One My mother always said people who work in helping professions are the ones in greatest need of professional help themselves. She's usually right about most things. After all, I became an advice columnist-imagine the irony . . . Who needs more help than that? When things started to go awry, I was sitting in a two p.m. staff meeting, politely nibbling a stale Girl Scout cookie courtesy of the real estate columnist's daughter, waiting for the Raleigh Times's owner to arrive and the other shoe to drop. The last time Ed Hastings had been here, half our staff had been let go. Low subscription numbers, lost ad revenue, and all that. Today, he whooshed into the room and the air whooshed out-everyone fell silent. I brushed a crumb from my notepad, straightened up, and squared my shoulders. If I was getting the axe, the least I could do was sit up straight. "Afternoon, folks," Ed said. "I'll keep this brief." "The online edition has been doing well," Tyler, the Raleigh Out and About columnist, interjected. "We've had great ad commitment for next quarter." "Let's not get ahead of ourselves." Tyler straightened his lavender tie. He's a Spring, so he can pull that color off. It would've washed me out. "I'm not here for layoffs. Tyler's right, we're faring fine, for now. Out and About, of course, has been one of our top features. Actually, I'm here to announce a few pieces of good news. First, as you likely already know, our brilliant editor in chief received the Hillman Prize for her series on corruption in the North Carolina general assembly-kudos again, Kyra. Second, we've got a columnist who, if everything goes according to plan, is about to go national." He surveyed the room, appraising us, while we all wondered who was about to get lucky. Had his gaze lingered on Ashleigh? She wrote the society pages on top of meaty public interest pieces and looked like a princess in pearls, her natural blonde waves cascading over her shoulders. Or maybe Javier? His coverage of the evolution of the educational system had been insightful, thoroughly researched, with crisp writing to boot. They were the real journalists. I smiled preemptively, preparing to show a gracious response. Hastings extended his arms. "Our very own Dear Sweetie!" The small room exploded with applause. Javier whistled. "Way to go, Violet!" Tyler said in a tone that sounded as much of an indictment as it did a congratulations. "Alright, everybody," Kyra said, saving me from the attention, "it is wonderful news, and absolutely well deserved, but the syndication's not a done deal yet. There are a few columnists in the running-all talented. The next three months will determine what happens. Okay, that's it, great job, you superstars. Back to work." A couple of people congratulated me as they trickled out of the room. I thanked them, but I stayed put, processing. Kyra raised an eyebrow. I'd thought my face had remained neutral, pleasantly surprised; truth be told, I was flummoxed. And despite my years of practice controlling my expressions, curating them for each situation, she read me like a book, just as she always had when we were college roommates at State. "You're not excited?" she asked. "No . . . of course I am. Who wouldn't be excited? I'm just shocked, I guess. You are sneaky. I had no idea." She shrugged. "I always tell Rox that I would've made a great spy. Keeping secrets, digging up dirty ones, whatever . . . it's one of my many gifts." "Right, well don't look at me. I've got no secrets. I'm just a happily married advice columnist." "Yeah, yeah. How about kick-ass-soon-to-be-nationally-syndicated advice columnist? It sounds more exciting, and less smug married." "It does have a ring to it," I admitted, finally standing up slowly. My legs still felt like rubber after an unusually brutal boot camp class that morning. "Why do you look like my grandma getting out of her BarcaLounger? Tell me you're not still doing that awful fitness class at the crack of dawn." I ignored her and smoothed down my skirt. "Do you mind if I head home early? I was thinking I'd finally break out that sushi-making kit Sam got me for our anniversary and surprise him with my news at dinner." "Raw fish . . . how sexy. You're not planning on placing the rolls all over yourself like Samantha in Sex and the City, are you?" I recoiled. "That's an option, thanks to all those sessions at that awful fitness class you keep teasing me about. But, no, I was not planning on turning myself into a naked human platter." Although, it had been a while since Sam and I had engaged in anything other than the standard ten-minute, two-position, perfectly fine sex. I pictured a piece of sashimi on my dZcolletage. No. "Good. 'Cause if I recall, that did not end well for Smith and Samantha. Didn't they break up in that episode?" "Unlike some people, I haven't watched that show since we binged it in college. Not to worry. I definitely will not be wearing a California roll tonight, so I guess my marriage is safe." "In that case, I suppose strategizing how to get your column on top can wait 'til tomorrow." "Thanks, boss." I grinned at her, collected my leather folio, and power walked out of the office. I couldn't wait to see the look on Sam's face when I surprised him with my big news. Sam and I moved to Sunny Ridge, a small town nestled between Apex and Holly Springs, ten years earlier, when the few subdivisions being built were mixed in among horse farms like some kind of utopia. It was so charming and perfect; weÕd loved it right away, just like weÕd fallen for each other. The tiny historic downtown still stood, as picturesque as ever, but there were more communities, fewer trees, and no horses for miles these days. On my way home, I stopped at the newest addition-a high-end grocery store-and bought some sushi-grade tuna and salmon along with a bottle of prosecco, and then headed toward the year-old firehouse, where a crew was bringing the truck to a high shine in the sun. One guy tossed a soapy sponge like a football. It arced over his target's head and landed in the road ahead of me. I slowed the Jeep to a stop to keep from running it over. The intended receiver, a tall, handsome man, sprinted into the road after the rogue sponge. Once he'd saved it from the street, he flashed me a grin and then loped off, launching the sponge right into the laughing quarterback's face. I was in such a good mood I waved before I continued on. I hung a left into our neighborhood. It had been the first one Sam and I had looked at when we decided to buy. The only one. We lived in a sky-blue Victorian on a cul-de-sac where I baked Ritz Cracker chocolate toffee bark every Christmas, threw the Labor Day cookout with an honest-to-God bouncy castle, and could be counted on to bring flowers and two bottles of wine-a red and a white-to the community Bunco club each month. It was idyllic. Sam mowed the zoysia lawn in perfectly parallel lines and I planted clematis and azaleas that burst with color along our picket fence every spring. It was the kind of life I'd pictured when I was a girl, watching my mother plan all those fancy weddings for her clients and dreaming about my own happily ever after. I parked in the driveway next to Sam's car-he'd taken an interest in the environment recently and carpooled most days with one of our neighbors who worked for the same firm-and grabbed the mail from the mailbox. I bounced up the steps, wrangling the giant stack of mail, the grocery bag, and my keys. Inside, I left my shoes beside the door before heading into the kitchen. I dropped the mail on the table. The paper fowarded my readers' letters here, so we got more mail than most people. I ran a hand over the envelopes, debating whether I should open them, start the sushi rice, or get changed. I was dying to get out of my constricting work clothes and into a pair of nice jeans and a tank top, unwind my hair out of the high bun that had become a uniform over the years, but I wanted to make sure I had everything ready by the time Sam came home. I cooked the short-grain rice until it was tender, fanning it precisely the way the directions specified, adding the rice vinegar, placing it on the cling wrap on the little mat, and then filled it with the fish and cucumber sliced into tiny sticks before I tucked it into the fridge next to the chilling bubbly. Sam wasn't due back for another two hours-plenty of time to shave my armpits, wash my hair with the coconut shampoo he liked, do my hair and makeup, and greet him at the front door. I made a beeline from the bedroom door straight to the bathroom to turn on the shower before I undressed. I hated to be wasteful, but the water took forever to get hot-the water heater was old, like the linoleum. Maybe we could use the extra income from the syndication to finally redo the bathroom. Even better, Sam could stop working so hard to get promoted, all those early mornings and late nights, and-I dared to dream-his mother might even stop calling my column a "little hobby." I unzipped my skirt and stepped out of it. I was on my way to the walk-in closet to put my skirt in the bag for dry cleaning when I froze. Among my mother's many mantras I followed to a T was messy bed, messy head. Sam must've been in a hurry this morning: he'd pulled the covers up, but he'd left the blanket I used to block the blasting air conditioner he liked at night all wadded and lumpy beneath the duvet. He also hadn't opened the curtains. I left them-with any luck, we'd want them closed later anyway-but the bed had to be fixed. I flung the comforter back so I could grab the blanket and smooth the whole tangled mess out. I admit it, I screamed when I saw them. At first, I only registered people in my supposed-to-be-empty house. A moment passed-my scream hanging in the air-before the people flailed about searching for cover and I was able to finally process what I was seeing. The tangled mess. Blankets, I'd thought. Not Sam. Not my husband. Not my husband, Sam, intertwined with a woman. Seeing is believing: my mother said that too. I saw. Sam's pale skin, naked, his face like an Edvard Munch painting, his blond curls a mess, and the woman, her hair blonder than his, her skin a shade tanner, but precisely as nude. She buried her face in his chest. "Oh my God," Sam said. "Violet. Oh God." None of us moved. I didn't take a breath for several seconds; I was too busy wondering if I was having some sort of episode or near-death experience that was causing me to hallucinate. Had I actually tripped and hit my head on the footboard? The woman's hand clutched for the covers. She wasn't wearing a wedding ring, I noted. "What is this?" I managed to squeak. Sam squirmed. "What are you doing home so early?" I stepped back. My lip was starting to tremble, so I bit it. I realized that I was standing in a wrinkled blouse and my shapewear and I just couldn't. There's only so much humiliation a person can bear; certainly I had exceeded the all-time limit. I skulked back to the bathroom and shut the door. The shower was steaming, so I stepped beneath it, letting the water rush over me. It soaked through my stupid blouse and scalded my skin. Mascara dripped down my cheeks and onto my hands when I wiped my face. I pressed my back against the wall of the shower and slid down to the floor. That couldn't have been real, could it? Sam with another woman, in our bed? But I'd seen them with my own eyes. All that skin. A perfectly toned ass. The platinum-blonde hair with the telltale postcoital matting. Idiot, I thought. I'd jinxed myself with the sushi. And after I was the victim of the worst possible type of surprise, Sam had tried to protect her. Her. Like she was the one who stood to be harmed in the situation. A sob rose up in my throat, but I clapped my hands over my mouth. The ability to cry, really cry, without making a sound was a skill I'd perfected over a lifetime, and I was thankful for it now. My perfect world had just imploded while I stood there in my Spanx. No way was I letting the perpetrators hear me have a breakdown in the bathroom. I stayed in the shower until the water ran ice cold. Surely they weren't still lying there? The mirror was covered with a sheen of condensation, but I could make out my reflection, blurred, like a ghost. A drowned raccoon ghost, with the mascara smeared around both eyes. That wouldn't do, I told myself. I toweled off, washed my face, and reapplied my makeup. Then I got out my volumizing blow-drying brush and did my hair. I once saw a quote on Pinterest that said "If my hair looks good, I can deal with anything." I guessed this was a test of that adage. When my hair was as good as it was going to get, I opened the bathroom door. The bedroom was dark, the bed made so tightly you could bounce a quarter off of it. Sam cleared his throat from the doorway. "We should talk," he said. I opened and closed dresser drawers in succession, pulling out my nicest underwear, jeans, a black T-shirt. "Violet." I shook my head. "It's not a good time," I said. "I need to explain." I turned to face him. His button-down was off by a button; I resisted the urge to fix it. "I think you should go. I need to get changed." He looked at me. An hour earlier, the eye contact alone would've melted me into a puddle, but now I felt I might spontaneously combust and be reduced to a pile of ash on our carpet, something to be sucked up by our robot vacuum. I listened to Sam's footsteps on the stairs. The creak of the front door. The turn of the dead bolt as he locked it from the outside. His car started and then it was quiet again. Even with the bed made and Sam and whoever that was gone, and my hair voluminous as all get-out, I could still see them. I retreated to the kitchen, to cold sushi and the pile of my mail. There's nothing better for avoiding your own devastation than a mountain of other people's problems. I choked down a mouthful of spicy tuna-the gelatinous rice sticking in my throat-and chased it with a generous gulp of the prosecco I'd planned on using to toast my big news while I tore open the first envelope, a pink one with loopy cursive on the front. Dear Sweetie, it read, I don't know what to do. I feel like my whole world is falling apart. Excerpted from If You Ask Me by Libby Hubscher All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
