He was an expert at self-sabotage, never truly believing he was worthy of happiness.
As I returned my attention to work, the Google search on my monitor reminded me of my interest in Dr.
Terry Lucas.
A few articles about him had been posted on the Web, complete with pictures that cemented the verification.
Pediatrician.
Forty-five years of age.
Married for twenty years.
Nervously, I searched for "Dr.
Terrence Lucas and wife," inwardly cringing at the thought of seeing a golden-skinned, long-haired brunette.
I exhaled my relief when I saw that Mrs.
Lucas was a pale-skinned woman with short, bright red hair.
But that left me with more questions.
I'd figured it would be a woman who'd caused the trouble between the two men.
The fact was, Gideon and I really didn't know that much about each other.
We knew the ugly stuff - at least he knew mine; I'd mostly guessed his from some pretty obvious clues.
We knew some of the basic cohabitation stuff about each other after spending so many nights sleeping over at our respective apartments.
He'd met half of my family and I'd met all of his.
But we hadn't been together long enough to touch on a whole lot of the periphery stuff.
And frankly, I think we weren't as forthcoming or inquisitive as we could've been, as if we were afraid to pile any more crap onto an already struggling relationship.
We were together because we were addicted to each other.
I was never as intoxicated as I was when we were happy together, and I knew it was the same for him.
We were putting ourselves through the wringer for those moments of perfection between us, but they were so tenuous that only our stubbornness, determination, and love kept us fighting for them.
Enough with making yourself crazy.
I checked my e-mail, and found my daily Google alert on "Gideon Cross."
The day's digest of links led mostly to photos of Gideon, in black tie sans tie, and me at the charity dinner at the Waldorf Astoria the night before.
"God."
I couldn't help but be reminded of my mother when looking at the pictures of me in a champagne Vera Wang cocktail dress.
Not just because of how closely my looks mirrored my mom's - aside from my hair being long and straight - but also because of the mega-mogul whose arm I graced.
Monica Tramell Barker Mitchell Stanton was very, very good at being a trophy wife.
She knew precisely what was expected of her and delivered without fail.