Six Simple Steps

It’s taking me a lot of courage to say this, but I’m going to say it anyway.

I don’t think I’m ever going clubbing again.

Yeah right. I know some people don’t believe these words I just spewed from my mouth, but it is the truth. And why, you may ask?

Well, let’s just say a particular club night out went wrong.

I had gone out with a couple of friends one Friday night to Club Seven to celebrate Eddy’s birthday. Now, Eddy is a very important figure in my life, and not celebrating him on his birthday wouldn’t have ended well for me. So we went out, and since my husband is very wealthy—I'm talking billionaire wealthy—the drinks were on me. We hired some strippers for Eddy and the rest of the guys. We girls decided to hog the bar stand and try on new drinks.

I can’t remember what happened after that. I tried my best to remember. But even with help from doctors, friends, and family, I couldn’t seem to remember anything else, and my husband was fucking pissed about it. And I don’t blame him. Coming home after spending weeks holed up in a country, working out business deals, to meet your wife naked in an alley is something nobody wants to do. Yes. That’s exactly what happened. After my blackout, I opened my eyes to find myself naked in an unknown alley, with nothing but my phone on me.

Frightened, I dialed my husband’s line.

He came, and what followed next was a series of investigations. My friends were interviewed, and they all said the same thing. I had left the bar on my own. But why couldn’t I remember? My husband had examined me for hickeys, and I was saddened when I found out. He thinks I’ve cheated. I didn’t know, so I asked the doctor to examine me. No semen was found, and no drugs either, so we were at a dead end. This only made my dear husband madder and me more confused.

So, we went home. I know he still has people investigating the matter, but more importantly, I just wish he would stop looking at me like I’m a walking sin.

"Are you still mad?", I ask, closing the door with my hip. Finally, we’re alone. No more curious neighbors or fake friends. It’s just me and my husband. I lean against the closed door, watching him.

He is bent over, examining a shoebox. The cords in his arms flex as he pulls out some stacks of papers. He is perspiring. His shirt is stuck to his skin, and when my eyes glaze over his jean-clad ass, I let out a small sigh. The back of his thighs is firm, and I suppress the urge to touch them. Now is not the time. He suddenly straightens a stack of papers in hand. He looks at me, brows furrowed.

"Yes."

I blink. Well, that was not the answer I was expecting.

"I’m sorry."

I hadn’t apologized. When he came to get me, and even throughout my stay in the hospital, I hadn’t apologized. I think this is the first time I've apologized to my husband. So, I say it again, with more meaning.

"I’m sorry."

He doesn’t speak; those blue orbs swirling in their irises are thoughtful.

"Say something, please," I beg him, and heaven knows, I don’t beg. I never needed to, but today’s the first.

He smiles. It’s small. "I didn’t know you knew the word."

I stared at him dumbfounded. "Don’t. Not right now. Talk to me instead. I want to know what you think."

"I don’t want to think!" he yells, slamming his hand down on the dresser. I jumped. I have never seen him enraged. Mad, but not enraged. "I haven’t gotten a wink of sleep since that night because every time I close my eyes, I see you naked in that alley!"

My eyes water and I hold in the tears. "I’m sorry," I whisper.

"But I will tell you what I think. I think that the money spent on investigations was nothing but a waste. Do you know why? I think you do remember, but you’re only acting dumb so that you have me all to yourself."

My heart broke at his words. Does he think I’m playing him? Why would I do that? I don’t hold back the tears anymore. I let them flow.

"I don’t remember Kian; I swear I don’t."

He didn’t believe me for one second. It was written all over him.

I hate this. I hate that I don’t remember. I hate that he doesn’t believe me.

He reached over, snatched a box of tissues, and handed it to me.

"Here. Use it to clean those fake tears of yours."

Angry, I slapped the box out of his hands. "None of this is fake, Kian! I’m not faking anything! Trust me, if there was a way for me to prove that to you, I would have done it."

"I don’t trust you," he said as he picked up the box and returned it. "You broke my trust that day I found you naked in that alley, Farrah. Naked!"

I didn’t understand it then, but now I do.

"You think I cheated on you? And I’m only hiding it by acting like I don’t remember? That’s what you think, isn’t it?"

The look on his face only gave him away. I could only let out more tears.

"But you saw the test results, Kian. There was no semen found in me," I say pleadingly, hoping he will believe me.

He leans back against the dresser, arms crossed, lips pulled in a thin line.

"I still think you’re unfaithful."

"You still think I’m unfaithful? You still don’t trust me? What the fuck, Kian?"

"Well, what do you expect me to still think, huh? Is it every day I want to find my wife naked in an alley? I’m one step away from ending whatever this is."

I’m hurt, but I won’t let it show. "Do it! Just do it! You want to end things with me so badly then do it!"

He lets out a dry laugh. "I won’t let you off the hook so easily. I’m not that kind of man! And if you’re so innocent as you claim..."

I glared at him, cutting him off. "I am innocent."

"Then I’ll give you a chance to explain yourself. I want you to take six steps to show how much you care about me and how dedicated you are to this marriage. It’s just six steps. That shouldn’t be too hard, should it?"

"You’re crazy. Six steps? To show how much I care about you? I care enough to still be here!"

"I’m not crazy," he said coolly. "You and I both know that what I’m doing is nothing compared to what you would have done if I were in your place."

He is so not talking about...

"Yes, I’m talking about Claire. Remember? Remember two months ago when you thought I cheated on you with my assistant?"

How can I ever forget Claire, the assistant?

"That’s different," I tell him.

"In what sense? Yes, I was barely dressed when Claire left the room buttoning her blouse, but I didn’t touch her!"

"And I wasn’t touched either, Kian! Good God! What would it take for you to forgive me, Kian?"

He pursed his lips. "Six steps. One step a week. The timeline is a total of six weeks."

I glared at him. "You won’t even be home for that long."

"That’s where you’re wrong, love. I’ve spoken with the board, and I won’t be leaving the country until a good two months have come and gone. Next week will serve as the first week. So, you’ve got today, tomorrow, and the weekend to figure out your first step before the first week begins."

"You’re being unfair."

He let out a low chuckle. "Life has never been fair, love; if it were, our marriage wouldn’t have come to this point."

The point of falling apart. I only had to take six steps to save whatever is left of my marriage with Kian. But why was I the one doing all the sacrificing? It’s not fair.

"I’ll fix this," I say with determination. "I will save our marriage, Kian, and do you know why? Because I AM innocent, whether you believe it or not."

He smiled. "Six weeks, six simple steps. Nothing more, nothing less."