The Ruined Wife: Psychological Thriller

by Marin Montgomery

  “What do you want from me?” I whisper. “Do you know how hard I try to please you? Please our daughter? You think I want to work eighty or ninety hours a week? That I wouldn’t love to skip the gym or my weekly hair appointments? You think I like getting waxed and plucked and trying so hard to please you?”

  “Oh, come on, Alastair, you like taking care of your appearance.”

  “Steven, I can’t win with you.” I put my palms up. “Do you know why I married you?”

  He nods his head, gulping the last of his beer, his hands fiddling with the long nose of the bottle.

  “I married you because I thought you were a safe bet and would be faithful. I saw a sweetness in you, and I knew you would make a good father and husband. I work this hard because I grew to love you over time.”

  His jaw drops when I say the word grew. “I loved you, and it wasn’t enough. The truth is... I could’ve run into the arms of clients or colleagues many times. I haven’t. Because I knew the feelings of guilt would far outweigh the moment of lust.”

  “I think you already have.” He mutters under his breath.

  I tilt my head. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.” He shrugs. “Why did you say that?” He asks after a silence that drags on as we both stare fixedly at each other, neither moving.

  “Huh?” I’m suddenly exhausted, the last few nights of restlessness and alcohol catching up to me. “Say what?”

  “You said ‘I loved you,’ but it was past tense.” He twists his bottle in his hands. “Do you not love me?”

  “I don’t love you right now, no.” I run a hand over my eyes. “I need sleep.”

  “Alastair, I know you’re hot and sexy, and I appreciate all you do.” He presses his lips together. “I’m envious of you.”

  “Oh, come on, Steven, all excuses.” I can handle a lot but not bullshit excuses for cheating. “One more thing,” I ask as I stand, my feet uneasy on the ground. “Did you fuck her in your truck?”

  I can see anger cross his face. When he’s upset, his skin turns ruddy. “No,” he bristles. “I did not do it in our truck.” That’s the first time he’s ever referred to ‘his’ vehicle as ours. I must’ve hit a nerve.

  “Do you still talk to her?” I’m curious now, draining the last of my wine.

  “Of course not.” He gets up from his spot on the couch. “I’ll clean up, you get ready for bed.”

  I turn, before I can leave, he says my name as a question. “Alastair?”

  Running a hand through my hair, I almost ignore him, wanting nothing more than to punch him in the gut, the way I feel at this exact moment. Swinging around, I look into his dejected eyes. I wait.

  “Will you come back to bed?” He looks at his hands. “I hate when you sleep in the other room.”

  I swallow hard. He adds, “We swore we’d never go to bed mad, sleep in separate rooms, become like other couples.”

  My eyes burn as I answer, tears blinding them, “We also took vows never to cheat.”

  With that, I head back in the house.

  At first, I hear sobs, and I think it’s me, my body trembling as I fiddle with the patio door handle.

  When I enter the house through the sliding glass door and turn to lock it, I see his hunched form heaving, head in hands, sobbing.

  It would be fitting to say I felt better, that he got what he deserved. But love is never that simple. As much as I waited for the thrill of satisfaction to see him hurting, it gave me none.

  I washed my face, threw cold water on my eyes, and undressed in the guest room sliding underneath the soft cotton sheets. Sleeping next to him felt wrong.

  As I was drifting off, the wine hitting me full-force, I heard him peek in my room. He must have stood there for a while, a sliver of light dancing across the wall. A loud sigh escaped his lips as he paused.

  “I love you,” he whispered in the darkness. “I love you.”

  With that, he shut the door quietly and tiptoed back to our room.

  7

  The next couple weeks passed in a blur. It was a total mind fuck. First tears, then anger, then acceptance, just like a death in the family. I mourned us, looked at old pictures, reminisced, cried, and then screamed.

  Sometimes at no one, just an empty house.

  A few times to friends.

  Then at him.

  He took it.

  I came at him one night in anger, pushing him as I yelled question after question, how could you? Did you fuck her in our bed? Has she been to our house? Does she know about me?

  He took it, tears running down his cheeks.

  After I exhausted myself, he pulled my arms to my side and held me. I tried to wrestle away, but he held me firmly. I collapsed into sobs, and he carried me to our bedroom. Anger and passion turned into carnal desire—we hadn’t been intimate since I’d found out about his indiscretion.

  We clawed at each other, his hands fumbling with my jeans, the buttons on my blouse. He pushed me onto my stomach, sliding my panties off. His kisses were full of lust and an emotion I hadn’t seen—hunger.

  He fucked me.

  But then it turned into lovemaking.

  After he took me from behind, holding my arms over my head, he rolled me over. “I have to look at you.” He breathes into my ear, nibbling my lobe. “I need you to forgive me. You have to,” he keeps repeating this statement like it’s a mantra.

  He pushes into me, his mouth finding mine, his eyes never leaving my face, his hands holding me down, his body moving into mine. He matches my rhythm, our tears mixing together as we both cum, his expression loud and tortured, mine a bit softer as I dig my nails into his shoulder, undoubtedly leaving marks.

  In the moment of comfort, a vivid image of him and an unnamed woman come to mind.

  Did she leave marks on him? I wonder. Did he say her name as he came? I shake my head trying to push the thought from my mind.

  Steven wraps me in his arms, burying his head in my shoulder. “What’re you nodding about?” he murmurs. I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. I don’t want to ruin the mood as much as the hurt and anger consume me. I’m too tired to bring it up, the elephant in the room.

  He twirls a strand of my dark hair around his finger. “I love you so much, baby.” It’s the first time in a while we’ve held each other, our bedroom once a sanctuary, then a battleground.

  Steven tells me the next morning he wants to go out, listen to live music, and that he booked our usual babysitter, Erin, a nineteen-year-old college student who lives down the street.

  “You planned a date?” I narrow my eyes, looking at the calendar on my phone, thinking of the press releases I need to draft.

  “I did.” He nuzzles my neck, cupping my chin in his. “Be ready at seven.” I’m trying, even though I don’t want to. When he speaks, I want to scream, turn any statement or question he makes into a retort about his affair. I can’t, and I won’t. We need counseling. Individually as well. When I look at him, it’s like a punch to the stomach all over again.

  I’m at work when I see a text from him. I ignore the message, a conference call about a non-profit that’s asked us to help create positive stories about their efforts to help the homeless my focus. Brynn’s sitting to my left taking notes as I ask the director questions about their business.

  After I disconnect from the call, my phone chimes again. Two texts from Steven.

  Steven: Hey, baby, Erin had to cancel. I texted Megan, but she’s working.

  Megan was our backup.

  Steven: I think I’ll just have to cancel res and we can stay in, watch a movie.

  “Crap,” I mutter, twisting my hair in a bun and letting it fall, a gesture I do when I’m irritated. I was looking forward to the concert we were going to even if Steven and I were in a rocky place.

  “What’s wrong?” Camille asks, taking a sip of her latte.

  “Babysitter canceled tonight.”

  “Date night?” Camille asks. She’s been married th
ree years and swears by weekly dates and phone sex. She tells me way too much, but she’s like a younger sister, one I’ve worked with on and off over the years.

  “Yeah, Steven planned a night out.”

  “Ooh la-la, he did the planning?” She arches her eyebrows.

  “Yep, we were supposed to go to a concert.”

  “I would totally watch Liv if we weren’t going to our cabin.” Camille and her husband had a cabin up north, a place to cool off in the summer and ski in the winter. They had let our family use it over the years. It was in a remote area, the perfect place to relax and de-stress. No internet and limited phone service. My idea of hell. Steven’s idea of peace. We’d already been there over the summer.

  “I’ll text him and tell him delivery sounds great.” I shrug. “What do you do?”

  Brynn taps her pen on her notepad. “I love to babysit. Would it be weird if I did?” I hesitate. Steven is picky about our babysitters. Not that I would let a random stranger knocking on the door swoop in and watch Liv, but Steven’s paranoid because he hears a lot of nightmare stories from other teachers and kids. We know a couple who had a story from hell. Their twelve-year-old daughter caught her babysitter, a college student, having sex in her bedroom with a random guy she met online, and it was a fiasco. It didn’t help that the boyfriend didn’t realize this was a babysitting job and not the girl’s house or that she was nineteen.

  “I promise, the temp agency did a background check.” She waves her hands in the air. “I have nieces and nephews.” She also points down to her stomach. “I also have a baby on the way.”

  “What?” I exclaim. “Congratulations.” We all take turns complimenting her, her skin flushed from the attention. Sure enough, a small bump is visible through her printed wrap dress.

  “Yeah, thank you, guys.” She smiles. “It was definitely a surprise. I felt weird saying anything since I just started.”

  “You must be thrilled.” Camille asks, “Boy or girl?”

  “I’m a control freak, but I’m trying to be surprised.” She twists the band on her finger. “My other half wants to know yesterday.”

  “That’s because men want to stay in the driver’s seat.” Camille chuckles. “They want to prepare for everything.”

  “Do you have kids, Camille?”

  I interject. “Cami is still getting used to the idea of a dog.” Camille nods her head in agreement. “Yeah, I burn boiling water. Domesticated is not my thing.” She smirks. “My husband knew this when he married me yet acts all surprised.”

  Kristen, our social media campaign manager, who has six-year-old twins, admonishes her. “Cami, he’s going to leave you.”

  “Not because I can’t cook. He already got food poisoning from my chicken.” She cackles. “Now whenever I suggest fixing dinner, he freaks out and tells me to order take-out.” A twinkle in her eye. “I got out of making his mom’s casserole.”

  “No, because you can’t figure out how to iron.” We all laugh. Camille’s lack of knowledge on all things related to home and cleaning have created a running joke around the office. Cami’s a free-spirit, she’s an amazing secretary, brilliant at Excel, more efficient than Martha Stewart but hates being tamed as she puts it.

  “We all know I’m no better,” I say. “Steven keeps waiting for me to put an apron on and bake an apple pie.”

  “Ah, who needs to know how to cook?” Cami winks. “Robots will take over soon. We’ll all have our own Rosie the robot maid, just like the Jetsons.”

  After the meeting, I pull Brynn aside. “Are you sure you want to babysit tonight? Did you already have plans?”

  “It’s fine. I’m on my own tonight.”

  “Okay, let me get back to you.”

  I text Steven.

  Aly: Do you mind if my assistant babysits?

  Steven: If you’re comfortable with that. Sure. I was about to cancel res at dinner. Keep it?

  Aly: Yep. We’re on.

  He sends a smiley face emoji winking.

  I confirm with Brynn, and she agrees to come to our house at 7:00 p.m. “You guys can order take-out,” I say. “Just a warning, Liv loves gymnastics and everything purple.”

  “Sounds like the typical girl.” She laughs.

  Deciding on a tight-fitting black tank and dark jeans, I throw on a maroon velvet blazer. It’s still warm, but the concert is outdoors, a plus to have in case it gets chilly. When the sun goes down, all bets are off weather wise. Steven is showing Liv how to make a magnetic run for the fridge, hell-bent on her liking science as she grows older. I’m amazed at how Steven can incorporate fun projects into science lessons and not sound like he’s teaching. This latest experiment involves empty toilet paper rolls, glue, and magnets. I apply makeup as I wait to hear him mention ‘Gravity, friction, and energy.’

  I smile to myself as I put a touch of purple eyeshadow on my lids. I love wearing this color, it compliments both green and hazel eyes. The doorbell rings, and Steven yells, “Be right there.”

  “Daddy, can I answer?” Liv’s excited to make the acquaintance of a new friend.

  “Yes, you can.” He adds, “But ask who it is first.”

  I hear Liv yell and a mumbled response. I put one last coat of mascara on and walk out to the living room.

  The color’s drained from Steven’s face, he looks like he saw a ghost. There’s a look of apprehension as he gapes at the door. Liv’s chatting away, oblivious, asking Brynn what her favorite color is, and if she likes Shawn Johnson, the former Olympic gymnast. Steven’s standing against the doorjamb, frozen, his hand gripped on the door handle.

  “Steven.” I try to snap him out of his reverie. “Did you meet Brynn, my new assistant?” I smile at her. “She’s been great.”

  “Yeah, I did. I was surprised it wasn’t Michael, that’s all.”

  I put a hand to my forehead. “Oh, I forgot to tell you Michael joined another PR firm.” Michael had been my last assistant. He was a twenty-something gay guy who had fashion sense but lacked common sense. He didn’t like clients who didn’t bow down to him or agree with his every whim. He considered work an afterthought, and that I should be on his schedule.

  “Nice to meet you, Steven.” Brynn tucks a strand of her strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. “You look just like your picture.” My mouth twists into a frown as I automatically think of his dating profiles. Brynn notices a change and quickly adds, “Your family pic.”

  “Thanks.” I smile, Steven glancing between her and me, his eyes darting suspiciously at each of us. Weird. Hope he’s not mad Michael’s not babysitting, or he’ll bitch about it through dinner.

  “How long, uh, have you worked with my wife?” he asks her.

  “For about a month.” Brynn sets her striped tote bag down on the sofa table.

  “Steven,” I admonish. “Can you please let her in so we can get going?”

  “Sorry,” he mutters. “Come on in.” He’s blocking the door, and he steps back slowly as if he’s scared to allow admittance to our home.

  “I’m so glad I got to meet you before the Fall Fiesta.” Brynn grins. “I love that you have an office party at your house.”

  Steven’s pale, his eyes glance around the house, visibly uncomfortable. “I think we might cancel it.”

  “What?” Brynn’s surprised. “How come?

  He doesn’t answer and turns his back to put a hand on Liv’s arm.

  “Are you okay, honey?” I ask him as I kiss Liv. “Be a good girl, love bug.” I turn to Brynn. “There’s cash for delivery, or if you want to DoorDash, just take the cash instead. Feel free to order a movie if nothing’s on. Bedtime is at 9:00 p.m.”

  “Nine? Mommy, it’s the weekend, and I’m almost twelve.”

  “Fine, 10:00 p.m. And you’re not even close to twelve.” I kiss her nose. “Love you.” She jumps into Steven’s arms. Brynn is looking at the two of them, longing and adoration in her blue eyes, and a twinge of jealousy.

  “Are you excited for this?”
I ask, motioning to the father-daughter bond.

  “Yeah, I am.” She leans against the counter, wistful. “My dad died a few years ago, and I just wish he got to see his grandkids.”

  “Just wait until yours is a teen,” I whisper. “I’m dreading that day.”

  Steven puts his hands in his pockets, stares at the band on her finger. “Do you have kids?”

  “No.” Brynn looks him straight in the eye. “But I’m pregnant.”

  His mouth drops, hanging to the floor, as he stares at her in horror. I’m about to nudge him, his reaction rude, as I grab my handbag.

  Steven and I leave the house, our dinner reservation waiting. We sit at a table at one of our favorite restaurants, in a cozy corner booth, but he’s standoffish and snappy.

  “Out with it,” I say.

  “What?” He pushes food around on his plate, his green bean almondine stabbed at with his fork.

  “Your mood. What’s going on?” I raise my brows. “Is there something more you want to tell me?”

  He takes a drink of water. “No, what else would I need to tell you?” He looks almost scared, his eyes betray panic, the pupils dilated.

  “How well do you know Ver, I mean Brynn?” he asks me.

  “She was hired through a temp agency.” I settle back into the leather booth. “Are you worried about Liv being with someone new?” He shrugs, looking relieved that I came to this conclusion. “Yeah, I just… you know I worry.”

  “Why the look when she announced she was pregnant?”

  “She looks too young. Is she married?” He exhales. “I just remember how big of a responsibility it was for us, and we were a little bit older with decent jobs. Well, at least for you.” He forces a laugh.

  I pat his arm. “I know. I remember the late night and the colic.”

  “What do you know about this girl?”

  “She’s not that young, mid-twenties. Helpful. Good at her job.”

  “Does she have a boyfriend?” He bites his lip. “Or is she engaged?”

  “Why?” I’m curious, unsure what this question has to do with anything. “I think she’s married.”