Chapter 4 Triumphant return and more lies

What I hate most-more than this wait, more than this guilt-is what happens in my head when he disappears. It's as if my brain splits into two voices that never stop screaming at each other.

On one hand, the question that devours me: Was it me? Did I say something wrong? Did I demand too much? Did I complain at the wrong time? Did I make that face he hates? And I keep going over every sentence, every comma, every sigh, as if it were possible to find the flaw that explains the silence.

On the other hand, the fear that paralyzes me: What if he never comes back? What if that was the last message? What if tomorrow I wake up and realize it's all over without even having the chance to ask why? Because it doesn't explain, it doesn't justify itself; it just disappears, as if I were disposable, a detail easily erased. That's when I weaken the most: when I realize that, between the certainty of having lost and living in this doubt, I prefer doubt. Because doubt feeds me. It's a twisted hope, but hope. And as long as it exists, I stay. I wait. I torture myself, wondering if it was me or him, and deep down knowing that, in the end, it will never be just his fault.

He reappears on any given Tuesday. Just like that, out of nowhere. As if he hadn't left me talking to myself on WhatsApp for a whole week. As if he hadn't deleted and rewritten twenty messages I never sent.

"Missing?" I rehearsed.

"Are you alive?" I wrote.

"You're an idiot," I almost wrote.

But who am I? I am Marília Marques. A controlled woman. A classy woman. A woman who isn't scared of men. A woman who doesn't... Well, you know what I mean.

Anyway. He disappears, I almost have a nervous breakdown, but I don't send him anything. Because I have dignity. Selective dignity, of course.

So, Tuesday, 8:47 PM, my phone rings. Message from whom? Fábio Cruz. The resurrected.

"I'll be by in 30 minutes. May I?"

"May I?" she asks. "May I?" As if I'm about to say no. As if I'm not already wearing a cotton nightgown, my hair in a crooked bun, and my mascara smudged from a day's work.

I could. But I shouldn't.

I should say "no." I should say "fuck off." I should say "find your wife, liar." But I simply write:

"You may."

There you have it. I surrender my soul, my reputation, and my dignity to a "may I." All in four letters.

It arrives 28 minutes later. I still have time to brush my teeth, reapply my lipstick, and change out of my nightgown into a dress I pretend I "wore for nothing."

Ridiculous.

When I open the door, there it is. A slightly wrinkled shirt, a loose tie, that smile of someone who knows I'm their favorite mistake, and vice versa.

"I miss you," he blurts out shamelessly, looking at me as if it were the long weekend of his life.

I laugh. You know that laugh of someone who wants to hit and kiss at the same time? Yes.

"You disappeared and then you appeared like that, with that face like you hadn't done anything," I replied.

He leaned against the door, pulling me by the waist. His scent filled my room. And my conscience went out the window.

"It's been a rough week," he said softly, brushing his lips against my neck. Meetings, trips, a client... And me, dying to see you.

I should ask, "And Rebeca?" I should shout, "Liar!" But the smell, the mouth, the hand on my neck.

That's all. Marília Marques, senior lawyer, self-possessed, is gone. It's just skin, warmth, and regret.

We stumble to the couch. He kisses me like he's starving. Like I'm his salvation. And maybe I am. Maybe I like being him.

The clothes disappear, my certainties too.

In the end, we're sprawled on the couch, naked, my leg over his, a glass of wine in one hand, my phone in the other. He caresses my thigh. I pretend I'm not dying to ask: "Are you sleeping with her?"

Of course I am. Obviously I am. The problem is I pretend I don't know. "I missed you," he murmurs, as if it were poetry.

"Really?" I ask sarcastically. "So why did you disappear?"

He sighs. He closes his eyes. He lets go of that beautiful, rehearsed excuse.

"Marília, my world is in chaos right now. Work, my family, everything. I didn't want to involve you in my problems. You deserve good things."

There it is. The phrase. The bait. You deserve good things. Translation: I'm trash, but I'll give you crumbs until I decide to become a person.

And I fall for it. Even worse: I smile.

Fábio always does that. He seduces me, makes me believe. He has that gift: he speaks in a way that sounds like a confession, but it's just control.

I laugh. I pick up my glass, play with the wine.

"You know what? We should make a contract."

He raises an eyebrow. Too handsome to be trustworthy.

"Contract?" "Yes. I'm a lawyer, have you forgotten? Clauses, conditions, fines."

He laughs. That husky laugh that makes me shudder.

"And what would the first clause be?"

"Disappearing without warning carries a fine of one bottle of Cabernet, special vintage. Second clause: if you lie, you pay in French champagne."

He takes my hand. He kisses my fingers. He responds in the most cynical tone in the world:

"Then I'll be ruined right away, Doctor."

I should laugh. But I swallow hard. Because it's the only complete truth he's told me today.

After another round of kisses, promises, and mediocre excuses, he says he has to go. I don't ask where. I know.

As he picks up his tie from the floor, I think about saying,

"Stay."

But I swallow. I'm the mistress, not the wife. I don't have that power.

He kisses me on the forehead. That kiss on the forehead breaks me more than anything else. It's almost a "take care," almost a "see you next time." It's almost a "you're not a priority, but I'll be back."

When the door closes, I'm standing in the middle of the living room, naked, wrapped in a blanket. I stare at the messy sofa. His scent still hangs in the air.

I want to hate him. I want to hate myself. But I can only sigh and open another bottle of wine.

I toast alone to my own idiocy.

In the shower, I let the hot water hit my face until my skin burns. The steam fogs up the mirror. I'm fogged up too. I don't even know who I am anymore.

I remember when I promised myself not to fall into traps. I remember the girl who studied, worked, and dominated an office full of arrogant men. I remember the woman who planned every step of her career. Every vacation. Every holiday.

Nothing was a coincidence.

Now, every message from him is a coincidence that shatters my order.

I wonder: "Is he going to dump her?"

The answer is a knot I'd rather ignore.

I lie down on the bed, phone in hand. I open WhatsApp. It's online. He sends me a six-second audio message:

"I miss you already."

I listen to it about ten times. My heart skips a beat. Ridiculous. Me. Not him. Me.

"The answer sticks in my throat. I delete it. I rewrite it. I delete it again. In the end, I just send a 'yes.' A red heart right after. Ridiculous. It's like he's saying, 'Look at me, I'm here, even if you pretend I'm not.'"

It could end here, but I know how it works. Tomorrow he'll send me a good morning text. He promises something new. He says he's working on it. And I'll pretend to believe it.

Because the problem isn't that he's lying. The problem is that I believe it.

I close my eyes. I imagine Rebeca's face, the perfect wife, with the perfect life. I wonder if she knows it. If she feels it. If she's pretending too.

Maybe she's pretending. Maybe everyone pretends. Maybe this is love: a big contract with clauses no one reads until it goes wrong.

My last thought before deleting: I could get out of this now. I could block him, delete him, disappear.

But I won't. Because his scent is still on my skin.

Because the addiction has already begun.

And I, Marília Marques, who always followed all the rules...

Now I live on exceptions.