Kiss Me in the Dark Anthology - Monica James Page 0,39

few days, I can take off the plastic smile and relax.

My husband is always trying to get me to do that. Maybe Jenn is right—that he and I need to talk, but not talking is easier. Not facing the demise of our marriage and instead finding comfort in the predictability is easier. Sometimes when life seems too much, we all need easier.

Besides, you’d think he’d understand the pressure it takes to be me, but he never has. Even this morning while we were running, he kept trying to talk. He knew I had the earbuds in my ears. I didn’t have the time or the energy to listen to him then. We should probably make some time to talk about each other’s desires and concerns. What Jenn said is the same as what our marriage counselor has said. However, that one hour once a week is all I can devote to it. If we can’t say it there, then it gets pushed away. She encourages us to be honest with one another.

That’s difficult when I’m not sure I’m being honest with myself.

I want more.

I want less.

I want to have control in my life.

I want to give it all up.

I don’t know what I want.

How can I tell my husband?

Why doesn’t he know?

I never intended to be dishonest with him. What I’m starting to understand, after nearly five years of marriage, is that honesty isn’t only about telling the truth but also about not withholding the truth. I’m confused, and instead of telling him, I’m letting it eat me from the inside.

“Ms. Ellis,” Jackie says, “I just got the call—Tamara is ill.”

Shit!

My weekend reprieve and any time for my husband and me to talk will need to wait. The reality is that I probably would have avoided it anyway. This just gives me an excuse.

My shoulders straighten. I don’t want to stay and do the eleven o’clock news. I want to go home—not to talk but to wash off the makeup and curl up with my Kindle. However, I know that isn’t the answer that will advance my career, that will get me out of Milwaukee and into a bigger market. Instead of saying what I want to say, I feign concern. “She is?” And then, I broaden my plastic smile. “I’m sorry to hear that. Does Lonnie need me to stay?”

“Yes. He does. We all do. You’ll be helping us all out, Ms. Ellis.”

“Not a problem,” I say as I notice the cameraman from earlier. His scowl has morphed into something deeper, something closer to anger. I move my gaze away.

Lighten up, Mr. Cross. It isn’t like you have to stay just because I am. The eleven o’clock set has its own crew. Your night is free. I’m the one tied up.

Dead on my feet and ready to collapse.

That’s how I feel as the stage crew untangles me from my wires for the second time today. My feet ache from my shoes though I have only sat while wearing them. Thank God there were no cooking segments at eleven at night. My legs cramp from the way they are perched on the bar beneath my chair, crossed daintily at the ankle.

“Erika,” the eleven o’clock co-anchor, Shawn, calls as he is also freed from his microphone and other apparatus. “Thanks for filling in. It’s always great to spend time with you. How about I buy you a drink—in gratitude?”

I shake my head. “Thanks, Shawn. I’m beat. I need to get home.”

He cocks his head to the side. “Come on, there’s a group of us. We always go out Friday night to the little bar down the street. It’s tradition. We all need to unwind.”

I roll my neck to relieve a few kinks. “Rain check?”

“Well, at least let me or one of the stagehands walk you to your car. The garage is no place for a lady to be alone at this time of night.”

“I’m good. I parked close by.” I look down at my shoes as I contemplate going back to my dressing room to change. “Of course, I need to do a quick change of these shoes or I won’t make it even three feet, much less to the garage. Then I’ll be out of here. I hope Tamara is feeling better by Monday.”

I really do.

In no time at all, I have my shoes stowed away with various other pairs that stay at the news studio and have my Chuck Taylors laced up. I run my hand over the jeans