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Novelo Rectangle

The man she buried was back, knocking at the fragile walls of her heart, his voice a whisper she couldn’t drown out. Clara sat at her kitchen table, a chipped ceramic mug of English tea cooling in her hands, its steam curling like a sigh in the dim light of her new apartment. Six months ago, she’d tried to bury David—not in the earth, but in the past, in the locked chambers of her mind where she stored pain she couldn’t face. She’d tossed her wedding ring into a river, signed divorce papers with a steady hand, and moved 300 miles to a quiet town in a new state, hoping distance would silence the memories. Yet here he was, creeping into her thoughts, his face flickering in the shadows of her sleepless nights, his voice calling her name as it had the night she walked away. It was a Thursday evening, the air heavy with the threat of rain. Clara’s new apartment, a small one-bedroom with creaky floors and a view of a sleepy park, felt both like a sanctuary and a cage. She’d found a letter slipped under her door when she got home from work—an envelope with her name in David’s slanted scrawl. “Clara, I’m in town. I need to see you. Please.” The words were a knock, sharp and insistent, threatening to unravel the fragile peace she’d built. She’d torn the letter to pieces, tossed it in the trash, but the knocking didn’t stop. It echoed in her chest, in the quiet moments when she let her guard down. Eight months earlier, Clara’s world had shattered. She’d been working overtime at the ad agency, her eyes gritty from staring at campaign mockups, her shoulders knotted from stress. She’d driven home, her old sedan rattling along suburban streets, dreaming of a hot shower and David’s arms. They’d been married less than a year, still navigating the awkward rhythm of married life, but she’d loved him fiercely, with a trust she hadn’t given anyone before. She’d unlocked the front door, expecting the familiar scent of his cooking or the hum of the TV. Instead, she froze, her keys slipping from her fingers, clattering to the floor. There, on the couch, just steps from the entryway, was David, his shirt half-unbuttoned, entangled with another woman. Her hands were in his hair, their lips locked in a kiss that made Clara’s stomach lurch. The lamplight cast their shadows on the wall, a cruel silhouette of betrayal. They were so engrossed they didn’t hear the door, didn’t see Clara standing there, her world collapsing. “David?” Her voice was a whisper, barely audible, but it carried the weight of her breaking heart. They didn’t stir. Rage surged, hot and blinding, followed by a wave of disgust that left her dizzy. She moved without thinking, her feet carrying her to the kitchen. She filled a metal basin with cold water from the sink, the icy bite of it grounding her. She carried it back, her steps silent on the carpet, and tipped it over them. Water splashed, soaking the couch, their clothes, their tangled limbs. They bolted upright, gasping. The woman—Clara recognized her now, Emily, from David’s accounting firm—blinked in surprise, then smirked, her lips brushing David’s cheek as she locked eyes with Clara, defiant. “Well, this is awkward,” Emily said, her voice dripping with mockery. David’s face was a mask of shock, his eyes wide. “Clara? Oh God, Clara, it’s not—” “Not what?” Clara cut him off, her voice shaking but sharp. “Not what it looks like? Don’t insult me.” She laughed, a jagged sound that hurt her throat, born of pain, not humour. The basin clattered to the floor. She grabbed her purse and turned to the door. “Clara, wait!” David scrambled to his feet, his shirt clinging to his chest. “Please, let me explain!” “There’s nothing to explain,” she said, her back to him, her hand on the doorknob. “You made your choice.” She walked out, the door slamming behind her, his voice—“Clara!”—fading as she climbed into her car. She drove, the road blurring through tears she couldn’t stop. Her chest ached, as if a hand were squeezing her heart, tighter with each mile. She’d loved him—loved him with a depth that scared her, a devotion she’d thought was mutual. How could he do this? How could he unravel everything they’d promised? She gripped the wheel, her knuckles white, and drove aimlessly, the city lights fading into dark fields. She ended up at the riverside, where the water reflected a sky bruised with clouds. The air was chilly, cutting through her thin blouse, but Clara didn’t care. She stepped out, her boots sinking into the soft earth, and sat by the river’s edge. The water moved steadily, indifferent to her pain, its surface catching the faint glow of stars. She’d always believed suicide was never an option, no matter how deep the hurt. She’d survived a childhood of neglect—her mother’s abandonment, her father’s drinking. She’d survive this too. “Damn you, David,” she whispered, her voice swallowed by the breeze. She slipped off her wedding ring, the gold band glinting faintly, and tossed it into the river. It vanished without a sound, swallowed by the current. She checked her watch: 1:47 a.m. Time to move. She drove to Roxanne’s apartment, her best friend since college, the one person who’d always been her anchor. Roxanne opened the door in pyjamas, her dark hair a mess, her eyes widening at Clara’s tear-streaked face. “Clara? What the hell happened?” Clara collapsed onto the couch, the words spilling out between sobs. “David… he was with her, Roxanne. On our couch. I saw them—kissing, touching. It was Emily, from his office. She smirked at me, like she’d won.” Roxanne’s face darkened, her fists clenching. “That bastard,” she spat, pacing the small living room. “I’ll kill him. I swear, I’ll beat him into a pulp. Who does that? And her—smirking? She’s trash, Clara.” “I loved him,” Clara whispered, her hands twisting in her lap. “I thought he loved me too.” Roxanne sat beside her, pulling her into a hug. “He’s an idiot, and you’re too good for him. You don’t deserve this. You’re staying here tonight, okay? No arguments.” Clara nodded, too exhausted to protest. She stayed the night, curled under a borrowed blanket, the ache in her chest unrelenting. Morning came, grey and heavy. Roxanne made coffee, her movements brisk, her anger still simmering. “You’re not going back there,” she said, setting a mug in front of Clara. “What’s the plan? Your parents’ place?” Clara shook her head. “No. They’re too far, and Dad’s lectures would make it worse.” She sipped the coffee, the warmth doing little to ease the cold inside. “I’ll figure it out.” “Figure it out here,” Roxanne said firmly. “Stay with me until you find a new place. You’re not imposing—I want you here.” Clara managed a small smile. “You’re bossy, you know that?” “Damn right,” Roxanne said, grinning. “Someone’s gotta look out for you.” Clara turned on her phone, which she’d switched off to avoid David’s calls. The screen lit up with notifications: 27 missed calls, 15 texts, all from him. “Clara, please, let’s talk.”“It’s not what you think.”“I’m sorry.” Her thumb hovered over the block button, her heart twisting. She’d loved him—love or loved, she wasn’t sure anymore. “I can’t do this,” she muttered, and pressed block, the action final, like cutting a thread. “I need a lawyer,” she told Roxanne, her voice steadier. “I want a divorce, and I want it fast.” “Good for you,” Roxanne said, nodding. “I know a guy—Harris, sharp as a tack. I’ll get you his number.” Clara called Harris, explaining everything in a calm, detached voice. “I want it done quickly,” she said. “No contact with him. Can you make that happen?” “Absolutely,” Harris said, his tone professional but kind. “We’ll file today. Focus on taking care of yourself.” Roxanne urged her to take the day off, but Clara went to work, needing the distraction. She sat at her desk, editing ad copy, her eyes scanning words that meant nothing. A foolish part of her hoped David would show up, flowers in hand, begging forgiveness. “You idiot,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head with disgust. He didn’t come. Weeks passed, a blur of paperwork and late-night talks with Roxanne. The divorce was finalised swiftly—David didn’t contest it, didn’t appear at the hearings. Clara found a new apartment in a small town 300 miles away, a one-bedroom with a view of a park, where no one knew her story. She wanted nothing to remind her of him. She left Roxanne’s with a hug, her friend’s arms tight around her. “Call me when you get there,” Roxanne said, her eyes fierce with pride. “You’re stronger than you know.” “I’ll try to be,” Clara said, her voice soft. “Thank you, Roxanne. For everything.” She drove to her new home, the road stretching like a promise. She settled in, unpacking a secondhand couch, a kettle, a stack of books. Work kept her busy, and she joined a book club, made small talk with neighbours. Slowly, the ache dulled, though it never fully left. She thought she’d buried David, locked him away where he couldn’t hurt her. But then came the letter, and the knocking started again. David had found her—how, she didn’t know. A week later, he showed up at her apartment, knocking on her door one evening. “Clara, please,” he called softly through the wood. “I just want to talk.” She stood frozen, her hand on the deadbolt, her heart racing. “Go away, David,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not leaving until we talk,” he said, his voice pleading. “I messed up, Clara. I need you to hear me out.” She didn’t open the door. After a long silence, she heard his footsteps retreat. But the calls and texts started soon after—he’d found her new number. “Clara, I’m sorry.”“Please, meet me. Just once.” She ignored them, her resolve hardening, but each message chipped away at the walls she’d built. She was barely over him, and now he was here, tearing open old wounds. After days of silence, curiosity—or maybe weakness—got the better of her. She agreed to meet him at a coffee shop in town, a neutral place with enough people to feel safe. She arrived early, her hands wrapped around a latte, her stomach in knots. David walked in, looking thinner, his eyes shadowed. He sat across from her, his hands fidgeting. “Thank you for meeting me,” he said, his voice low. “I know I don’t deserve this.” “You don’t,” Clara said, her tone flat. “So why am I here?” He took a deep breath. “That night… I was drunk, Clara. I’d had too much whiskey at the office party. Emily—she deceived me. She dressed like you, wore your perfume. I thought it was you at first. I was out of my mind.” Clara’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, so now it’s all Emily’s fault? You’re blameless here?” “No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “I’m to blame too. I should’ve stopped it, should’ve known. I was stupid, Clara, and I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have done it if I was in my right senses.” “David, you don’t get to hide behind ‘drunk,’” she said, her voice sharp. “You broke us. You broke me.” “I know,” he said, his voice breaking. “And I hate myself for it. Your mum called me, you know. She told me how disappointed she was, hung up before I could explain. I know I hurt you, Clara, but I love you. I never stopped loving you. I’d never hurt you intentionally.” Clara leaned back, her fingers tight around her cup. “I heard you, David. But I need time to think.” “Sure,” he said, his eyes searching hers. “Take all the time you need.” That evening, she called Roxanne, pacing her apartment. “He showed up, Anne. We met at a coffee shop. He said he was drunk, that Emily tricked him—dressed like me, wore my perfume.” Roxanne’s voice was sharp with fury. “That idiot! Do you want me to come over and deal with him?” “I don’t know,” Clara said, her voice wavering. “He seemed sincere.” “Don’t tell me you’re falling for that sh*t,” Roxanne said. “He cheated, Clara. Drunk or not, he did it.” “I know,” Clara said, sinking onto her couch. “I just… I need to think.” “Whatever you say,” Roxanne said, her tone softening. “But you’re worth more than his excuses. Don’t forget that.” Clara spent days wrestling with her heart. She remembered the good times—David’s laugh, the way he’d make her pancakes on Sundays, the promises they’d made. But she also remembered the pain, the smirk on Emily’s face, the weight of betrayal. Yet his words lingered, his sincerity gnawing at her. She wasn’t ready to forgive, but maybe she was ready to try. She called him, her voice steady. “Meet me at the park tomorrow evening. We’ll talk.” They met at dusk, the sky streaked with pink and gold. They walked along the park’s winding path, the air cool, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. “I don’t know if I can trust you again,” Clara said, her eyes on the ground. “But I loved you, David. Maybe I still do. I’m willing to try, but it’s not a blank slate. You have to earn it.” “I will,” he said, his voice earnest. “I’ll do whatever it takes, Clara. I just want you back.” She stopped, turning to face him. “We didn’t really get to go on some nice dates. So, I want a proper date this time.”

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Potholes and Promises

Sam

Samuel Ford

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Potholes and Promises

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