Tears fall freely from my face as I arrange the documents in front of me. Months of credit card transactions, text messages and emails line the coffee table in neat little piles in their smug little way. My stomach twists with the realization of my husband's infidelity, but I can't bring myself to confront him. Two days of heartbreak have left me drained and empty. Of course, he had been home last night, but he had noticed nothing . . . no tears dried on my face, no hollow expression . . . nothing.
Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised. He had stopped being intimate over three months ago, although I had documents that proved his affair had begun long before then. Her name was Portia Gonzales, and she worked with him in the firm. Classy, Greg. Classy.
Of course, I should be angry. However, I can't feel anything past this numbness that has settled. It's like a disease, plaguing my every waking moment with thoughts of them kissing . . . fucking. That thought causes more tears, and I fall back into the couch in despair and self-pity.
At that precise, painful moment, my cell phone decides to ring. I glance at the screen and am surprised to see that Gabe's name has come up. What could Greg's father possibly need?
Trying to keep the tears from my voice, I bring the phone to my ear and answer it.
"Hello?" I ask politely. My voice cracks all over the place.
"Delylah? What's wrong?" Gabe asks, and his genuinity kills me. That's him though, always caring for anybody else before himself.
"Nothing, Gabe." I let out a laugh, but it's as fake as the smile my husband gives me. I hear him let out a soft sigh on the other end of the line.
"What has he done?" he asks, his voice becoming dark and dangerous. It causes a flicker of a smile to cross my face at his display of protection towards me. Through my 5 year marriage to his son, I had become extremely close with Gabe. He was kind and gentle, a complete opposite from his son who is arrogant and a dickhole.
"It's really nothing. I don't . . ." my words fade off as I try to keep myself from breaking into a million, tender pieces. My sobs become uncontrollable, and I feel myself shattering.
"I'll be there soon, Del." He promises gently, and he's off the phone.
How can someone so kind father someone who is so cruel? The thought puzzles me, and I recall the first time I had met Gabe. Unlike his son, Gabe was reserved and tender. He enjoyed tinkering with cars in his spare time but was a handyman by trade. His extensive knowledge of pipes, wood and wires fascinated me, and his painstaking patience was something I envied.
Of course, the man was extremely handsome as well. High cheekbones that melted perfectly with his proportionate nose. His neat, graying beard was short and professional. Glasses framed intelligent blue eyes that were always twinkling. Easily, he stood a foot over myself. And the kindness, the tenderness . . . his concern for others was overwhelming.
Feeling sick with myself, I push thoughts of Gabe from my mind. He's Greg's father before anything else. The idea that the man was causing me warm, tender feelings was unacceptable. Sniffing, I look away from the documents and turn my gaze to the blank television.
At that moment, I hear a knock at the door, who can only be Gabe. I stand and make the short voyage, taking my time before twisting the handle and pulling it aside. And there he is, casual jeans, a well-fitting tee and a hat that caused his graying hair to curl outwards. In spite of the turmoil I felt inside, the sight of him causes my face to split into a genuine smile.
