When Things Aren’t What They Seem
Emily was riding the bus home from work, her head resting against the foggy window. Rain streaked down the glass, blurring the world outside into something unreal. *Just like my life. The future’s a haze, and that’s terrifying.* She closed her eyes. A tear glistened beneath her lashes.
“What’s with young people these days? Sitting like no one else exists. Meanwhile, elderly folk are left standing,” a woman’s voice, sharp with judgement and bitterness, cut through the air above her.
Emily looked up to see a heavyset woman looming over the seat, her face pinched with disapproval, eyes boring into her.
“Please, take my seat,” Emily offered, standing.
“About time. Wouldn’t budge unless told, would they?” the woman muttered, plopping down.
Emily squeezed past her, hearing grumbles about “rude youngsters” as she moved toward the doors. A few voices chimed in agreement. The woman had allies.
*Maybe her life’s worse than mine. No wonder she’s so bitter.*
“You getting off?” a voice behind her asked.
Emily turned and recognised her old schoolmate, Lucy.
“Emily! Blimey, it’s been ages!”
Before she could reply, the bus doors hissed open, and the crowd shoved them both outside.
“So good to see you,” Lucy beamed, bright and full of life, looping an arm through Emily’s. “You’re not getting away until I’ve wrung every last detail out of you.”
“Nice to see you too,” Emily replied flatly. “But I can’t invite you home.”
“Then come to mine—well, Mum’s place. I’m married now, live elsewhere. Just popping in to see her,” Lucy said, steering her along.
“Really, I can’t. Another time,” Emily stopped dead.
“Nope. Last time I waited, it took a century. Half an hour, that’s all.” Lucy’s tone was pleading.
“Fine, but no longer,” Emily relented.
“Got seven kids waiting or something?”
“No. A daughter and my husband.”
“Then they’ll manage. Come on.” Lucy tugged her past her own street, down a narrow lane.
“Mum, look who I found!” Lucy announced triumphantly.
Her mum gasped, delighted. Back in school, the two girls had been inseparable. Lucy had called constantly after graduation, pushing to meet, but Emily was too wrapped up in her whirlwind romance.
Her fiancé was a boxer. Her mum had begged her not to marry him. “What kind of life is that? Smashing fists for a living? Broken nose today, wheelchair tomorrow. Think, love!”
Lucy’s mum bustled with teacups.
“Mum, give us a moment?” Lucy asked.
“Of course, dear.” She left the kitchen.
“Now, spill. Knew instantly something was wrong.” Lucy leaned in. “Maybe I can help.”
Emily hesitated, but Lucy’s earnest sympathy wore her down, and the story tumbled out.
“So you married Jake after all? Remember how mad you were for him.”
“Yeah. Mum and I fought over him nonstop. She always held you up as the sensible one—said you’d land on your feet, while I was just a dreamer. No offence taken.”
“Classic Margaret,” Lucy chuckled. “Still teaching?”
“Yeah.” Emily finally smiled.
Lucy—blonde, elegant, a head taller—was everything Emily wasn’t. Round-faced, wavy chestnut hair, wide blue eyes. A true romantic. Now, though, Emily just looked weary, her spark gone.
“At first, things were good. Then Jake got a head injury in the qualifiers for the British Championships. Stroke on top of it.” Emily waved a hand. “Doctors gave no guarantees. Career over. I was already pregnant—no idea how I didn’t miscarry.”
She’d juggled a newborn and a recovering husband. Sold their car for money. Her mum helped. Six months post-birth, she was back at work. Her daughter, now six, was Jake’s double.
Years of rehab. She’d given up hope he’d even walk again. But he fought back. Boxing was dead to him, though. No other skills. Job after job—too menial, underqualified, or employers wary of his injuries. The frustration turned him sullen. Only their daughter thawed him. Emily turned away, hiding fresh tears.
“I’ll talk to my husband. No, scratch that—I’ll make him help. Runs his own firm. Could Jake work security? Chin up, we’ll sort this.” Lucy squeezed her shoulder.
“Thanks, Luce. Glad we bumped into each other. But I’ve got to go. Jake gets antsy if I’m late. Thinks I’ll leave him.”
“Swap numbers. I’ll call tomorrow. Paul adores me—won’t say no to helping my best mate’s hubby.” Lucy grinned.
“Mum was right—you *are* clever. Here I am moaning about Jake, then blubbing myself.” Emily hugged her.
“Stop it. You’ll be fine. You know what they say—it’s not the start that counts, it’s how you finish.”
At home, Emily said nothing, not wanting false hope. Lucy called three days later, just as she’d given up.
“It’s me. Paul’s on board—wants to meet Jake first. Needs to be sure, you know… after brain injuries, sometimes…”
“I get it,” Emily said, relieved it wasn’t a flat no.
“Tell him to come to the office at three tomorrow. Suit and tie. Sober. Paul won’t stand for drink.”
“Jake doesn’t touch the stuff,” Emily snapped.
“Just covering bases.”
She relayed the offer, omitting the sobriety bit to spare Jake’s pride.
Next day, Jake left in a suit. Emily clutched her phone. When he called—hired!—she nearly wept. She’d feared he’d turn to drink, though she’d never admit it.
The job changed him. Confidence returned. Two peaceful months. Life back on track.
Then Paul sacked his driver. Until a replacement was found, Jake filled in. He could drive, had the licence, sharp enough.
A week later, Jake came home late, brooding. He shrugged off Emily’s questions, claiming fatigue.
Then he returned with bruised knuckles.
“You got in a fight?” she gasped.
“Security hazard. Don’t fret,” he brushed her off.
Two hours later, Lucy rang, bypassing hellos.
“I helped you, and your Jake repaid me by beating my husband.”
“Explain properly—what happened?” Emily demanded.
“Ask *him*. He’s unhinged!” The line went dead.
Before she could interrogate Jake, the doorbell rang—insistent, demanding justice.
“I’ll get it,” he said, though she hadn’t moved.
Raised voices. A thud. Emily peered into the hall.
A man in a black overcoat cowered by the coat stand. Another, in a leather jacket, hunched over, gasping. Jake had a third—a muscled giant—pinned to the wall.
“Go!” Jake barked, not turning.
He ejected the men one by one. The last spat threats from the safety of the pavement. The door slammed.
“What the hell was that?” Emily demanded.
“Your mate’s husband came to kill me. Brought backup. Useless.”
“Why?”
“Thought he was decent. Turns out, he’s not.” Jake flexed his hand. “Been driving him to his mistress. Young thing, dolled up in pink. Tonight, at dinner with clients, he got handsy with a waitress. She fought him off. I stepped in. Had to hit him to shut him down. Got sacked on the spot. Then he sent goons.”
“Let me bandage that.” She led him to the kitchen.
“Couldn’t just watch. Bet Lucy doesn’t know. Don’t tell her—she’ll think I’m lying.”
Next day, Lucy arrived, tear-streaked, one cheek swollen.
“Did he hit you?” Emily guided her to the sofa, fetching water.
“First time. Lived with him years—turns out I didn’t know him at all. We rowed last night. I know he came here. Fetch Jake—I want the truth.”
“What’d Paul say happened?” Jake asked, entering.
“That you were drunk and attacked him.”
Jake scoffed. “I don’t drink. *He* was plastered. Harassed a girl. I stopped him. Hit him—only way. He sacked me, then sent thugs to scare us. Oh, and he’s cheating. Flats for his bit. You really never noticed?”
Lucy stared, disbelieving. Emily hugged her.
“I thought *I* was the lucky one. Pitied you. Your mum was right—I married a monster. You got the good one.” She sobbed.
“What now? Forgive him?”
“No. AndBut life has a way of revealing the truth, and sometimes, the people we pity most are the ones who’ve had it right all along.
