The Replacement (34 page)

Sorry Secrets, Issue 53, December 2013

A Letter to My Lovers and their Lovers

If you’re reading this, you know who you are. You know who I am. I’ll cut straight to the chase.

I’m Elise Duchamp, and this is my confession.

To all of the men I’ve slept with—if you were taken, I’m sorry. I didn’t give a shit about you or your wives, girlfriends, whatever. You didn’t either, but that’s okay. That’s your dirt, not mine. I’m responsible for my dirt and my dirt alone.

To all of the women I’ve hurt—if I’ve slept with your man, I’m sorry. I know that sounds weak and shallow, but it’s all I can say. Nothing else I could say would convince you of my sincerity, would it?

Yeah, didn’t think so. It wouldn’t convince me, either.

To my lovers’ lovers: I’ve spent the past few years seeking solace in your man’s arms. If you noticed your perfume bottle was lighter, your sheets were rumpled, or your closet was raided, that was me. I sought peace, validation, and distraction, and more shit that I might never fully understand in your bed. With your property. Nothing excuses it and I’d be lying if I said I regretted what I’ve done. I don’t. I don’t regret any of it, because I wouldn’t be where I am right now if I hadn’t made the choices I made. I stand by them, as wrong as they were.

This confession’s for you.

I see now that I disrespected myself just as much, if not more than I disrespected all of you. In light of this epiphany, I have a few questions for you. Do you know the man you sleep next to at night? Do you really want to? Or are you content not knowing the person you give yourself to, day after day? Are you willing to settle?

Because I was.

Now, I’m not so sure why I saw any value in that. I think I got the short end of the stick. Just like you. I’ve been the other woman, but you’ve been the woman. The keeper. And yet here you are, reading this column. Does that sit well with you? That you got the short end, just like me? That in essence, you’re really no better than me?

Now hold up, before you get pissed and start spouting off the obvious: you aren’t like me, because you don’t have affairs with unavailable men. Or hell, maybe you do. I wouldn’t know. And many of you don’t even know your man’s been screwing around with someone like me. But I’m here to tell you, he has. Bottom line is you’re no better than me if you find out and do nothing about it.

No, it doesn’t make you a whore like me. It doesn’t make you a bad person or a pathetic woman. But it does make you a pawn. A pawn in a game that only ends one way. You’re too goddamn beautiful, too goddamn smart, and too goddamn good for a life like that—wise words from a wise man in my life. You know why they’re wise words?

‘Cause they’re true.

Life’s too short, and love’s too good to pass up for some sham deal. You don’t think there’s something better out there? You’re wrong. I know because I found it—the real stuff—and I’m the last person on the damn planet who deserves it. If the universe can hand me some, it sure as hell can hand some to you. Besides, it’s not a matter of deserving. It’s a matter of respect. Unconditional grace.

I’m no great philosopher. I know my advice means jack to you. But I know what it means to be a pawn. And I don’t want to be one anymore. I hope you don’t, either.

Yeah, yeah. Get to the point, right?

Just hang on. Here it comes.

Be exceptional. Be your something. ‘Cause you’re all you’ve got. And until you have that, you’ve got nothing. Look in the mirror. Take a hard, long look. I hope you see what I see. Please accept my sincerest apologies for the hurt I’ve caused, for everyone—everything—my choices have affected. This part’s for me. I win here, not you. I know that. But I choose to own that truth.

Know why?

Because I’m exceptional. Because I’m something. Because I’m loved. And guess what?

You are, too.

My gaze lingers on the last line of the entry, my concentration breaking when I feel Ryder’s presence loom from behind. His hand clamps down firmly on my shoulder. I close the paper and turn to look up at him.

“You ready for that bath?” he asks, gracing me with that soft, gentle smile of his—the one I will never get enough of.

“Yeah,” I smile back, cupping my hand over his knuckle where it rests on my shoulder, “I’m ready.”

“After you, baby.”

I stand and lead the way to the bathroom, Ryder on my heels and freedom in my soul. Tonight the stars will be abundant, and my heart will be full.

THE END

EPILOGUE
ELISE
24 YEARS OLD

My comb hits the glass table top, my reflection smooth and glossy in the mirror. My long pressed waves are ready, my ruby red lipstick popping against my pale, luminous complexion. Gold, Art Deco style chandelier earrings drip from my lobes to the tops of my shoulders. I tap them, watching them shimmy and sparkle in the bedroom light, my eyes moving to the shadow that appears behind me, distracting me from my own reflection.

I look at Ryder, our gazes meeting in the mirror.

“Don’t you look dapper,” I say, absorbing every mouthwatering inch of him. He’s dressed from head to toe in a black and white tux, and I know what dressing like this means to him. He isn’t a fan of swapping out his flannels and blue jeans for such snazzy attire, but he’s doing this for me.

This is my night.

“We’re going to be late, baby,” he says, tugging at his bow tie with that crooked smile of his. His five o’clock shadow is still intact, just more tailored than usual. “Don’t tell me all of this debonair stuff is going to go to waste.”

“Oh, it won’t.” I smile flirtatiously over my shoulder. “I’ll enjoy stripping it all off of you when we get home.”

He comes up behind me, his calloused hands moving to my shoulders. They massage lightly, bringing me right home. This is my favorite place. “And I’ll enjoy peeling you out of this dress,” he whispers, leaning down to speak into my ear, leaving shivers in his wake.

“How’s the article coming?”

“Good, I think.” He kisses my temple and straightens up, continuing to rub my neck. “I wasn’t crazy about this one, but it had real potential.”

“
Hhhm
.” I nod and move to stand from the vanity stool, reaching for my black gloves. My mother is no longer here to slide them on for me, but I’m okay with that, even though I miss her. I put them on myself, feeling a small grin creep up. Ryder’s the official book reviewer for The Gig Harbor Weekly—the paper’s latest addition to their film and literature critic section. He’s been with the paper for a year now, but this is his chance to write his own piece on a regular basis. No more Mr. Fix-It How-To columns. Not that he minded those, but this is his heart. His voice. I couldn’t be more proud of him. “And Duke’s new toy box?” I ask next, knowing he must be close to finishing the new chest. Duke’s toys have taken over the living room, and Ryder jumped at the opportunity to carve him a new chest, just so the pup could have a place for his slobbery, frumpy play things.

This man and his dog. I fucking love it. I love him.

“It’s coming along,” he replies with pride. I can tell. His fingers are raw and rough, skin broken around the nails. I finish slipping on the gloves and then take one of his hands, bringing his thumb to my lip to bite it, holding it loosely between my teeth. I meet his eyes, enjoying the flash of desire that flickers there. I bite down softly and suck, not giving a damn that I’ve just smudged my fresh lipstick. “Elise,” he warns.

“I know, I know. We’re going to be late,” I mumble around his finger. I release him and dab at my mouth with a handkerchief, correcting the smudges. “Shall we?”

“We shall.” He holds out his arm and I link mine through it, strolling with him through the bedroom doorway. We make sure Duke is situated before we exit the cabin, tossing him a few treats and pampering him with some rubs behind the ears. The air is warmer now, the sting of winter long gone. Still, I slip on my black shrug, and my shoulders thank me. Ryder helps me into the Jeep and then we’re off, heading northward to the bay.

Tonight
Les Trois Enfants
is holding a gala to celebrate the induction of their new assistant director.

Me.

Over the past year, the tiny private school has flourished, and I’ve been there to witness the magic. At first, as a student. Within a few months, I landed a tutoring position for students studying the beginner level, and the owners were so impressed by my commitment to the organization and my passion for the language that they eventually asked me to come on board as a more integral part of the team. I accepted, of course, although it wasn’t easy giving Jay my notice at Stella’s.

The school might be small and tight knit, but its sense of community is its advantage. It offers an intimate learning environment, like studying with family, and word of mouth about that very appeal has traveled far beyond the borders of Pierce County. Children, college students, and parents of all ages now seek enrollment from all over the Tacoma and Seattle areas, some even making the trek to the school each week all the way from Skagit county.

When we arrive at the gala, Ryder and I greet my co-workers and the many students and supporters who chose to come out tonight in honor of the school’s new chapter. There’s lots of kissing on the cheeks, many congratulations, and all kinds of talk about when the next group trip to France will take place. We’re thinking in the fall, which works well for Ryder and me. We’ve been itching to do some traveling. Especially Ryder. He gets restless if we don’t explore every now and then.

I’m summoned to the podium on a modest platform that overlooks the dining room. As I take my place, I’m met with elegant, sweeping views of the vast picture windows lining the backdrop of the restaurant. They showcase Puget Sound, a sunset wide and glistening. I look out at the audience, my gaze scanning each table, each face, until I find them. Ryder and Jay. My men.

Jay is seated with Shelley and his children, his face proud and rife with excitement. Ryder sits back casually, one leg propped over the other, an arm resting on his lap. His eyes don’t leave mine. I square my shoulders and take a deep breath, adjusting the microphone. The sea of faces I see is staggering. Some I know—some intimately—and others are there in spirit. Like Tee. Like my mom. My father, too. Even he has a place in this.

As I open my mouth to greet everyone, I pause, feeling a veil of awareness cascade over me, like the finest silk. A playful tinge colors Ryder’s lips, and a spark ignites over my skin, from hip to hip, ink to ink.

My name is Elise Duchamp. I’m 24 years old. Lover, fighter, cageless bird. An unwavering force.

That is something I know how to be.

A
P
RESERVATION
S
ERIES

C
OMPANION
N
OVEL

A
VAILABLE
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OW