Sleeping With My Married Ex

Chapter 4

Damn, but school can be annoying. Right now is one of those annoying times. My community health professor emails me with a request to hold a conference with a few of the fire departments throughout the city. It's troublesome, only because either after work or before I have to travel to some section of the city or surrounding county to talk to a group of men, with an occasional woman tossed in. He didn't even offer this as extra credit or internship hours. I'm not completely aware if something happened recently to spark such an assignment or if this is routine. Considering the high stress demand job it is, it may be routine.

This is the sixth station I've been to in the last two weeks. I left the hospital early today so I can catch the first shift at the station before they leave. Hopefully this will be the last conference I have to do. Not that I don't enjoy it. I almost don't. But it's seriously annoying. The linger smell of smoke in clothing from fires fought was starting to kill my brain cells.

I knock on the office door where I'm introduce to the captain who escorts me to the room where I can set up. I tell him I have nothing to set up, and to send everyone in when they're ready so we can start.

Since these conferences are a bit informal, I take off my jacket, unbutton the top button of my blouse and cuff my sleeves. Might as well get comfortable for the hour and a half talk I have to give. That's unless an emergency happens and the firefighters must go fight fires. And even I'm not so lazy a person to wish for that as a way out.

Chatter reaches my ears, the guys are working their way in the room into the ten empty seats lined in two rows. I'm sitting on the desk at the front of the room with my arms and legs cross when the captain informs me that they're ready. I stifle a yawn as best as I can, which isn't that well judging from the comment I receive. "This is going to be good," one of the fighters say. "She's so enthusiastic."

I hadn't manage to stifle the yawn, but I do stop myself from rolling my eyes. "Sarcasm along with all other questions, comments, and concerns will be addressed at the appointed time."

They snicker like a group of school age boys. "When is that?" the same person spoke.
"As soon as you shut up so we can get started, William."

I know that voice. My eyes snap onto the speaker. That's when I once again think, "You've got to be kidding me." Was I going to run into him everywhere now? Wasn't it bad enough that he was my neighbor? Did he have to be everywhere?

I tried to avoid being around him for longer than the time it takes to ride the elevator after that night at the bar. When he had called out to me while I walked into the building, I told myself not to stop. To keep going. To ignore him. Yet, I stopped anyway. Why? Why the hell did I stop?  I knew what stopping meant. We both knew. But he called out and I stopped.

Thankfully my phone rang before either of us became to engulfed with the teenage years. I've never wanted to kiss Warren so much as I had at that moment. Not that I would ever tell him that. He would take it the wrong way. The goof.  I hate to think about what stopping implied.

Maybe I was over reacting. Maybe. I just couldn't shake the fact that at that moment I had been thinking about kissing Donovan. That's why I stopped. I stopped because I knew he would let me. It didn't matter that he was married or that we were right in front of our apartment building where everyone knew he was married. I only wanted one thing and was willing to commit the most foolish act to get it regardless of the outcome. Forbidden fruit.

I wanted to clear my head, kill off the teenage feelings that had risen, so I avoided him as best as I could. I had a rough estimate of the time he left for work or arrived home and I would avoid being where he would be at those times by leaving a bit earlier or later. Anthony and I had exchanged numbers. He had called to invite me out with them but I rejected. No way. There were a few times the encounters couldn't be avoided. As if he was aware of my actions he said, without even looking at me, "I don't like being ignored," one time we rode the elevator down. In response to his comment, I held my hand at eye level and examine my nails. "Boo. The paint chipped." I walked off the elevator behind him fighting a laugh while he glowered.

In retaliation to me ignoring him, three days ago when I left out for work way too late, he repaid me with a taste of my own medicine. I saw him standing at the end of the hall waiting for the elevator. It dinged, opened, and he stepped on. He looked up and saw me rushing down, but turn his head to the wall. "Boo. The paint chipped," he said, allowing the elevator door to close when I was only five feet away.

"Jerk!" I yelled knowing that the elevator hadn't traveled so far down that he couldn't hear me. I was pissed until the stairwell door opened and he stepped out. He must have gotten off at the floor below. He said nothing, just leaned against the wall and waited silently for the next elevator to arrive.



"Lets begin," I say aloud to the fighters.
Surprisingly, this was one of the smoother conferences I had. Granted some people thought it was fun to make certain comments to me, comments that were quickly killed by a snarky reply from me and a murderous glare from Donovan. I need to talk to him about that glare. His glare is as bad and possessive as Warren's palm on the lower back trick.

As the guys file out the room, I uncurl my sleeves and pull my jacket on. On my way to the office to have the captain sign off that I completed the task, I am thanked by a few of the fighters who inform me that I made the usually boring lecture and Q&A enjoyable. This makes me smile. Glad to know that I do my job well, even tired. I hope I did my job well. Guys are guys after all.

I exit the station a few moments later and walk to the end of the block where I had parked my car.
"Psychologist," Donovan says from behind me.
"Firefighter," I reply. I'm wondering what he's doing outside the station. Then he holds up a manila folder I recognize. In my hurry to leave, I must have left it on the desk when I pulled out the paper for the captain to sign.
"Nice suit." He hands me the folder.
I take it. "Hot job." Literally and figuratively. Certain jobs paired with the opposite sex is like catnip. For men it's flight attendants in their little pencil skirts, ties, and heels. For women, we like a man in uniform. Firefighters, cops, doctors. As long as there's a uniform, we're easy bait. Donovan standing in front of me with all his glory in his dickies and t-shirt with the slogan is the most potent form of catnip. Meow much.

I immediately halt my train of thought, not liking the path it's racing down. Apparently the distance isn't working as I hoped. But I guess I already know it wouldn't work. It didn't before. Why would it now? I tried the whole distance thing once, but what they say is true. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. That would explain why my pulse rate increases the moment he speaks. I don't like this. Not at all.

"Thanks," I say and ground my teeth. "I'll be going now." I turn and walk away. I don't even make it two steps before he's behind me again.
"Did I do something wrong?" he asks, genuine curiosity in his voice. He really wasn't sure if he had or hadn't.
"No."
"Then why have you been avoiding me for two weeks?" Bye-bye curiosity. Hello slow-growing anger.
"I haven't." I have.
"You have." He knows me so well.
I whip around bringing myself face-to-chest and look up. "Listen. I'm tired -"
"Not because of me."
At this statement I bite my tongue. His words were true. He and and his wife still argued, but the frequency declined and the volume dropped significantly since our little stand off. So much so that I couldn't hear them unless I pressed me ears to the wall. Which I haven't done. I swear...maybe once.
When I don't speak, he does. "I don't like you ignoring me"
I heave. "I don't care about your likes and dislikes, Donovan. It's not something I need to consider. You just have to tolerate it."
"Not from you." Arrogant man.
"What?"
"I'm not going to tolerate it from you," he says. "That's not how we work. You know that."
"I-"
"You've always been open and direct with me, even when I didn't want you to be. You never shut up. But now you won't even look my direction. What am I suppose to think? If I done something wrong then tell me. Fuck all this avoiding me shit."
"Why do you even care?"
"Because it's you," he responds with the same seriousness and intensity from before.

How do I interpret that? Because it's me. "You've said that before. What does it mean?"
"Exactly what I said." His jaw clenches. "To everyone else I was Anthony's little brother or Stephan's cousin."
"Meaning?" I can't see where this is going.
"Meaning they automatically treated me one way. They tipped-toed around me. Or they heard about my relationship with Angela and were afraid of me."

Ah! The infamous Angela relationship. Yes. I know about that. It was the one my friend told me to warn me away from him all those years ago. He was controlling, abusive, and manipulative, and he was only 16 at the time. He chased her down the street and beat her right there in front of everyone. Not a great reputation to have. I know all this. I still don't know how this applies to me. "I don't have time to do a analysis on you. What's the point?"

"You didn't act like that. You knew about me, but that didn't stop you from saying and doing whatever you wanted no matter how pissed I got."
I shrug. "You knew I could give it back as good as I got. You weren't stupid enough to hit me for saying what you didn't want to hear."
"Because you would take a bat to my head." Guilty. Though he hadn't touched me when I took the bat to his head. Plastic bat I might add.
"Someone had to put you in your place."
"Exactly." Now I know where he's going at with this. "No matter what, you were always upfront with me. So why all this avoiding me?"

I look away, no longer able to look him in the eyes, afraid he'd see my answer. He was right. I might have kept him at a distance when we were kids, but I never avoided him. I said what I wanted to say. What he needed to hear when everyone else was too afraid to say it. I wasn't concerned about how he would react then. So why am I doing it now?

Maybe because it's not his reaction I'm worried about but my own. This is insane. A month ago I didn't even think about him. I hadn't thought about him in years beside a brief passing thought that I would have whenever I rode past Stephan's old apartment. And that was a rare thing. Why do I suddenly feel so compelled when we haven't interacted at all in six years and barely talk to each other besides quick elevator conversations? Why are emotions so easy to gain but impossible to get rid of? Why, oh why, is it him who does this to me? He's married for heavens sake. He may not be happy in his marriage, he was down right miserable, but that didn't make it open season. My emotions are mine to deal with. I wouldn't involve him, even if it was cause by him.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. "It's not me. It's you."
His jaw twitches. "I thought it goes, it's not you, it's me?"
"That's what I said. It's not me. It's you?"
No smile or laugh. He's waiting for my answer and I realize how important this conversation is. If I am to gain control over my wayward emotions, then I needed to nip this now. "Things have changed Donovan. I'm not the same person from before. You're not the same person from before. You're familiar, someone I once knew, so there was no need for awkwardness. But that doesn't mean that we're the best of friends and I need to shower you with attention. I have a life-"
"And I don't?" He uses the monotone voice and it hurts.
"You should work on yours. I have a friend who's a marriage counselor. I can gi-"
He snaps. "I don't need a marriage counselor."
"I beg to differ."
He opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. Opens it again, then nods his head. His eyes narrow. "I get it now."
Did he really?
"You don't know how to treat me because I'm married."

He got it. A lot of things he may have been but slow-witted wasn't one.  Now that the conversation was heading where neither of us want to go..."Again, you should work on your marriage."
"Is that a professional or personal opinion?"
"Take it however you want. But just know that I charge ninety-five dollars an hour for private counseling."
"Shannon!" he says exasperatedly.
"Donovan!" I keep my tone neutral.

With every second that passes with him next to me, I curl my hands into balls, hoping the pain from my nails digging into my palms will balance me. It doesn't. Now my palms hurt and my insides twist. I could probably handle this better if I knew what he was thinking, but that emotionless mask he developed since I last saw him was perfected. His thoughts are no longer constantly open to me.

It seems that ignoring, avoiding, and pushing him away doesn't work. I tried it all and it all failed. I usually have a way to handle any situation, but when it comes to him everything fails. I've tried everything. Everything except honesty.

I'm not ready for honesty yet. I can't imagine baring it all and having it trampled. I wouldn't be able to handle such a rejection. Not from him. It's maddening. What about him made me feel the way I did when we were kids? It's not like we were all that close. We were only together when we were together. We never talked on the phone, never went on dates. I only say him when I was at Stephan's place or when he would come visit his niece and nephew who lived next downstairs from me. Even that was rare. Me going to either place was because Kendra dragged me when she wanted to see Anthony, and since Anthony and Donovan were always together, I was just a decoy. Something tossed to keep  him occupied.

And occupied I managed to keep him, unlike everyone else. I saw how he was when he was with other girls. Aloof, cold, aggressive. I would shake my head and call them all idiots. No way I would ever let him treat me like that, I would say to myself. He never did. He never tried. He was a gentleman around me, whereas he was an asshat around everyone else. He smiled and laugh. He showed concerned where it was due. The fact that I had to ability to do what others couldn't, that he treated me with care...that was my downfall. I was a short, skinny thing who wore her clothes slightly big, hair always braided. I ran around playing sports with the guys. I wasn't exactly a soft and dainty thing like the others. My confidence level was low, and he helped build it. My feelings for him grew along with my self-esteem. I bet his never did.

So no. Honestly won't work. I won't even dream of telling him. I sigh in defeat. "I'm sorry."
His face softens a bit. Just a bit. He's still pissed about me avoiding him for no reason.
"You're right. I don't know how to treat you now that you're married. I treat everyone the same from the beginning to the end. I can't treat you like I use to."
"You can." His anger is gone.
"Ohh no I can't. And you can't treat me like before either. I won't be one of the numbers that stand between you and your wife?"
His face turns to stone. He looks disgusted. "One of the numbers?" This was worst than the monotone. Oops! Wrong thing to say.
He doesn't give me a chance to respond. He simply turns around and walks back to the station.
"Donovan," I call out. He doesn't stop. "Well fine," I say angrily. "Sulk away like a little sissy girl."
He whips around so fast MY neck hurts. I squeak and race to my car, driving away before he has the chance to reach me once again.



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