Center of Gravity by Laura McNeill

her.
    I stand, pressing my knuckles against the chill of the glass-covered desk. My reflection stares back at me, the outline of my face etched in worry. I exhale, pushing tension through my lips. As I close my eyes, I clear my mind and center my thoughts.
    Moments later I walk into the huge boardroom, with its mahogany walls, tall-back chairs, and thick Oriental rugs, and settle into my rhythm. Controlled, laser-sharp. Pausing by the huge picture window, I gaze out onto our magnificent chapel, flanked by a rich, green lawn, waving palm trees, and brick-lined sidewalks. Students carrying backpacks hurry past marbled statues. Below us, the wrought iron fountain arcs water into the morning air. Its droplets sparkle silver in the sunlight.
    I am the vice president of advancement here. On my campus. Something no one will take away. I rub my hands together, ready to start the meeting. Waving for my receptionist to gather the staff, I remind myself that we’re on track for a stellar summer session, class schedules are solid, and more recruitment efforts are under way around the state. As everyone takes their seats, I wait for complete silence.
    â€œGood morning. Thank you all for coming. First, kudos on the website upgrades.” I nod in the direction of the marketing folks. “Nice job. The parent and family weekend—”
    My cell phone, deliberately set to ring at 8:45 am, starts blaring. A few department heads stand up, move away from their chairs. It’s protocol to leave the room. Today I hold up a finger for them to wait. I create a concerned look, then agree with the nonexistent person I pretend is on the line. For effect, I rub my forehead and heave a deep sigh. I make certain to almost whisper my wife’s name.
    â€œAva. Of course. Certainly. Thank you.”
    My phone snaps shut with the flick of my wrist. I set it on the table as if it weighs three hundred pounds.
    â€œEverything all right, Dr. Carson?”
    Evidently my acting isn’t too shabby. I hesitate and force the corners of my lips up just an iota. “Oh, thank you.” I press my fingers together. “Could we adjourn until next week? I have some personal matters to take care of.”
    A swarm of bodies rushes for the door. My core team hangs back. Blake Michaels, head of the business school, speaks up. “What can I do?” Michaels is, by far, the least able to keep a secret on my entire staff, thus making him the perfect person to disseminate my story. I estimate warp-speed delivery.
    â€œThat’s very kind.” I pat his shoulder, lower my voice. “It’s my wife . . . she’s a bit unstable these days. Ava’s been stopped a few times by the police. Drinking and driving with the children.”
    Horrified looks all around.
    â€œI’ve all but confirmed that she’s having a liaison—” I let my voice trail off and project a look of anguish.
    No one moves.
    I swallow. “Worst of all, she’s completely unstable. Her moods are up and down. One minute crying, the next laughing. I don’t even know her anymore.” I drop my head into my hands, let my shoulders droop.
    Genuine pity surrounds me like thick fog on an English countryside.
    â€œI’ve said too much. You’re all too kind.” More sympathetic noises and shoulder patting. “We’ll be fine. I’ll get Ava some help. The children are my number one priority.”
    Vigorous head nodding.
    â€œThank you again.” A sober group shuffles out of the room at the very moment Ava appears at the end of the hallway.
    Despite my surprise, I arrange my face into a concerned expression. “Ava,” I say under my breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear.
    â€œMitchell,” she calls out, raising a hand in the air in greeting.
    My wife walks up, shoulders straight, hair tied back at the nape of her neck. She looks elegant and lovely, makeup attempting to mask the dark circles under her