with anger, churning it around and around until it lapses into concern. What if I’m totally wrong? What if she’s in danger? I take the evidence again. Pick it apart. See the missing clothes and photographs.
She’s gone.
Gut punch.
Around and around I go.
I can’t focus on anything right now. Impossible. Until I find Harriet, these thoughts will torture me to death.
It’s early.
A few hours to noon.
I call the bakery and find out she’s not there.
Fine.
There’s only one place I know she’d go.
It doesn’t take me long to get to the mechanic shop. Or maybe it does and I don’t notice. My mind keeps traveling. Cars keep honking at me, annoyance bursting from impatient drivers.
I park in front of the mechanic shop. It looks like any other auto repair business. Giant doors. Cars parked with their hoods open. The smell of engine oil and gasoline weighs heavily in the air.
“Excuse me.” I spot a back hunched over the hood of a pickup. The back straightens and reveals a man’s face. Dark skin. Dark eyes. A goatee trimmed in silver.
It’s the mechanic Harriet’s been messing with. I recognize him from the pictures my PI sent.
“Can I help you?” he asks, surveying me. I get the strangest inclination to step back. To hide from that assessing gaze. I’ve never met him before, but it already feels like he knows all my secrets.
“I’m looking for my wife. Harriet.”
His eyebrow twitches. Just a hint of surprise. He looks me over. “And you are?”
“Her husband.” My words are cold and unfriendly. “Do you know where she is?”
The mechanic folds his arms across his chest. “She really did it.”
I don’t ask what he means by that. I don’t want to know. “Have you seen her?”
“No.”
“Great. This was a waste of time.” I turn around, unable to stand being in that shop. My PI never confirmed whether Harriet had a relationship with this guy, but I don’t need that information. I already know I don’t like him.
“Sir.” His voice ricochets in the mechanic bay.
I stop, but I don’t face him. My hands clamp around my hips. My shoulders hike to my ears.
“See you again,” he says.
Words ball in my throat. It’s hard to keep them back.
Sometimes the best response is no response at all.
I drive to the bakery, still rattled from my encounter with Doc and totally unsure about why.
Traffic is brutal the closer I get to the franchise. Understandable. It’s almost lunch time. The wait gives me sufficient space to cool down and get my thoughts in order.
I walk inside the bakery a much calmer version of myself.
As soon as I step through the doors, my eyes collide with Harriet’s. She’s behind the counter, wearing an apron over a long-sleeved white blouse and fitted slacks.
My heart bucks inside my chest.
She’s here.
Harriet breaks eye contact and smiles at a customer. When she’s done, she taps Nancy on the shoulder. The two exchange words. I see Nancy bob her head and rattle a quick explanation. The assistant manager is probably confirming that she lied to me when I called earlier. Birds of a feather.
I move towards the counter, stepping past customers until I’m edged against the glass. “Don’t take it out on Nancy,” I tell Harriet, my voice low. “She told me you weren’t here.”
“I’m busy, Jerrison.” A muscle jumps in my wife’s jaw. “I’m sure you can see that.”
I resist the urge to drag her hand and tug her to the office. “We need to talk.”
“I’m working.” She stresses the words as if I lack comprehension. “If you want to speak to me, come back after closing.”
“Hey!” A customer protests. “Did this guy just cut in line?”
Harriet pastes a polite smile on her face. “No, he was just leaving.”
Stinging from the dismissal, I stomp out of the store. By the time I get to my car, I’m fuming. How dare she throw me out of the bakery we co-own? How dare she just pack up and leave without an explanation?
Ashley calls me as I’m driving away.
“What do you want?” I snap into the phone.
She goes deathly quiet.
I release a breath through my mouth. “Did you need something?”
“Some of my friends are going out tonight. I wanted you to come with me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” Her voice rises sharply.
“Because I have a life outside of you, Ashley,” I bite out.
The tension that fills the air is so thick I almost choke on it.
“You’re talking about your wife.”
It’s an accusation and a warning.
I slow down for a red light and run a hand over my face. “Harriet moved out a few days ago.”
“You’re kidding! And you’re just telling me?” Ashley squeals. “Congratulations.”
The light changes.
I press on the gas.
“Maybe it’s time we talked about…” she clears her throat, “moving in together?”
Every bone in my body stiffens at the suggestion. “I don’t think it’s time yet.”
Her huff of annoyance rings loud and clear. “You know what I’ve noticed, Jerrison? You don’t seem all that ready to leave your wife.”
“Baby…” I rub the bridge of my nose. One relationship crashing and burning is enough for me. I don’t need Ashley adding fuel to the dumpster fire of my personal life.
“Be honest. Are you just using me?” She demands.
“Of course not.”
“You said you loved me, but I’m starting to question that now. It looks like you want your wife more than me.”
“I never said that, Ash.” I curse. “Stop putting words in my mouth.”
“Then why are you hesitating? Here’s an opportunity to move on. She practically handed it to you on a silver platter and you’re dragging your foot. In fact,” she scoffs, “you seem devastated.”
“I want to be with you, Ash.” I scrub my jaw as the sky above turns grey. “I just need to clear my head.”
“You better clear your head fast, Jerrison. Because I’m not going to wait for you forever.”
“Ashley—”
The line goes dead.
