The Betrayal

The Betrayal

The door to the kitchen flew open and hit the side of the refrigerator with a loud thud. Cold air rushed in. “You rotten bitch. I trusted you.” Brock McCarthy stood in the doorway with his shoulders squared and fists clenched. “How could you do that to me?” His nostrils flared as he shook his head.

Stunned, Clara Simmons gasped when she heard the commotion. After she regained her composure, she bristled at the hateful accusation. She placed the half-empty dinner plate she was holding in the sink. Staring into his brown eyes, she asked, “What the hell are you talking about?” After two years of living together, she knew Brock’s temper, but this deranged outburst was worse than usual.

“You know damn well what I’m talking about. My secret. I told you never to tell anyone about that shit.”

“I didn’t say anything to anybody.” Her words were unhurried but emphatic.

“You had to tell somebody something. When I went to The Backdoor after work, all the guys started bustin’ my balls, dropping hints, talkin’ shit like they knew things. All of them acted like they knew something, and you’re the only one I talked to about that shit.” Brock unzipped his black leather jacket and draped it on the back of a kitchen chair. “Why did you do it?”

“You’re nuts. Or you’re drunk. I didn’t say anything.”

 They glared at each other as a chilling silence gradually filled the room.

“Hell, I’m not even close to being drunk. I had to leave the bar before I could finish my pitcher.” It was impossible to tell what Brock was more agitated about, leaving cold beer or defending himself against the swirling speculations about his hidden checkered past.    

           “Did you bother to ask how your drinking buddies heard about your precious secret?” Her voice was soft, as if asking a child if they had finished their homework.

           “I didn’t have to—damn it—you are the only one who knows.”

           With unhurried steps, Clara walked around the kitchen table. Pulling on the back of the chair, the faint scraping of the wooden legs against the linoleum broke the quiet—like fingernails on a chalkboard.  She took a seat and cast her gaze towards her angry boyfriend.

           “That’s not exactly true.” She paused as their eyes momentarily locked.  “Is it.” The tone of her now-controlled voice was made bitter by a toxic mix of scorn and controlled rage. “Those women know.” After a long pause to emphasize her point, she said, “Trust me, they really know.”

           Like air escaping from a balloon, Brock’s body went limp. Without making a sound, he fell into the chair across from her—searching her face for a clue about her intentions.

           “Look, you chose to tell me about your twisted secret. It was your choice.” Clara’s voice was cold. “And I haven’t told a soul since. But now I’m wondering what else you might be hiding.”

           “Wait, that’s not fair—“

           “Fair? Fair? You have the balls to mention fair to me? That’s laughable. You bust in here and accuse me of betraying you without a shred of evidence.”

           “I’ve always told you everything.” Brock reached up and scratched the scruffy hair on his face. “I didn’t have to tell you about the women and the, you know, what happened. But I did.”

           “And now you expect me to carry the same guilt?” Clara adjusted her glasses.

           “No, of course not. It’s not guilt exactly, not really. It’s more like, I don’t know how to explain it.” 

           They sat listening to the faint sound of the small clock on the oven ticking away the minutes—like the shattered pieces of their failing relationship.

           Absent mindedly, Clara used her thumb to wipe the pepper dust off the shaker sitting in the middle of the table. “Do you think one of the women, you know, moved here?”

           He took a long time to answer, as if he hated the power of what truth might do to him. “It’s possible.” He bit the inside of his cheek a few times while he thought.

           Clara leaned back in her chair. “So, what will you do? I mean if you see one of them?” She stifled a yawn as her composure returned. “There’s another possibility. What if one of those women sent their boyfriend to find you—you know, like a trapper beating the bushes to get the snakes to show where they’re hiding.”

           Brock twisted his face into a scowl after he deciphered her meaning. “Crap.” He leaned back into his chair. He sat silent for a long moment. “I’ve never even thought about that. It was always a slim possibility, I guess.”

            “Well, I think you had better start thinking about that possibility because I never said a word—to anyone—ever. Why would I?”

           Brock pursed his lips and folded his arms in resignation. “Holy shit. What are we going to do now?”

           “We? Are you seriously thinking this problem is a ‘we’ thing?  I didn’t have anything to do with that shit. I wasn’t there, I don’t even know who they are. This is your ugly history, not mine. Always has been.”

           “I thought we were a couple. I thought we were, you know, getting serious.” Brock’s voice conveyed desperation.

           “Oh yeah, that was before you came in here and blamed me for something I didn’t do. I don’t think I want to stick around to see what else you might blame me for.”

           “No, babe, wait, you can’t do that. Really, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

           “Well, I guess you should have thought about that before you shoved open the kitchen door with a heart full of hate. I went from bitch to babe in five minutes—and I don’t want to see how long it’ll take next time.”

She placed her hands flat on the table. Calmly, she rose and ambled across the kitchen towards the bedroom. Stopping halfway she turned and said, “I don’t want to become another secret in your long history of betrayals. Where I come from, love is all about trust—and you just lost mine. And now you’re losing me.” She turned and went into the bedroom—and slammed the door.