up.
I climb from my car and glance up at the monstrous house. It’s Abby’s dream home, and this is Abby’s dream life. Stay-at-home mom, husband who adores her, successful-ish healthy cooking blog. She’d never say it, but I’m the smudgy fingerprint on her recently Windex’d mirror of life. Little sister who lives with her, who can never seem to really get her shit together? I’m a square peg that doesn’t fit in her round holes. Which, now that I’m thinking about it, sounds pornographic.
Abby decorated the house herself, but it looks like a professional designer came in and had their way with the place. The vibe is casual but elegant, filled with deceptively expensive furniture and artwork that is just quirky enough to escape being labeled pretentious.
When I get to my room, I pull my suitcase from the top of my closet and toss it on my bed, where it falls open. Peeling off the black slacks I’m wearing, I fold them and place them inside for tomorrow’s meeting. I throw in pajamas, a blouse, underwear, and an extra set of clothes for an in case situation. Once I’ve gathered my toiletries, I pull on a pair of jeans and trade my work blouse in for something better for travel. I pull on my boots because I can’t stand wearing jeans with anything but heels or boots, and I’m currently out of heels. Speaking of…
I leave the room and walk up one flight of stairs, past six doors, and into my sister’s room. Her closet is massive, and even though I’m in there for black heels, I grab a really cute sundress too. She won’t miss it. She has a hundred others.
I deposit the heels and dress into my suitcase and zip it up. I turn around, casting one last glance around the room, and spot two pieces of mail on my dresser. I grab them and stuff them in my purse without a second glance. I know what they are. Late notices don’t vary in size or shape. I would know, because I’m painfully familiar with them. I dream of a day when every month isn’t a juggling act, when I can buy a friend lunch and not experience the sheer terror of thinking the server is going to tell me my credit card was declined.
It’s what I get for being involved with a married man. Does not knowing Barrett was married make me any less culpable?
Speaking of… I peek at the date on my phone, to be sure. I always call on the twenty-seventh. I pull up the number in my contacts and hit the button.
“Colorado Springs Women’s Shelter. Debra speaking.”
“Debra, hi. It’s Dakota Wright.”
“Hey, hon. I’ve been on the lookout for your call today.”
“You know me too well.”
“What’ll it be, Dakota? Same as usual?”
“Yes, please. Same card.”
Debra’s quiet for a little bit, then announces, “All good, dear. It went through. I know I say it to you every month, but I mean it. We appreciate your donation and how far it goes toward helping these women.”
“Happy to do it,” I tell her. We say goodbye and I hang up. We’ll have the same conversation one month from today.
I’ve heard helping people makes everyone feel good, both the giver and the receiver. And that first month I donated, it did. I felt lighter when I placed the call. I’d been racked with guilt when I found out my boyfriend was another woman’s husband. The fact that I’d ended the relationship immediately didn’t lessen the heavy burden, and then the guilt doubled when she found out about me, and tried to end her life. Standing on my welcome mat with a box of his things in his arms, Barrett admitted he’d found her lying beside a bottle of pills. He cried as he spoke. I volleyed between suffocating guilt and blinding rage.
I wanted to atone somehow for the role I played in what happened, no matter how blind I was. Sometimes though, mostly late at night when I’m kept awake by the sounds of my sister and Armando’s lovemaking in the bedroom above me, I mull over my relationship with Barrett. No lipstick on the collar, perfume on his skin, or tan line on his ring finger, but there must have been something I missed. He couldn't have been that skilled of a liar. A part of me wonders if I didn't let myself see it, didn't want to lose the comfort Barrett brought to me. I’d met him