Color Her Red by Crystal Shaw

hand and opens the car door.  As soon as his door opens I can hear the unrelenting media outside.  The door closes and it is silent again.  My heart starts racing.  I don’t want to do this.  I can change my mind.  No, do this for your husband.  He needs you.
    In a moment , he’s at my door and Nate is by his side.  I wish it were Michael, not a stranger.  I take Thomas’ hand and stand as graciously as I can.  I can do this. 
    Men and women all dressed in neutral business attire are hovering so close, hardly giving me any room to walk.  Everyone is speaking at once; I can only make out single words.  Cheating.  Affair. Divorce. Mistress.  I hold onto Thomas’s hand with everything in me, feeling the familiar prick at the back of my eyes.  I breathe in and out, concentrating hard on not crying.
    He must feel my anxiety.  He pulls me in close to him and gives me a small kiss on the cheek.
    “Are you alright?”  I can hear the agony in his voice.
    “I’m fine, please just don’t let go of my hand.”  I look up at him with my eyes beseeching him.  I feel as though I would drown if he let go.  He nods and gives me another kiss.
    Finally , we’re at the entrance and we turn around, Nate is behind us at the door.  Thomas’ hand raises and instantly the well-groomed mob quiets.  I’m almost thrown back by how quickly the atmosphere has changed.
    Some brave reporter speaks, “Mr. Grant, would you or your wife like to comment on the photos released yesterday?”  The reporters throw their microphones into the air and cameras begin flashing in the background.  He takes a deep breath and I squeeze his hand.  I look at my hand in his waiting for him to speak.  He clears his throat.  He doesn’t mind making them wait.
    “Mr. Grant, a comment please?”
    Before he can speak , and before I can think about what I am doing, I blurt out, “Those photos were taken a long time ago.”  The flash from photographers doesn’t even make me flinch.  I continue strong, “It is unbelievable to me that someone would go through so much trouble to try to question our marriage.  I would hope that the media would do a more thorough job of researching a story before they report it.” 
    Thomas’ arm is firmly around me.  My heart is beating so loud I can hardly hear a thing. 
    “What about the photo where you can clearly see his wedding band?”  Another reporter asks, shoving his microphone into the air.
    “Thank you for your time.”  Thomas calmly comments and pulls me in front of him, shielding me from the frantic reporters who begin yelling out inaudible questions.
    What?  What photo?
    “That’s all for now.”  Nate steps in front of us, as Thomas takes me inside. 
    What fucking photo?  I have to contain my shock and anger and remain poised until we are out of earshot and out of sight.  As we enter the elevator inside his building, I pull away from him and he looks at me with confusion, and I rip my hand away from his. Neither of us says anything, Nate remains quiet and pretends to be oblivious as we wait for the familiar “bing” of the elevator reaching the top floor.
    Soon we are in his office.  I slam my purse down on the desk as he shuts the door.
    “What photo was that fucker talking about?”  I scream at him.  My heart races and my breathing is sporadic.  “You said they were years old.”
    “They w ere.  I don’t know what they’re talking about.”  He looks puzzled and angry, angry at me.  I move to his computer swiftly, without acknowledging him.  I bang hard on the keyboard.  Fucking password.  He reaches around me and types it in.  I grab the mouse completely ignoring him and I search Google images: Thomas A. Grant cheating photos. 
    I’ve seen the first one and the second.  There. 
    There it is.  It was taken in his office.  I can see his wedding band.  He’s holding on to her elbow and she is smiling.  It looks like they are talking but his hands