Catching Maggie

by Hayley Faiman

  “I’ll walk you up anyway,” Jarrod practically growls. I can see the worry etched on his face so I concede and allow him to worry over me for the moment.

  I watch in almost shock as Jarrod marches through my apartment like he owns the place and then comes back and tells me that the place is clear. I tip my head to the side and just blink. I wonder off-handedly if next time he’ll storm the place with a gun, like I see the police do on television, yelling, “clear” after searching each room.

  “You’ll be all right here tonight?” he asks and I nod once. I open my purse and grab the extra key, gripping it in my hand before holding it out to him to take.

  “What’s this?” he asks with a confused look on his face.

  “An extra key, just in case. I don’t have any family or anything in the city and you and Amalie are my closest friends…” I don’t say anything else because how freaking sad am I? I don’t know either of them all that well, but they are the closest friends I have. I can’t even tell you what either of their birthdays are.

  “Call me when you wake up in the morning so I know you’re doing okay.” Jarrod smiles sadly and I agree as I watch him walk away from me.

  They care for me. Whether it is solely because I am Sammy’s widow or if it is because they actually care about me, the person, Marguerite Emma Rogers, I don’t know. I doubt anybody even knows my first name; I have been Maggie or Maggs for so long.

  Sammy always hated how long my first name was. He said it was silly and hard to pronounce. I had always loved it because it made me feel regal and I did not grow up that way at all. I grew up dirt poor, living in run-down apartments near the Vegas strip; but my name made me feel special because nobody else my age had it.

  Most of my marriage was about what Sammy liked, what Sammy wanted, who Sammy was. I suppose it should have bothered me but it didn’t, not truly. I’m not flashy. I never needed to be the center of attention while Sammy basked in the glory of it all. He always told me that I grounded him, that I kept him humble. I scoff, knowing the man was anything but humble. Sammy was like a peacock, always strutting around, showing off his feathers around. Fancy cars, clothes, watches, whatever he could get his hands on that nobody else had, Sammy had it and made sure everybody around him knew it.

  I walk into the kitchen and get a bottle of water from the fridge. Looking around at the fruits and veggies that line the shelves makes me sick. I’ve been eating rabbit food for years. If I never see another piece of lettuce for the rest of my life, it will be too soon.

  I wrench open the freezer door with more strength than I need and my eyes glaze over at the sight of the Double Dark Chocolate Talenti Gelato calling my name. Like a beacon amongst all of the iced over frozen foods, it sits all chocolatey and delicious in the back of the freezer compartment. I snatch the container up after tucking my water bottle under my arm and grab a spoon on my way to my bedroom.

  I slowly peel the plain black clothes from my body and walk into the closet. My eyes survey all of his clothes, hanging perfectly as if they’re waiting for him to stroll in and throw them on. Hundreds of thousands of dollars draped on hangers, useless without the body they were tailor made for.

  I run my fingers over his dress shirts, every single one custom-made for his athletic body. I hate them. I want to cut the fabric into little pieces and burn them. Sammy loved his clothes; he showed the fabric more affection than he showed me, his own wife.

  I dip my spoon into the decadent chocolate ice cream and contemplate running it across his shirts, staining the material forever. I think better of it seeing as he would probably come back from the dead and haunt my ass for eternity if I even attempted it. My fingers suddenly stop on a light blue shirt. I remember this shirt. He wore this one to an awards ceremony at the end of the season, I don’t even remember how long ago. I yank the shirt from the hanger and hold it up to me, feeling the silk against my skin. The shirt caresses my nearly naked body more than Sammy ever did. I sink to the ground and finally cry.

  “Fuck you, Samwell,” I whisper in the midst of my sobs as I shove ice cream between my lips.

  The frozen confection is freaking heavenly and I can’t believe I ever let Sammy take that pleasure away from me.

  The salt from my tears mixes well with the chocolate chips and I wonder what salted caramel would taste like drizzled over this frozen heaven. After I practically lick the entire plastic container clean, I finally lay down as the sobs take over my body and blackness ensues. I completely pass out from exhaustion.

  I wake up hours later on the floor of my closet, clinging the silk shirt I hold against my chest. Smudges of my chocolate indulgence evidence all over it, cringing I toss it in the hamper. My swollen eyes catch a pair of pants on the floor.

  Sammy could never find the hamper, even if it were inches from where he threw his clothes. That was probably why he was a catcher and not a pitcher, shit aim. I smirk at the insult; he would hate that. He thought his shit smelled like rainbow sherbet. Yeah, he was that full of himself when it came to baseball and everything else.

  I snatch up the pants and something falls out of the pocket - a cell phone. I pick up the phone and examine it with curiosity. It isn’t his. When he was shot in that bar, his phone was in his pocket; the police have it. I close my eyes for a second and try to imagine how scared he must have been - one minute taking a shot of whiskey - the next minute shot three times in the back. He hadn’t known that, out on the road, in a bar, there would be a shootout between rival gangs, or some such thing. A complete wrong place, wrong time senario.

  I power the phone on and stare at it as though it will give me some knowledge. Who does it belong to? Why did Sammy have it? The phone lights up with texts and voicemails and I feel sneaky and wrong for just looking at it, even thinking about looking through the messages makes me feel nervous.

  I never checked up on Sammy. I trusted him wholeheartedly. Even with the way he neglected my need for affection, I never thought he was giving it to somebody else. I always just thought that with Sammy’s background, the fact that his parents were drug addicts and alcoholics, he just didn’t know how to show me that he loved me.

  I click on the text message icon and am I’m struck dumb; like a train wreck you just can’t look away from, I stare in shock at what I find. It’s like that time I got caught up in watching that reality show a few years ago - Rock of Love with Bret Michaels. I knew it was bad, but I couldn’t not watch. Total. Freaking. Train. Wreck.

  Vivi: Hey baby, when are we getting together again? I miss your cock inside of me.

  Vivi: This isn’t funny Sammy, it has been a week since you have been deep in my pussy. I need you.

  Becca: Sammy baby, where are you? It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen you.

  Becca: I love you Sammy come home.

  Vivi: I love you Sammy don’t shut me out. I’ll do whatever you want baby.

  The messages go on and on about how much Becca and Vivi love Sammy. I feel my stomach lurch and I run, barely making it to the toilet in time to heave the water and ice cream I had a few hours ago. I haven’t eaten real food in days. I have been planning a funeral and trying to make sense of what has happened to my life. How did I miss all of the signs of my husband cheating on me? Everything seems like a lie. Every piece of our life was nothing but a farce.

  I walk back to the phone and stare at it, praying that it is all wrong, that it belongs to somebody else; but both of the women use Sammy’s name. I now know that not only did my husband show me zero intimacy and affection, but he was also a cheating bastard. The phone in my palm begins to ring and I look down to see that Becca is calling. Without thinking I answer.

  “I uh… I’m looking for Sammy,” the sweet voice says on the other end.

  “Sammy died,” I state bluntly. I hear her gasp on the other end.

  “Who are you? Oh my god, what happened? What do you mean he died?” she’s becoming hysterical and I tell her, completely out of character for me, to shut up.<
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  “I’m his wife. I planned the funeral and it was yesterday. Who are you?” She gasps again.

  “Wife?” she asks.

  “Wife,” I mimic, much harsher than I probably should.

  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. You have to believe me. I didn’t know he was married.” She’s sobbing now and I try to feel sorry for her, but I can’t. I am pissed, shocked, and hurt.

  “Sammy and I just celebrated our seventh anniversary,” I announce. She begins to mumble to herself, probably trying to make sense of it all.

  “We’ve been together for over a year. I didn’t know, I’m so so sorry,” she whispers and then hangs up the phone, probably falling apart. I find myself stuck in an emotionless state of shock.

  She sounded like a sweet girl, a very young sweet girl. I was probably too harsh. I’m going to blame it on the surprise of just finding out my husband had at least one yearlong affair and god only knows what else.

  I don’t want to wait for Vivi to call. Instead, I scroll down past the dozens of women’s names, my stomach knotting with each and every one, and find hers at the bottom. I hit send and listen to the phone ring. Sometime in the last twelve hours, I have not only grown a backbone, but I have also found my inner pissed off bitch. I’m not so sure how I feel about that. I don’t want to be mean or make this girl feel shitty, but my betrayer Sammy isn’t here to be the target for all of my hurt and anger.

  “Hello,” another, very young, sounding voice speaks into the phone.

  “Is this Vivi?” I am taken aback by how very adolescent she sounds. My guess is eighteen at most, but I’m going to find out.

  “Who is this? How did you get Sammy’s phone?” She sounds scared and I feel puzzled, something bothers me. I can’t be mean to the girl, it just isn’t me.

  “My name is Maggie. I’m Sammy’s wife. He was murdered last week and I just found this phone. Were you involved with him?” I can’t stop the tears from falling. I am so angry at Sammy; at the way he treated me for years; at the fact that he had a secret life full of other women.

  “Sammy isn’t married,” she whispers.

  “He is… was, we have been married for seven years. How did you not know he died, he’s been all over the news.” He had; it has been a media circus since he was killed.

  “News? I don’t watch the news much,” she mumbles and I can tell that she is dazed and unbelieving.

  “Where do you live?” I ask. I should have asked Becca that as well.

  “California. Los Angeles. We met at a club about two years ago when I was seventeen,” she sighs. I feel sick to my stomach all over again. Sammy and I met when I was eighteen and he was twenty. He was ten years older than this girl, how could he do it, how could he manipulate her for two solid years?

  “Two years?” I whisper, unable to form any other words.

  “Oh god, I didn’t know he was married. I would never have been with him had I known. He never mentioned you. When he stayed with me, he stayed all night. I never knew. I mean, he traveled a lot for his work but I never even thought he could be married. We have been together for two years.”

  Vivi’s rambling, but she’s giving me information. I suck in a breath and think about all of the names I scrolled through to get to hers, how many other women did he have long term relationships with?

  Horror washes over me when I’m struck with a crippling thought - did he have any children with them?

  “Forget about him. Forget about what you had and move on. Please,” I plead before I hang up. I close my eyes and let even more fucking tears fall before I open them and do what I know is going to rip my heart out.

  I click on the photo icon.

  I must be a masochist because instead of looking at the thumbnails I blow up the first one and begin to look at the one-by-one. It is a photo of a very pretty blonde lying down with her head on Sammy’s chest and he is kissing her cheek while she smiles widely for the camera. The next fifteen photos are of the two of them. It is obvious that she must live in San Francisco because there are pictures of them kissing, on the lips, in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. This brings tears to my eyes.

  The next set of thirty or so photos are of him and a brunette. She is also very tall and very thin, except most of their photos are of them in bed together. It makes me ill seeing my husband with another woman. Seeing this extent of his affections with someone else makes me feel completely inadequate. He is licking her skin, kissing her, and in more than one photo he is going down on her. He only did that to me once. I squeeze the phone in my hand wishing I could throw it. I can’t. Instead I put it down and take a long hot shower. I dress in jean shorts and a tank top, my wet hair piled high on top of my head and I look around the room, at my life, at the lies that surround me.

  I want to burn it to the ground, every single shred of Sammy and his life of lies - the lies he constantly fed me. Everything I have ever known has been fake. How foolish I must look to everybody in the world. His wife, sitting in the stands watching him play while all of his girlfriends are scattered across the globe.

  Sammy is a stranger to me. I don’t know the man I once called my husband. A man who carried on countless long term relationships.

  I don’t know him at all.

  A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts. I know it could only be Jarrod, Amalie, or a coach; those are the only people the front desk wouldn’t call me about before they sent them up. I look through the peephole and see that Jarrod is there, alone.

  “Jarrod,” I say softly as I open the door and turn from him to sit on the sofa. I hate this sofa, mainly because Sammy loved it.

  “How are you, honey?” His voice is calm as he slowly sits down across from me. I throw my head back and laugh like a crazy person; I probably am crazy, or well on my way.

  “I would be better had I not just found Sammy’s secret phone with messages from his girlfriends and photos of them together. I talked to two of them. They are babies. Babies! Yet, he managed to sustain a relationship with one of them for two years and one year with the other,” I blurt out unable to keep it in.

  I really hope this babbling shit stops soon.

  “Maggie?” Jarrod looks nervous and maybe a bit scared, which is ridiculous, considering the guy is almost two feet taller than me. The giant man just looks at me with confusion.

  “I picked a pair of Sammy’s pants up off of the closet floor last night and found his cell phone. A phone I had never seen before was in the pocket. He had texts from women saying that they missed him that they love him. I only looked at the first forty-five photos which were of him and two women in horribly compromising detailed images of their affairs.” I don’t want to go into detail of the images I saw to Jarrod.

  “Did you know Jarrod? Did you know that he had been cheating on me all of these years? Am I that much of a fool that everybody knew but me?” I cry out as my tears flow. I can’t stop them, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.

  “Never, Maggie. He only told me how much he loved and cared for you,” he murmurs, I see he has tears shining in his eyes as well. Sammy was his friend and he says he didn’t know either.

  Was Sammy hiding this life from everybody?

  “He hadn’t kissed me in years, Jarrod, and he hardly touched me. I mean, we had sex but, other than the actual act, there was nothing else.” Jarrod wraps his arm around me for a moment and just lets me cry.

  “He’s a piece of shit Maggie. You deserve better. You deserve more. That man wasn’t good enough to lick your fuckin’ shoes let alone give you his goddamned name.” Jarrod roars. I blink wiping the tears from my eyes.

  Jarrod is right. Sammy didn’t deserve me. He didn’t love me or he wouldn’t have been screwing high school girls behind my back. I vow that these I shed today will be the last tears I ever cry over Samwell fucking Rodgers.

  Six Months Later - Present Day

  I SIT AT THE BAR, my eye mask in place and a bottle of beer in my hand. I can’t be recognized for who I am
or the paparazzi will have a field day. I would probably lose my place on the team and with the entire league. I won’t do anything to jeopardize my career. I am the newest starting catcher for the New York Yankees and no way in fuck would I risk my extracurricular activities to lose that. We are like Gods walking around the city. The team holds championship titles; not to mention, the legends that have played on the team are unsurpassed by any other major league team.

  Unbeatable.

  Unwavering.

  I can taste the victory. I am so close to being one of the best. Instead of just warming the bench with my ass, I’m finally going to play.

  I hear the man next to me suck in a sharp breath and glance over to see him staring at the front door. It isn’t too often anybody is surprised by the women who come into a club like this. Naked flesh is everywhere and you can have your pick if you are considered a decent Dom. Fuck, even if you aren’t, you can at least still get laid.

  Naturally, I’m interested in the getting laid part tonight, but I want somebody to submit to me. I don’t want a masochist and I don’t want a slave. I want a woman who is soft and feminine; someone who can take a good spanking and maybe some bondage in my bed. I want a woman who will allow me to dominate her completely in the bedroom.

  This isn’t something I want just for tonight. I want a true submissive woman. A woman to wear my ring and be mine; a woman that will let me care for her completely because with me she will never have to ask for or want for anything. I will give her everything she could need or want.

  I haven’t found her yet. Not even close. I’m unconvinced I ever will either. I don’t want a woman to fall at my feet every time I walk through the front door. I’m not looking for a slave, but rather a woman who will submit her body, mind and soul to me.

  I don’t think that’s too much to ask for.

  I turn to the front door and my jaw drops like that wolf in those old cartoons. The woman walking in has long honey blonde hair, curled loosely and hanging around her waist. It looks soft and thick and I can imagine wrapping it around my fist several times while I fuck her hard. Her face is bare of makeup and her cheeks are full, unlike most of the painfully thin women walking around the place.