Capturing Viola: His Wife Is Mine

Viola McCoy

He didn’t show up. He never has. But this time, I really thought he would.

A knot forms at the pit of my stomach. Why did I let myself hope this time? Maybe because I had woken up to Julian, my husband, holding a bouquet of flowers and waiting to hand them to me as soon as I’d woken up.

Even though it’s my birthday, I hadn’t expected him to do something special for me. He’s not done something special for me in a long long time. But still, that simple gesture—coupled with the special dinner he’d said he planned for both of us this evening—had made me hope he really meant every word he said.

But he didn’t.

And now, I’m sitting alone at Chilvary Restaurant, staring at the untouched candle on my cake. I exhale slowly, forcing down the sting of humiliation. I can leave. I should leave. But instead, I continue to sit there, waiting, just like I always do.

The restaurant doors swing open, and for a brief, stupid second, I think it’s him. It isn’t. The candle on my cake continues to flicker. The waiter shifts awkwardly beside me, clearing his throat. Across the room, a couple laughs, clinking glasses.

“Ma’am, would you like to order now, or…?” The waiter hesitates.

His polite smile is forced. I force one back, gripping the napkin in my lap.

I shake my head. “Just a few more minutes.”

The waiter gives me another one of his pitiful smiles and walks away. I check my phone again. No messages from Julian. Nothing. All my calls have gone to voicemail.

This isn’t the first time he’s let me down. He’s never made me a priority and I’ve had to put up with dozens of missed dates, canceled trips, and broken promises over the past two years we’ve been married.

Before marriage, he treated me like I was his whole world. And me? I was just healing from a huge breakup that almost shattered me. He was there to help me piece my life back together. If only I’d known he would be the one to shatter everything all over again.

I finally have a good reason to cry, but no tears come. I just feel…numb.

I continue to stare at the cake in front of me. My stomach churns. The waiter is back. He shifts beside me, clearing his throat again. I know what he’s about to say. He pities me. And I hate that look on his face. The look on everyone’s face everytime they glance at the lonely woman sitted alone at the table for two on her birthday.

“Ma’am…” the waiter’s voice is softer this time. A bit apologetic too. “Would you like to take the cake to go?”

I bite my lower lip a little too hard. “Ten more minutes.”

The waiter gives me a polite nod and turns away.

Maybe Julian will show up. Maybe he’s just late. As our relationship frayed further every day, I’d hoped this dinner would bring us closer again. Make him fall in love with me the way he had a lifetime ago. I’d hope this one dinner would make me forget every moment he never put me first, every moment he got a little violent and every moment he made me feel like I was nobody to him. Like I was just his trophy wife, nothing else.

But as I stare down at my palms, I realize that’s impossible because neither of us are the same person we used to be. Julian isn’t the man who made me fifty origami versions of my favorite flowers for my birthday, and I’m no longer the woman who floated through life with stars and dreams in her eyes.

A salty trickle of tear finally snakes its way down my cheek and shocks me out of my frozen stupor. I stand, my breaths shallowing with each step as I walk quickly to the restaurant’s hallway. The other couples stationed close to my table are too lost in their perfect worlds to notice my silent breakdown.

But I can’t bear the thought of crying alone with people staring at me. I’m the wife of Julian Cruz anyways. Any small mishap might prove fatal to his reputation. I walk into the quiet restroom, leaning against the vanity.

So, so stupid.

What made me think tonight would be different? My birthday probably means as much to Julian as I do.

Dull pain sharpens into knives as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Brown straight hair, blue eyes, tanned skin. I’m in one of my favorite corset dresses too which at this moment feels too tight.

I look the same as I always do, but I hardly recognize

myself. It’s like seeing a stranger wear my face. Where’s the girl who managed to grow up well even after her mother died too early? Who'd managed to recover after her four year relationship ended? Where’s the girl who managed to have a life of her own even after her rich conglomerate father died and left nothing in her name? Who’d lived life with unapologetic joy?

That girl would never wait around for a man. But that girl was no more because somewhere along the way, she’s fallen by the wayside and has been consumed by a toxic marriage. She’s been replaced by a coward. A coward who has no more strength to fight. A coward who is scared to start over because she has no one and no where to go. A coward who’s accepted her fate.

The dam finally bursts.

A solitary tear turns into two, then three, then a whole flood as I sink to the floor and cry. Every heartbreak, every disappointment, every piece of sadness I’ve harbored pours out in a river of tears.

Cold, hard tile digs into the backs of my thighs as I drag in ragged breaths. I continue to let it all out until I can no longer feel anything. I manage to get back on my feet and stare into the mirror. My dress feels like it’s strangling me. Too tight. Too much. My throat burns from swallowing sobs and my smudged mascara continues to sting my eyes, making it worse. I press my palms against the cold sink, but it doesn’t steady me.

Nothing does.

My phone buzzes in my purse and I pull it out. It’s an incoming call from Amirah. She’s my best friend who I’ve known for two years. She’s a fashion stylist and I met her around the time Julian and I wanted to get married. Amirah was the one who designed my wedding dress. And now even after a long time, she’s still a part of my life.

“How’s the dinner going?” comes Amirah’s chirpy voice from the other end of the line.

My fingers tighten around the phone. This is Amirah. She’s my best friend. I could tell her. But the words lodge in my throat because my throat feels hoarse from crying. If I say it out loud, then it’s real. And I’m not ready for that.

“It’s going great.” I manage to say.

I can’t tell her Julian bailed. She doesn’t know anything about what’s going on in my marriage. And I don’t want to burden her either.

“You don’t sound great.” Amirah cuts in.

“I’m fine. I need to get back to dinner now.”

There’s a beat of silence. “You’re sure you’re okay, Viola?”

The desire to tell her the truth and the need to just keep it all to myself, rages a furious battle in me. In the end, the latter wins and I’m already telling her I’m fine.

“Happy birthday once more.” Amirah said before finally ending the call.

I sigh in relief as I put my phone back into my purse. My reflection in the mirror seems a bit better now as my eyes no longer look puffy. I put on my best fake smile and walk out of the restroom into the hallway.

As I make my way back to my table, my phone buzzes again. My phone buzzes in my purse. I reach for it with my heart pounding. Maybe it’s him. Finally. An apology. An explanation. Something.

But it isn’t.

It’s an article. I click on it without thinking…

And my world stops.

There’s a picture of Julian. He’s not alone. He’s at the bar, leaning close to a woman in a sleek red dress. Laughing. His hand is resting on her thigh.

All blood drains from my face.

And the headlines? “Chicago’s golden boy, Julian Cruz out with his mystery woman—where’s wifey?"

My heart shatters. But not from surprise. From knowing I should’ve seen this coming.