Sandy - Vested Interest

I picked up my bag, mentally giving myself a good shake.

“Stop it, Sandy. You’re just tired.”

That mantra repeated itself in my head for the next few hours.I was restless the remainder of the day. I unpacked, checking everything, reassuring myself I hadn’t forgotten anything of importance, yet the feeling lingered. For some reason, I carried all the things we had bought, including the lovely shawl, into the room I used as an office. It had always been my space, decorated with a feminine touch. Max rarely came in except to ask a question or, in our earlier years, to bring me a glass of wine or a cup of coffee. It had simply been a place I could go to on my own. I wasn’t sure why I brought the bags in here, but I felt better once I had.

I did a few chores, made some toast I nibbled on, then paced the house in an endless loop. I couldn’t settle, no matter how I tried. My book held no interest for me, there was nothing on TV, and the music I had playing bothered more than soothed, so I shut it off.

Jordan called in the early evening, his voice a welcome distraction.

“How are you?”

“Fine,” I assured him. “Just having a quiet evening.”

There was a pause, and I wondered if he was waiting for me to tell him I missed him. I wanted to, but somehow, the words stuck in my throat.

“Any news from the real estate agent?” I asked.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, she dropped by after I got home. The open house was a huge success, and she expects a lot of offers tomorrow.”

“That is good news.”

“Well, it will be interesting, that’s for sure.”

“I’m sure it will be fine.”

“Gina called as well. She wants to come in a few weeks to go through the boxes at the warehouse. She’s trying to coordinate her trip with Warren’s, so they come at the same time.” He paused. “I think they want to spare me going through things twice.”

“That is thoughtful.”

“Yes. I was thinking, perhaps we could all have dinner one night.”

His words hung in the air. He wanted to introduce me to his children—officially. I had met them at the office on different occasions, but under vastly diverse circumstances. As a married coworker, not the woman he was having an affair with.

Internally, I shook my head. I was more than that to Jordan. I knew that without a doubt—why had those words gone through my head? We weren’t having an affair. We were in a relationship.

“Sandy?” Jordan’s worried voice prompted me.

“Sorry,” I laughed, trying not to convey my sudden discomfort. “I was daydreaming.”

“So, dinner?”

“Yes, we’ll have to arrange that.”

“Sandy, my darling, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong.”

“Then why am I sensing a huge distance from you?”

“I’m simply tired, Jordan. We had a busy weekend, and I’m exhausted.”

“It was a wonderful weekend, I thought.”

“Yes,” I agreed, although my tone was odd. “Wonderful.”

“Sandy—”

I cut him off, not liking the solicitous tone in his voice or the edge of hurt it contained. I hated knowing it was me who put that hurt there.

“Jordan, I have to go. My tub will be overflowing. I’ll see you at the office.”

Before he could reply, I hung up.

I stared at the phone, fighting with myself. I wanted to pick it up and call him back. Tell him about the odd feeling I couldn’t shake. Ask him to come get me. He would sit with me and talk it through—help me make sense of the unease and worry I was feeling.

Twice, I picked up the phone, then set it back in the charger.

How could I explain it to Jordan, when I didn’t understand it myself?

I ran a hand over my hair and stood. Maybe a bath was a good idea. Then I would head to bed and get a good night’s sleep. Things would look better in the morning.I tossed and turned, my sleep fractured and filled with dark, twisted dreams. My bedroom felt oppressive and hot. I flung off the covers and switched on the light, glancing at the clock. It was just after three. I should be asleep, but I felt twitchy and anxious.

I got up and pulled on my robe. I went to the kitchen and poured a glass of ice water, needing to feel the cold. I sipped it, wandering around the house, switching on lights as I did. For some reason, I ended up in Max’s office. I rarely went in there, and I stood in the doorway, recalling all the times I had done the same thing—leaning on the doorframe, telling Max to come for dinner, or to leave his book and join me in the garden. Scold him for working too much.

With a sigh, I went in, sitting in the wingback chair across from his desk. It was where I had always sat when I came in to see him. He would look up from whatever he was working on, his eyes twinkling, his gaze welcoming. His desk would be covered in reference books, files, papers, and notes. Often, his laptop sat on a precarious pile of papers, listing to one side, always in danger of ending up on the floor.