The Wife Win

Jasmine returns to her chair and sighs. “Ah, yes, I remember those days. Being left alone at home to watch the rain fall for weeks on end with nothing to do and no one around.”

I chuff. We had this same argument for months and months after moving to Seattle. The location wasn’t anything Jasmine ever acclimated to. She grew up in the heat of the south and enjoyed the sunshine and warmth when I played in Louisville and in North Carolina where I went to grad school.

During those days, we were never apart. She came on game road trips with me or would stay with her family in New Orleans. It wasn’t until we moved here, so far from her friends and family—and especially toward the end of things—when I learned that Jasmine couldn’t be alone or on her own.

She lived a life of privilege and there was never a shortage of friends and an entourage of acquaintances catering to her need for attention. It didn’t bother me when I played ball because she enjoyed the WAG inner circle. It kept her busy planning parties, traveling and hanging out with the other players’ wives and significant others. I let my guard down and didn’t have to worry about her.

I loved her in spite of it and I thought she loved me. But after going through what we did together here in Seattle, I realized I’d dug my own grave. Jasmine isolated herself and we grew distant.

I tried everything at first. I sent her on trips to Mexico and back down to visit her family in New Orleans, but nothing worked. I only succeeded in further driving a wedge between us.

Jasmine blamed me for dragging her to Seattle and then for not being there when it happened. All of it true. And I would’ve worked harder at gaining her forgiveness, had she not done the unforgivable.

My voice softens. “I know it was tough for you back then, Jas. Let’s not get back into that game. Don’t you think it’s time we moved past it?”

She nods. “I couldn’t agree more with you. That’s why I’m here to see you.”

“Is this about your book deal?”

Jasmine gives me a well-practiced smile. The one that in the past could bring me to my knees to worship at her feet.

Funny how easily love can morph from something so urgent, like lifeblood, and transform into something distasteful in a blink of an eye, leaving a metallic taste in your mouth.

She crosses one leg over the other, a move that would have any man’s eyes drinking in the long, luscious stems. I ignore them in favor of keeping my focus fixed on her face, waiting for the proverbial pin to be pulled and the grenade to explode.

Jasmine leans down and extracts a folder from her leather purse near her feet, handing it across the desk to me. I accept it willingly, although I know it’s not going to be anything I want to see.

“Yes, it is about my upcoming book. My lawyer and publisher drafted these documents for you to read through and sign. It would supersede our divorce settlement and allow me to proceed with my story without being sued for slander, libel, or defamation of character.”

“Jesus Christ, Jasmine. Are you fucking kidding me? Is this some joke? You took everything from me and now you want more? You want this out there—”I gesture to the outside window—“so everyone knows our business? For fuck’s sake.”

While this comes as a blow to my ego, the sad irony is that I don’t blame Jasmine for what she’s doing. It’s her prerogative. If she wants to share the truth with the world and air out our dirty laundry, she has that right. But if I don’t sign this, I can sue her, and she’d have to return the money I paid out from our settlement.

Perhaps the money no longer matters to Jasmine. She grew up with wealth and her family still has it. Maybe she’s now looking for the notoriety by publishing her autobiography.

“No, Marek. My life isnota joke. My grief is not something I find funny in the least bit.” Her face is stone cold serious. “This book is my healing process. Like you said, we have to finally let it go and put the past behind us. It’s also a way for me to help others dealing with loss and grief.”

“Can’t you just write your feelings in a journal or diary? Something less public?” I’m partly joking here.

She shrugs. “That’s where most of this stems from. I was journaling at my grief counselor’s suggestion. And then one day, as I was talking to Cressida…”

I grunt at the name of her best friend. Jasmine rolls her eyes at me and continues.

“Cressie thought I should tell my story. We aren’t the only ones who have experienced something as devastating as this, Marek. My perspective may help.”

I drop my head, rubbing at my temple to ward off the migraine that’s ready to shoot white-hot sparks behind my eyeballs.

“Come on, Jas,” I plead. “This one-sided retelling is going to make me look like an asshole.”

Jasmine tilts her head to the side, her face expressionless as she blinks, her long lashes fanning over her cheeks. Her silence tells me exactly what she’s thinking.

You were an asshole.

I drop my chin to my chest. “I did the best I could at the time, Jas. You know I did. And you’re not the only one who suffered.”

I lift my head back up and pin her with a stare. “Are you going to be completely honest and tell the whole truth? About what you did to me, too?”

She gives me that look that saysyou’re such a dope.