Sullivan and the Lies He Heard

Cold crept into Sullivan's muscles. His gut knotted.

But...no. He was jumping to conclusions. Doe would never cheat on him. That wasn't her style. He knew her inside-out, upside-down and backwards. If she didn't want him anymore, she'd say so to his face. No fear, no bullshit, no sneaking around.

She was obviously planning a meeting with someone and didn't want him knowing about it, but there must be an innocent reason. She must be planning this surprise for him, not against him. Hell, maybe...maybe she was even planning their formal wedding. Maybe this person she was speaking with, was a wedding planner. That could be it. She could be planning their wedding as a pleasant surprise to see the look on his face.

But this optimistic idea was dismissed by her next words.

"Okay. It's a date. I'll be at your place on Tuesday for my further corruption."

His gut knotted tighter. For her further corruption? That wasn't something one would say to a wedding planner. It was something one would only say to a lover.

But still. Not her. Not his Doe. She wouldn't... She'd never...

She laughed into the phone again. "I've got to get back to work. Take care of that elbow; it got a nasty bump while we were in your bed that afternoon."

Well, okay then. There was no second-guessing this one.

The cold seeped all the way into Sullivan. With it came an agitated whisper through his brain.

So this is it. This is why she's been so distant. She has a lover. You should have known. Why didn't you realize she too would reject you someday? Everyone else did. Your own mother did.

There was some truth to this, but he still couldn't fully blame himself for not foreseeing a betrayal from Doe. He'd mulled over the possible reasons they were growing apart, but an affair hadn't entered his suspicions.

Without having heard the words come from her own lips, he wouldn't have believed it of her. The woman he'd loved since High School. Who'd stuck by him through poverty and hunger and the threat of homelessness.

"Good," she said after another brief pause. "See you soon... Okay... You know I'm looking forward to it... I love you too."

Sullivan's heart cracked now. This wasn't just sex. She was in love with the guy.

"Bye." The smile lingering on her face, Doe hung up.

Slipping the phone in her pocket, she walked across the woodshop to her central workbench. It had a table saw at one side. Cut pieces of rosewood were arranged in several piles. Beside the piles was an orbital sander, a carving knife, chisel, mallet and impact driver. Still without noticing him, she picked up a piece of cut lumber and stabilized it on the bench. A dust mask was around her neck. She tugged it up to cover her nose, took the orbital sander, turned it on and continued her work.

Sullivan's hand was still on the door handle. He gripped it, the brass digging into his fingers.

His wife had a lover.

She must have for a while. It sounded like their meetings had been going on for some time now. She had a 'rotten to the core' lover who was 'corrupting' her and who would be there when she revealed the truth to him, the chump husband. They planned to enjoy his pain as they rubbed their affair in his face.

If she, who'd been his life partner for so many years, could delight in hurting him, she indeed was corrupted now. There was nothing left of his Doe inside this creature he was looking at. Her lover had sucked all the integrity out of her. Her lover had--Fuck, who was her lover?

It's that asshole who glared at you at the pier. That guy who looked like he wanted to murder you.

That wasn't impossible. It would explain a stranger lurking around the launch at this time of year. It would explain the animosity directed at him.

This idea brought the first surge of anger.

That some bastard could steal his wife's body and heart, yet still throw animosity his way and plan to have a front-row seat to his humiliation at the reveal. Why? What had he done to deserve not just her rejection, but her ridicule too? Their lives had never been smooth sailing, but they'd pledged it to each other. He'd given everything to her. And for what? For her to laugh while engineering his pain?

How dare she?

His hand tightened on the metal. How fucking dare she?

The anger took control. It moved him. Releasing the door handle, Sullivan took a step inside the woodshop.

It was only one step before his logical brain got in gear and ordered him to stop. Should he go for her with no thought of what his words or actions would be? Shouldn't he think this through first? Shouldn't he plan a little? Decide beforehand what his response should be? She didn't know he knew. This was an advantage. He had the upper hand right now. He shouldn't lose it.

Besides, you're empty-handed and she's surrounded by power tools she knows how to use. Don't forget who she is. Remember how she stabbed a guy twenty-three times when she was only 14? That viciousness is still inside her, no matter how sweet you try to convince yourself she is. Look in her eyes and you'll see her true nature. Don't go for her now, with those blades beside her. She enjoys the thought of your emotional pain, so you can bet she'd enjoy tearing your flesh to shreds.

Sullivan considered this. Even now, he couldn't quite bring himself to believe it.

He and Doe had never put hands on each other in anger. Sure, they were physical people. They had that trait in common. They'd used to horse around a lot. Chase each other. Tackle each other. Even now, they were more likely to lob items to each other instead of handing them over. They shoved each other out of the way instead of asking, "Hey, could you move?" That was just how they were, but it was never with the intention to harm. She wouldn't go for him with a tool...right?

His abrupt start and stop gave away his presence, because Doe looked up from her work.

Their eyes met.

She turned off the orbital sander and tugged her dust mask down from her face. "Sullivan. Hey."

Sullivan stepped in from behind the doorway. "Hey." He used the most everyday tone he could manage. He wouldn't let on that he knew. Not until he discovered more and decided how to handle her.

Her black brows drew together. She set the sander down. "What's up? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"No, I'm good. Just wanted to let you know I'm back from my walk and ask when you're coming in for bedtime."

"I'll come in when I come in."

Sullivan nodded. He could give it to her that she wasn't being difficult, just blunt. The truth was that she didn't keep to a schedule while she was in here. She went with the flow, working until she lost the will. Or got tired. Or needed to wait for one step to complete before she could move on to the next.

"I've already built the side panels," she continued. "I'll do some carving and start on the frame after I've sanded. I'll get the skeleton standing before I come in."

"Sounds like you'll be here awhile."

"We'll see."

"Okay. I just thought you might head in earlier tonight."

Doe leaned her hip on the edge of the workbench. A smile came now. Her lips curled up at the corners. "Any reason you thought that?"

Oh, so she was 'in the mood'. Why? Because she was all fired up from her phone call with her lover? She couldn't wait until their Tuesday rendezvous to get some?

Sullivan nearly snarled at her. He caught himself in the nick of time. "Because I will," he replied. "I'm tired tonight. Think I might get a decent night's sleep if I turn in extra early."

She looked surprised at this. He couldn't be sure if it was from his having turned down sex, or from hearing that he, the eternal insomniac, was anticipating sleeping well.

"Okay." She gave him another perusal, searching his face. "Sure you're good?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" His tone got a tad nasty here. He couldn't help himself.

Her eyes cooled. "Why wouldn't you indeed," she replied. She tugged her dust mask back over her nose, picked up her orbital sander again, and turned it on. The tool whirred to life. She looked away from him, resuming her work.

A dismissal.

Sullivan didn't mind it. Anything to avoid touching her tonight. He swung away. The noise of the sander fading behind him, he crossed back to the house.

To think he'd come out here to get to the core of their problem and repair the distance. He hadn't realized there was a worse problem. One that threw a grenade into everything he thought he knew about her.

He stepped into the kitchen, shoved the door shut behind him and leaned back against it. His throat tightened. His eyes stung. He squeezed them closed, pressing shaking hands to his face and trying to keep his breaths measured.

She loved the guy. That was the real kick in the gut. It would be bad enough if she was only screwing around for kicks, but she loved the guy. What was he supposed to do about that?

An answer came.

Put the bitch down, that's what. Go back to that woodshop, wrap both hands around her throat and don't stop fucking squeezing until she's cold.

Sullivan pressed his hands deeper to his moist eyes. No. Not that. Never that. He hadn't killed anyone yet, and wouldn't debut with her.

Gutless fucking punk-ass wuss.

Was he? Possibly. But he wouldn't take her life, if for no other reason than for the connection they'd once shared. He couldn't destroy who he'd once loved. Still loved. Would always love.

What he would do was observe. He would find out her lover's identity and location, learn their intentions, protect himself against whatever they were planning, then he'd walk away. But not before beating her lover half-dead. With bare hands, he'd turn that son of a bitch into mangled pulp even she wouldn't recognize.

Sullivan stood like that for several minutes, his hands pressed to his eyes.

On the Tuesday after next--the day she'd scheduled a meet-up with her lover--he'd skip work to watch her. Today was Sunday the 10th, so that Tuesday was the 19th. This was enough time for him to talk to his boss and shift his appointments around to free up that day. He would make a show of leaving for work as usual but he'd wait around inconspicuously, follow her when she left the house, see where she went, and get a good look at the man who was more important to her than all they'd been to each other.

Sullivan dropped his hands and opened his eyes.

There wasn't much he could do to ease the constriction in his throat, but he blinked to clear the mistiness in his eyes. The measured breaths helped him get back some control.

His eyes went to the clock. 8:45pm.

He did his best to be in his bed by 9:30 every night, with the blackout blinds down and the white-noise machine on. Straightening from the door, he crossed to the table. As he did, he noticed a spider. The small arachnid, black with a red stripe, crawled out from under the table and scuttled underneath the sink cupboard.

Sullivan had never been fond of spiders. He tended to squash them on sight, but right now he simply didn't give enough shits to deal with it. He just let it be there.

Opening the cupboard, he got down a canister. In it was a mixture of dried lavender and valerian. Every night, he drank a handful of it steeped in hot water with a teaspoon of honey. He couldn't quantify how much it aided his sleep, but it wasn't hurting and it tasted pretty good, so he'd keep guzzling it.

There was also a coffee canister, which he ignored by habit. He quit coffee long ago. A shame since he enjoyed the taste, but that was how it had to be. He got a milder morning caffeine shot from cold-brew black tea.

Working mechanically, he prepared the sleep-tea. He drank it leaning against the countertop, not really tasting its mild sweetness.

On a good night, he could get 5 hours of sleep in one shot, but his usual was about 4 hours broken in two pieces. On his worst nights, he didn't get a wink.

With the state of mind he was now in, tonight was going to be a bad night.

Sullivan looked out the window at the light from her woodshop. His eyes stung again. His vision clouded.

He blinked, but the cloudiness was back within seconds. His throat got too tight for him to carry on swallowing, so he dumped the rest of the sleep-tea down the sink drain.

After he was done pummeling her lover into gelatinous pulp, he would ask Doe one simple question. How? How could she, of all people, choose to hurt him?

Turning his back on the light from the woodshop, he left the kitchen and headed upstairs. There, he did his nightly routine; taking a hot shower while listening to a recording of Fauré's 'Cantique de Jean Racine' on repeat, followed by setting his bedroom temperature to 61 degrees. Then he turned off Fauré, turned on his white-noise machine, pulled down the blackout blinds and got in bed.

Of course, he didn't sleep. He lay with eyes wide open, staring into the darkness as pain and anger abraded him.

At some point--he didn't know precisely when because he never kept a clock in his bedroom--his door opened. It was nearly soundless and wouldn't have woken him up if he'd been asleep. But being awake, he noticed.

He turned his head, just making out Doe's tall figure in the doorway. She was looking in on him, as she did whenever she came in late from her woodshop. Funny how she could be in love with another man, yet continue the performance of caring about his wellbeing.

"I'm awake," he quietly said.

She sighed. "Too bad."

Sullivan waited a second. "Done for today?"

"Yeah. I'll turn in." She came in from the doorway. Stopping at his bed, she leaned over him. Her lips found his in a brief kiss. "Night."

He let her kiss him. All part of not letting her suspect anything until he got all his ducks in a row. "Night."

Doe straightened and left his bedroom. Sullivan listened to her steps as she crossed the hall and her bedroom door closed. He returned to staring into the induced blackness. Staring, staring, staring.

He got out of bed when he couldn't stand it anymore.

Switching out his boxers for pajama bottoms, he headed downstairs. The kitchen clock told him it was 4:30am.

He went to the fridge, got out his carafe of cold-brew black tea, poured himself a mug and threw in ice cubes. With it, he went out to the back porch. The sky had no hint of morning light, but the cool air was welcome on his skin. He sipped the cold-brew with a pleasant shudder. Nothing like an iced drink while it was already chilly out.

Sullivan stayed out there, making the drink last as he awaited sunrise. A black spider with a red stripe, similar to the one he hadn't killed in the kitchen yesterday evening, scuttled across the porch deck and between the boards. He still let it be.

At 6:30, with the sun rising, he went inside to start on breakfast. He got out a pack of store-bought croissants. Laying out turkey breast, cheese, avocados and vegetables, he was soon busy preparing fancy sandwiches.

Doe came down a little before 7:00. She was rumpled from what had obviously been a great night's sleep. Her hair was mussed. A gingham robe was draped loosely around her naked body, its sleeves slipping down those pale rose shoulders, its neck revealing the round swell of cleavage.

Tempting, even now. Despite her betrayal, he'd find it all too easy to throw her down on the nearest surface, pull her robe aside and shove his cock inside her.

His hand tightened on the frying pan handle. He looked away, using the pretext of turning over the turkey strips in the pan. "Hey."

"Hey. How many winks?"

"None."

"We'll make sure that doesn't happen two nights in a row. I'll give you a massage when you get home tonight. And you'll get some. That should help." She got her coffee canister down.

Sullivan took the turkey strips out of the oil, laying them on paper towels. "Medicinal sex?"

She smiled. "Problem?"

He made himself return the smile. "No. But I wouldn't have turned down sex for attraction's sake either."

This made her stop and look at him. There was silence for a beat. Then she looked away, opening the canister and scooping ground coffee into the machine. "Any off-site appointments this morning?"

"Yeah." Sullivan sliced the croissants in halves. "But not until 10:30."

"Where's the site?"

"Saugerties."

"Any others?"

"Kingston, then Cortlandt at 4 o'clock."

She looked around at him. "Cortlandt."

"It's not ideal, I know." He loaded the croissant halves into the toaster. "But that's how the schedule shook out. I should still get home around 7:00."

"I'll get us takeout then."

"Okay."

His home-cooked dinners were their usual fare, but there were times, like today, when cooking wasn't convenient because of his appointment hours. His timetable varied day to day.

He'd been a Fire Risk Assessor for over a decade now, employed by a company based in Albany. James's Fire Assessment Group, serving both residential and commercial buildings across the Hudson Valley. His work commute involved crossing the river in their bowrider, getting in his car he kept at a parking garage on Green Island, and driving 8 miles to Albany. There, he clocked in at the office, reviewed whatever he needed to, then set out on his day's off-site appointments.

The croissant halves popped out of the toaster. He spread each with hot honey and assembled the sandwiches. Doe poured herself coffee.

They didn't talk much over breakfast; just a few mundane comments. He'd normally try to start a conversation, but he didn't trust himself with that now. It was difficult enough saying the bare minimum without getting nasty.

When they were done eating, they did the see-you-later routine there in the kitchen. They always did it before he went upstairs to get ready for work because by the time he came down again, she'd already be out in her woodshop.

He came down by 8:15, in a sweater and jeans. He'd always pictured himself in the kind of job where he wore jeans to work, and he'd found that job. He hadn't worn a tie more than thrice in his lifetime, and he liked it that way.

Doe was already out in her woodshop, so he left the house without an additional goodbye.

He walked to the launch, where he got in his bowrider. The pier was busy on this Monday morning, with several other residents heading out to the mainland. Familiar faces, all. Sullivan exchanged greetings with a few, nodded at a few more, then was cutting across the water to Green Island.

Five minutes later saw him getting in his car. In another 15, he eased into his usual parking spot at James's Fire Assessment Group.

The receptionist looked up as he entered the building. "Morning, Sullivan."

"Morning, Rory." He was in no mood for chit-chat with anyone, so he didn't pause as he passed her desk. He went down the corridor to the boss's office. The boss was also the owner, with his nameplate on the door.

Sullivan gave a cursory rap and went in.

Oliver James was well north of middle age, his hair sporting permanent grooves from how much he'd tugged his fingers through it over the years. He looked up. "Sullivan. Good morning. Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, but I need a minute."

"Of course. Sit down."

"No need. I'll make it brisk. Something personal's come up and I'm going to need my off-site appointments cleared on the 19th. You can have Fran rebook them for any other day, but I need that one."

Oliver James eyed him. "If you really need that, then of course it can be arranged. But has something gone wrong? You know you can be open. You've worked here long enough that I'd like to think we're friends."

"I'm fine. I just need that day cleared for reasons."

His boss nodded. "Okay. I'll tell Fran. She'll rebook and let you know the new dates and times."

"Great. My last appointment today is in Cortlandt, so I'll head straight home from there. If there's anything you need to know, I'll see you about it tomorrow morning."