Reasonable Doubt: Volume 3 (Reasonable Doubt 3)

Slipping into my car, I noticed a new email on my phone.

Subject: Bathroom.

Thank you for sending me that very inappropriate note with my flowers today. Everyone in my cohort now knows that you and I have yet to f**k in our brand new bathroom.

Why are you so ridiculous?

—Aubrey.

Subject: Re: Bathroom.

You’re very welcome for the flowers. I’m hoping that you liked them.

And that wasn’t a “note” that I sent you. It’s a demand that’s about to be addressed within the next few hours.

Why do you deny that you love it?

—Andrew.

I could picture her rolling her eyes at my last message, so I revved up my car and sped back toward our home.

Even though I’d spent the last six years here, I was still building my tolerance for the things I once hated, things that now bothered me less and less, but I still had a long way to go.

Some memories can never be replaced…

Aubrey was completely captivated and entranced by this city, though. Whenever she wasn’t incessantly touring with the ballet company, she was insisting that we try every restaurant, theater, and tourist attraction possible—trying to make me fall in love with everything again.

I parked in front of our brownstone—a newly purchased brick building in Brooklyn, and walked up the steps.

“Aubrey?” I said as I opened the door. “Are you in here?”

“Yes.” She called from a distance. “And I’m not in the bathroom.”

“You will be eventually.” I walked down the hallway, stopping when I saw her hanging another frame in her office.

The walls were covered in pictures of her standing at center stage, a different picture for every night she’d opened a show.

“Do I need to have another room built for you and your photos?” I asked. “You’re running out of space.”

“No, I think this is the last one.”

“Are you still retiring at the end of the month?” I stepped behind her and kissed her neck. “Or have you changed your mind yet?”

“I’m not changing my mind.” She turned around to face me. “I think it’s time for me to focus on something new.”

“Becoming the female version of Mr. Ashcroft when you teach?”

“I won’t be that bad,” she said. “But I do need a break like you said, I think…”

I nodded. I’d been extremely supportive throughout her professional career—traveling with her out of the country to see some of the shows, hiring a personal massage therapist who was at her beck and call, and documenting all of her achievements from the newspapers.

But I’d recently noted a change—a shift, in her attitude: Although she was happy when she went to rehearsals, even happier when telling me about new things the company was trying, she seemed to be more interested in a life outside of the company, so I suggested that she take a short break.

I was still trying to figure out how she’d interpreted my suggested “break” as a “retirement.”

“I loved dancing in Russia.” She smiled, pointing to the picture. “Do you remember that?”

“I do remember that...” I said, continuing my assault of her neck, slipping my hand under her shirt.