by Lisa Daily
And that’s right where I am when the phone rings yet again.
3
Michael finally calls, two excruciating hours after Darcy, at seven.
“I’m so sorry, Alex,” Michael says. “I never meant to hurt you. It just happened. It didn’t mean anything. I still love you.”
“Why do people always say that when they cheat? Of course it meant something. Maybe it didn’t mean anything to you, but it means a hell of a lot to me,” I yell. “Did you have sex with that guy?”
“It’s complicated,” he says.
“Oh, that’s bullshit. It’s not that complicated. Did. You. Have. Sex. With. Him?”
“Well,” he says.
“Don’t you Bill Clinton me,” I yell. “Yes or no?”
“Yes, but…” Michael sighs. One of those long, forlorn, manipulative, poor me sighs that makes me want to throw up. On him.
“What?” I ask. If I didn’t ask, he’d just keep sighing until he hyperventilated. And once the paramedics resuscitated him, he’d just start the poor me sighs all over again. “Stop already. What do you want?”
“I think I’m going to lose my job,” he says, his voice all shaky and quiet. “I need your help.”
“Are you out of your freaking mind? You have got to be kidding,” I say. “You brought this on yourself.”
“I know, I know,” he says. “And I probably deserve it.”
“Probably?” Yes, sure, the jury is still out on that one.
“Okay, I deserve it. But if I get fired from ESPN, I’ll never get another job in sports or broadcasting again. Please,” he says. “You know this is my dream job. It’s all I ever wanted to do. You helped me get here.”
Locker room access and a clothing allowance, it’s freaking homo-nirvana.
God, I’m an idiot.
I get up off the couch and start pacing the great room, desperate to relieve the shock of angry energy buzzing through my body, leaving me feeling like a live wire. I cannot sit back down—I have to keep moving or I’ll just fall apart.
“What am I supposed to do?” I ask.
“I need you to fly to the ESPN campus in Bristol with me this morning. We’ll meet with the network people this afternoon.”
“Are you out of your mind? Why would I go?” I say. “Besides, Darcy told me to lay low.”
“I need you to tell them that you knew, and that we were separated when this happened last year.”
I sob in disbelief. My mind spins and pitches with the shock of it all, and I drop my head between my knees so I won’t hyperventilate, turn blue and die on my living room floor, all alone. I desperately need a paper bag or I’m going to pass out, and the only thing within reach is a decorative glass vase. Grabbing it, I blow in and out of it while keeping my head down, trying anxiously to calm myself. It makes a strange hum every time I exhale. Like the bell choir for the apocalypse.
“Are you saying you’re gay? Actually, no, you’re not saying it, so I will. Are. You. Gay?”
It takes forever for him to answer. “I think so.”
“You think so? What the hell are you talking about? How long, Michael? How long have you known you were gay?”
“A couple of months. Or maybe forever,” he says. “You’re my best friend and I love you. I’ll always love you. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Forever? Did it ever occur to you that maybe getting married wasn’t such a hot idea? At least not to a woman?”
“I wanted to marry you. Did it ever occur to you that I’m not the first guy in the world to separate my emotions from my sex life? You are a psychologist.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that? I’m a psychologist for buildings, not closeted gay men.”
And now, I can’t think of anything except my husband having sex in the parking garage with Michigan hoops sensation Bobby Cavale.
“Why didn’t you tell me before now?” I ask, seething.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he says.
“So you just let FOX Sports do your dirty work.” I smirked. “Yes—it’s every girl’s dream on her wedding day, to find out from Don Bell at the update desk that her husband is screwing around.”
“I can’t believe you’re watching FOX Sports,” says Michael. As though I’m the big betrayer in the family for getting my sports-related scandals from Michael’s big competitor.
“Seriously?”
“I’m sorry, so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. But if you could just do this one thing for me…”
“But it’s a lie,” I say, outraged. He has some freaking nerve.
“I know,” he admits. “But if you don’t, they’ll fire me on an ethics violation. If you say we were separated at the time, they’ll give me a warning.”
“You are an ethics violation,” I snark. “Are you in love with him?” It aches to say the words.
“No,” says Michael. “It was just sex. That’s all.”
“I’m not going to ESPN,” I say. “I’m not telling a lie to cover up all your lies.”
The line is quiet. “If you don’t, I’ll get fired. Is that what you really want?”
“Don’t put this on me,” I say. “This is all you.”
“I know it is, I’m sorry to even ask you. Alex, I’ll lose my job,” he pleads. Jesus, I’m so angry with him, but I don’t know if I can bring myself to help torpedo his whole life. Or stand by doing nothing while it happens. Standing by, doing nothing, isn’t exactly my forte.
“I’m not sure I want to inform your bosses at ESPN that we’re getting a divorce before I tell my family,” I snap.
“Divorce? Who said anything about a divorce?” he asks. He actually sounds surprised.
“You’re gay!” I yell. “Of course we’re getting a divorce. What did you think would happen? Tuesday: laundry day; Thursday: Costco; Saturday: gay sex orgy? You are out of your freaking mind, Michael. Also, this seems to be a bit of an afterthought for everybody right now with the shameful media frenzy and all, but you cheated on me.”
“I just thought maybe we could somehow work it out…,” he says.
“You thought wrong,” I say. “As for ESPN, I’ll think about it.”
“Thank you, thank you,” he says with a sigh. “But think fast, the flight leaves at ten-thirty.”
I hang up without saying goodbye, which is juvenile and rude, and feels freaking amazing. Dialing Darcy’s number, I do pros and cons in my head—should I be going to talk to Michael’s bosses at ESPN? Con: Michael loses his job, and sometime in the near future I might possibly regret not being a better human being. Also, even though there is absolutely no reason to, I know I’ll feel guilty anyway if Michael gets fired. I guess that’s how all those political wives end up standing on the platform, next to their lying, cheating husbands—smiling tersely like first runner-up in some zombie beauty pageant. Pros: I’m an instant candidate for sainthood; if I weren’t agnostic, I’d be home free. That’s all I can think of, except that Connecticut is lovely in the fall—but that doesn’t really seem like a good enough reason to travel out of state to perjure myself.
Darcy picks up on the second ring.
“How are you holding up?” she asks. No hello. “Are you watching the news?”
“Not anymore,” I say. “Just tell me if it gets any worse, okay?”
“It will,” she says.
“I told Michael I wanted a divorce, which seemed like a big surprise to him. Michael wants me to go with him to Connecticut to tell his bosses at ESPN that we were separated when he started screwing Bobby Cavale. He actually believes this will keep him from getting fired.”
“It probably will,” Darcy answers. “If you two were married at the time he slept with Bobby, they can and will likely fire him for violating the ethics clause in his contract. If you two were separated, they can’t fire him—otherwise they’d be discriminating against him for his sexual orientation, which is illegal in Connecticut. Even if it wasn’t, they’d probably want to avoid the appearanc
e of discrimination. Michael is talented, a rising star at ESPN. My guess is that the network is looking for a way to keep him. Which is where you’d come in.”
“I really don’t feel comfortable with lying.”
“I know you don’t,” Darcy says reassuringly, “but this is more a matter of spin, of perspective. Let me be practical for you right now, do a little crisis management. It’s my job, after all, and I’m good at it, and there’s no way you’re thinking clearly after your morning from hell. So here it is: Michael is gay, so you’ve always been separated, at least metaphorically. I don’t think you should look at this from the viewpoint of should you lie or shouldn’t you, because without context, the answer is, of course, no.”
“Even with context the answer is no,” I interject.
“Sure,” she continues, “but I think you should look at what you want to do here, and we can sort right from wrong later.”
“Spoken like someone who works in politics,” I say.
“Ha. Okay, think of it this way. Big picture—first, you’re going to end up paying the cheating jackass alimony because he screwed around and got himself fired. That’s a payment that’s going to burn like hell every damned month. And that one little white lie saves you thousands and thousands of dollars. Is that particular truth worth thirty grand a year for the next five years? Second, if you don’t help Michael keep his job, which is what we’re really talking about here, how will you feel about that next week after he’s fired? How would you feel about it on your deathbed?”
“By next week I’d probably feel terrible. Or completely justified. I’m not sure. On my deathbed? I’d hope I’ll have bigger things to worry about.”
“I think that’s your answer, then.” says Darcy. “A year from now, or ten years from now, you will hopefully have moved forward. Maybe acquired your own twenty-year-old basketball hunk. I think if you don’t help Michael now, your guilt will keep you stuck in this day forever. Let it go, let him go. Not to mention, if you do this, the stench of scandal goes away, and ESPN will do everything they can to kill the story. On the flip side, if you march in there like the wronged woman and tell them you learned that Michael was cheating on you with a college basketball player this morning, just like everybody else in the country, you’ll give this story legs, and it will take longer to die down. Upside—doing this will help you both move on. That’s my professional advice.”
“Clearly Michael is not having any trouble whatsoever with moving on,” I sulk.
“True. Right. Let’s not forget that Michael screwed around. Are you medicated? Or are you out in your driveway right now, torching his stupid yellow golf pants and those ridiculous Dennis Rodman action figures and dancing around the bonfire?”
“Medicated,” I say. “Tequila.”
“So what are you going to do?” Darcy asks.
“I want to do the right thing,” I say.
Darcy sighs. “Right is relative.”
4
I grab a quick shower, throw some clothes and toiletries in a bag, and meet Michael at the Sarasota airport for the ten-thirty flight to LaGuardia. My face burns with humiliation as we wait at our gate; the news of Michael’s sex scandal is blaring away on half a dozen televisions overhead. Now CNN has the story too. This isn’t even real news! Why can’t a seven-pound Chihuahua drag a fireman out of a burning building or something? Why hasn’t one of the Kardashians gotten a back tattoo of one of the other Kardashians? Where are the politicians taking bribes and naked selfies, and celebrities short-circuiting their ankle monitors to go street racing with Lindsay Lohan when I need them most?
In any Florida airport, at least half the travelers are over eighty, so at least I could count on a big chunk of them being hard of hearing. Or asleep. As for the rest, quite a few people in the gate area are looking at the TV and then checking out Michael, trying to figure out if he’s that guy on the screen. I scrunch down in my chair and pray for stealthiness, keeping my giant sunglasses over my eyes indoors, even though I’m certain I look ridiculous, like some wannabe movie star. I feel ridiculous, especially while trying to read my People magazine through the ultradark lenses. I purchased a whole stack of glossy gossip magazines at the airport gift shop, so I wouldn’t have to think, make eye contact with other humans, or listen to Michael yammer on the plane.
The flight is terrible, and I wish I could nap but I can’t. My mind is razor sharp with betrayal and outrage, ruminating on how many days I have before running Michael over with my car would be counted by a jury as premeditated. Michael puts his hand on my arm, which makes my flesh crawl. I have to get away from him, and the first-class restroom has a line, so I make my way down the aisle to the bathrooms in the back of the plane. Squeezing into the tiny closet, I splash some water on my face, a one-handed challenge because the water only runs when I’m holding down the lever. My wedding ring sparkles in the unflattering glare of the overhead fluorescents. My face looks green. I need a vacation. Somewhere tropical. With cabana boys. Like Mexico without all the murder.
I stare at the reflection of my wedding and engagement rings in the airplane mirror—even though they’re obviously cursed, a symbol of my apparently fake marriage, they are picture-perfect, vintage platinum and aquamarine. I love those rings, I spent months picking them out myself—and I wonder if I could get away with wearing them on my other hand. Probably not.
A sad thought occurs to me. If Michael and I are going to convince his bosses that we’re separated and headed for divorce, the rings are a dead giveaway that we’re full of crap. Pissed, I pull at the rings to take them off, dismayed to find them stuck. My fingers are probably swollen from the flight. Or maybe from this morning’s crack-of-dawn tequila shots. I squirt foul, industrial-smelling hand soap from the dispenser and lather up my hand, tugging again at the lubricated bands. Suddenly, the rings fly from my finger and ricochet off the edge of the sink like they were spring-loaded.
I gasp in horror as my elegant platinum wedding band bounces and then goes airborne, as if in slow motion, landing with a splash and a tinny clink right smack in the airplane toilet. My engagement ring, weighed down by a respectable-size round aquamarine, spins off kilter and sort of skitters across the plastic seat of the toilet before finally dropping to the floor. Oh no, oh no, oh on, oh no …
Peering into the depths of the toilet, I curse Michael as I spot the ring, a glittery island in a chemical blue puddle.
Argh! Now what? There’s no way I’m reaching my hand down a disgusting airplane toilet. No way. Not even with opera-length rubber gloves. Not even with one of those yellow hazmat suits (not that I packed one). No way. I scoop my engagement ring off the bumpy rubber floor and check the tiny sink to make sure it’s plugged. Trying to figure out how I can possibly retrieve my wedding band, I rinse and rerinse my engagement ring with the pungent hand soap, and then slip it back onto my finger for safety. Right hand.
Considering and then quickly dismissing the idea of wrapping my hand in sixty or seventy layers of toilet seat covers, I attempt to check the cabinet above the sink for some kind of stick-like implement, but it’s locked. Why in the hell would anyone lock the cabinet in the airplane bathroom? Is there some international ring of airline toilet-paper thieves? Do they really think some wily criminal mastermind is going to make off with a carry-on stuffed with a couple dozen rolls of that scratchy single-ply, or a refill jug of nuclear waste–scented hand soap?
The claustrophobic airplane bathroom is beginning to close in on me like a stinkier version of the Haunted Mansion at Disney, but I’m terrified to leave before retrieving my wedding band. One flush, and it will all be over.
Pushing the little orange button to signal the flight attendant, I slide the accordion door partially open. An impatient-looking man glares at me irritably.
“So sorry,” I say. “I’m going to need a few minutes. Emergency.”
The flight attendant appears behind him.
“How may I help you?” she asks.
“I’m having a situation,” I say cryptically. It would be disgusting and wrong to ask her to help me with such a foul task. But I know the perfect guy for the job.
5
I tell the flight attendant Michael’s seat number, and poke my head out of the restroom door like a dog hanging his head out of a car window, just to get a little air. This is not a popular move. The line for the toilet has grown exponentially, and the jittery cluster of passengers are visibly and vocally perturbed that I have not yet vacated the stall, like I’m enjoying taunting them by hogging the bathroom or something. Less than a minute later, a worried-looking Michael hurries down the aisle, following the flight attendant toward the bathroom where I’ve barricaded myself.
“What’s going on?” he asks, as he makes his way to the front of the line. “Are you okay?”
“Could I please get three little bottles of tequila? And a couple of pairs of those plastic food service gloves?” I ask the flight attendant. She looks confused, but she must think it’s for medicinal purposes, or emergency in-flight DIY surgery or something, because she disappears behind the curtain.
“My wedding ring fell in the toilet,” I say to Michael. The line of bathroom-goers collectively groans.
“How did that happen?” he asks.
“Do you really want me to give you the play-by-play right now?” I ask, motioning to the line of six or seven people clustered at the back of the plane.
“I guess not,” he says. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to put on those little plastic lunch lady gloves from the flight attendant and fish my ring out of the toilet. Thankyouverymuch.”
The flight attendant returns quickly with the minibottles of Jose Cuervo and the gloves, and hands them to me as I exit the restroom door. I present the gloves and two of the bottles to Michael.
“I’m going back to my seat,” I say, holding open the bathroom door for Michael. “After you get the wedding band out of the toilet with those,” I say, pointing to the plastic gloves, “you can sanitize the ring with the Cuervo.” He looks at me like I’ve completely lost my mind. And maybe I have. I leave him there at the airplane toilet, armed only with little plastic gloves and minibottles of booze, and a stunned look on his face. I crack the top on the third bottle of Jose Cuervo as I saunter down the aisle to my seat, and swig it back.
