This time, I wanted a gin and tonic. My brother in Utah had texted me that my sister-in-law had just been diagnosed with Stage 4 uterine cancer. They have four children. I’d known about the tests, we’d been in contact. I tried to call him, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the words out loud over the phone, the permanence of it, and said he could only text. My heart broke for him, his wife, Jade, and their kids. I imagined something happening to Alastair or Livvie—cancer, a car accident, a sudden life-altering chain of events. I didn’t want to tell Alastair about Jade. She’d been stressed lately, and the few months before had been rough. She’d had some PR nightmares, clients that were a handful, and had taken backlash for representing a daycare that had a small child drown under their care. People are cruel and especially internet trolls that hide behind identities and lash out. Strangers used hashtags to call her baby killer, Satan, and my favorite, devil in Diane Von Furstenberg. She’s a strong woman, I love her drive, her passion for work and creativity, her ability to lead. She tried to keep a strong jaw, a level head, but it hurt her. She didn’t let on, just drank more wine, took more Xanax, drowning in tears she thought I didn’t hear. She’s a master at turning on the sink or shower in the bathroom as she cries. I heard the muffled sobs behind the locked door. She shut me out as tight as the lock in place. I was worried, kept a close watch on her, let her know I was there when she needed me. She pulled away, clung to me, and then she pulled back.
She didn’t get bitter or more depressed but dealt with her feelings by going out more, said she was with friends. I started to think she was having an affair. She would jump when I’d come up behind her as her fingers flung over the keypad on her phone, she’d hit the home screen suddenly if she caught me looking, lock herself in a room if she got a phone call, and seemed to internalize when she used to be an open book.
I’m not proud. I checked her email, followed her a couple of times when I said I was with my buddies, pulled the phone bill, checked for repeat numbers. I never caught her in the act, a sigh of relief as she went to the gym or shopping instead of on a date. I used to care when she spent four-hundred dollars on a pair of shoes. Now I welcomed her retail therapy if it meant she wasn’t sleeping around. Even the weekend she went on a wine tour with girlfriends, I double checked with a friend’s wife to make sure she went.
That’s why I know how shitty she feels, the inability to trust, the sinking feeling, the constant pounding of your heart as you wait for the bottom to fall out.
Then our annual summer vacation to Utah a couple of weeks ago to see my parents and two of my siblings came. She claimed work. She’d always done her job remotely when we visited them, it had never been a question if she would go. It was tradition, and it felt almost un-American when she skipped it. It was selfish, Jade and she had never been best friends, but they had a bond. I think she wanted to talk to Alastair in person about her health issues.
I thought for sure she’d met someone, thought she’d have a nice reprieve from being my wife that week. I shut my mouth, tramped down all the questions I had and took it like a man, meaning I swallowed my pride, internalized the shit out of it, and didn’t handle it the right way.
Which led me to the bar on a Thursday at 5:00 p.m., a couple of weeks after I got home from my one parental unit vacation, propped on a barstool at a gaudy hotel bar trying to be contemporary, the hottest, swankiest place to be seen. The drinks were twenty dollars a pop, the paintings all impressionist ones—vivid colors and lack of clarity like my mind after a couple drinks that night.
Swallowing my first gin and tonic, I let myself feel sorry for myself. My brother’s family, my wife, I felt like I was losing control. I was looking down examining the reflection as stained glass hit the light. I sniffed as a scent wafted through the air. Smelling her perfume before her, it was a clean aroma. I’m sure there was some flower like jasmine or lilac in it, but I’m a dude, I just know I sniffed her before I saw her face. She slid into the barstool next to mine, a tan skirt and a navy and white striped blouse with nude heels. Her strawberry blonde hair was in a loose bun, and simple diamonds sparkled from her earlobes. Her leg brushed mine accidentally as she sat to my right.
“Oops, sorry about that. I’m already playing footsie with strangers.” She laughed, it came out as a snort. Instead of annoying, I found it endearing. I wasn’t in the mood to talk. I gave her a small smile in the mirror behind the bar, more not to seem like a dick. She was sitting next to me after all.
“Another drink.” I slid my empty one across the smooth ivory and gray swirled counter.
“For the lady?” The bartender, a pierced thirty-something with tribal tattoos down his arms and dark chest hair peeking out of his buttoned denim shirt, waits for her response, while his tongue piercing is making its way to the surface, flicking his tongue out, spittle on his lip. He looks at her as if she’s the one in charge of my answer.
“I’ll have vodka pineapple, Tito’s, please.” She rests her elbows on the counter, a small gold watch on her left hand. She pulls her phone out of a small clutch. “Can you answer something for me, please?” At first, I assume she’s talking to the man on the other side of her, the bar filled with happy-hour patrons and those looking to get their weekend started early. I look both ways, waiting for my drink, the bartender flirting with a girl who looks barely old enough to pass a driving test in a revealing white dress. If our daughter ever tried to leave the house in that… I take a deep breath.
“No… you going to remain the silent type?”
I look at her, really look at her. She’s the polar opposite of my wife—Alastair’s raven-haired, olive skin, and fairly tall. This girl has a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. It adds to her beauty, her complexion peaches and cream, a light flush from the heat. She’s young. I’d peg her as late-twenties, one jagged tooth in a set of pearly whites. She’s cute. Not hot, like someone you want just to rip their clothes off and fuck, but adorable. She looks put together, like a secretary or administrative assistant. I do a quick glance down as I check my watch. My wife is picking up our daughter tonight and taking her to dance. This woman has freckles covering her knees, and I notice a tiny tattoo on her foot. Just to be clear, at this point I hadn’t thought about fucking her. At least not in reality.
I give her a side glance before tilting my head. “You talking to me?”
She looks around in mock exasperation. “I can’t think of anyone else. My imaginary friend stays home on Thursdays.”
I chuckle. “Okay, what was the question?”
She taps her phone screen. “Why are men such douchebags?”
“This a new lesson you’re learning?”
“I just don’t get it.” She sighs. “I’m being stood up. He texted me five minutes past the time we were supposed to meet.”
“That’s rough. Dating leaves a lot to be desired in today’s world?”
“You have no idea.” She drums her fingers on the counter. “The advent of online dating is an eye-opener.”
“I think guys have always been the village idiots.” The bartender sets down my drink and hers at the same time. I give him a nod. “My wife, she was dating my roommate when I met her.”
“Your roommate? Isn’t that breaking guy code?”
“Not with this one… he stood her up at our dorm.”
“Ahh… so you got to play prince charming and rescue a damsel in distress.” She takes a sip, licking her lips. I notice. I wish I didn’t, but I do. I want to bite her juicy, pink lower lip. Your wife, keep talking about your wife, I tell myself.
“Yep, I got the girl.” I drown this one, getting ready to stand, ask for a check, and get the hell home. “And we lived happily ever after, kid and white picket fence.”
“Wait.” She pouts. “Don’t leave me.” She motions around the bar. “I don’t want some creepy guy to sit down.”
I raise my eyebrows. “I could be that creepy guy.”
She shrugs. I notice her blouse is unbuttoned, cleavage sh
owing, peeking up enough to leave me curious. I want to rip her shirt off and the damn camisole underneath it.
Fuck.
“But you’re not. You’re married so very safe. I bet you don’t have one secret or air of mystery about you. You’re a buttoned-up fellow.” And you’re not, I want to add. You should be naked.
I nod. “Boring. I’m boring. And old,” I add. “What is it you millennial say these days… AF?”
“Maybe I’m the one you should be worried about. Maybe I bite.” She swings her legs toward me, her nude heels elongate her legs, wrapping them around my barstool. “So, are you meeting your wife or a buddy tonight?” She lowers her eyes conspiratorially. “Do I need to leave? Give up my seat?”
“No, I’m here for a conference.”
“Oh… an out-of-towner?”
“Nope, a local.” I ask her about where she’s from, the date that stood her up, trying to concentrate on anything but those bow-shaped lips. She’s funny, charming, sweet, and touches my hand, lightly brushes my sleeve, makes me feel like the center of attention.
Truth. I felt flattered. This young, cute, chick was giving me the time of day, hanging on every sentence, dripping with sarcasm and yes, admiration.
She asked what I did for work, science teacher. I returned the favor. She said interior design.
We talked about her favorite bands. She loves the Struts, hates Coldplay. She likes country but not the pop country that’s taken over the charts.
Books? She preferred psych thrillers over romance, biographies over fiction.
Science. We discussed my favorite topic.
Smoothly, she turned the conversation over to my wife. What she did for work. I swiftly moved us back to talking about safe topics. It felt wrong talking about my wife while I was flirting with her. We both moved on to another spirit, my third, her second.
I told her I had a nine-year-old daughter.
My birthday.
Childhood ambition—postman or astronaut.
She wanted to be a cashier because she was enthralled by the long, fake polished nails and the counting of change.
It begins to get blurry after this. I act like I’m twenty-two in college. We slam shots. The worst kind. Fireball.
My wife and marital problems and brother and sister-in-law and cancer and remorse and guilt start to sway and dissipate.
It’s not like I meant to try and get even with Alastair, but at the moment, it was a fleeting thought. We’d shared equal roles throughout our marriage, though the fact she was the breadwinner sometimes grated on me. I didn’t let it bother me for the most part—one person inevitably makes more than their spouse. It didn’t take away from the fact I was a husband or father.
Yet, I was sure she had been unfaithful. I couldn’t let her have this one up on me. My manhood wouldn’t allow it.
So, I did what I swore I’d never do.
All the advice I’d given friends over the years—keep your dick in your pants. Sixteen and a half years I’d done right by our vows. In the span of an hour or two, I threw it all away like a discarded wrapper at the gas station.
The alcohol doesn’t justify my actions. I was thinking clearly enough to know putting a hotel room on my credit card wasn’t a good idea. I didn’t want to ask this girl to foot the bill. This wasn’t a venue where cash by the hour would fly. I did the only logical next step. We took it to the underground parking garage.
I motioned our tattooed waiter over. “Check.” He raises his eyebrows. “One or two tabs?” Holding up one finger, I reach into my back pocket for my wallet. It’s worn black leather, a present from Alastair from a few years back. If I’m honest, a decade. She begs to get me a new one, I say no. It has character, it’s worn and creased in the right places. It’s comfortable to me. I almost whistle at the bar tab. This isn’t a dive, and the prices reflect that. I don’t have cash, instead using my American Express. She grabs my wallet, plastic inserts covering pictures. She flips through them.
I focus on signing the receipt. I can’t see or look at my family right now. There’s our family picture, us holding hands, and Livvie’s school picture from last year along with a gymnastics one where she’s doing the splits and leaning forward, her long hair and beaming face reflected in her passion for the sport.
“Wow, what a beautiful daughter,” she says.
“Thanks.”
“How old?”
“Nine. Her name’s Livvie.” I refuse to shorten it. Her name, it’s distinct, like Alastair’s.
“You have any kids?” I ask. “You look way too young.”
Her face startles at the question. She shakes her head vehemently. “Nah, maybe someday.”
She can tell I don’t want to discuss my family. She hands the wallet back as I shove my credit card in it. Switching gears, she sticks a hand out, shakes mine, and tumbles off her barstool. I’m confused. She heads to the door. I pause watching her ass in that skirt walk away.
I have to have her.
She stalls at the door, tilting her head over her shoulder. She gives me a wink and motions for me to meet her at the side of the building.
That’s all I need.
Casually, I get up, blood rushing to my head.
I feel like I’m seventeen trying not to run after the girl of my dreams in the hallway at school. What if she’s not waiting for me? Then you go home, dumbass, I say.
When the hot air hits me outside, a change from the frigid air conditioning inside, I have a moment of clarity. I ignore it. All logic. Because she’s standing there, hand on her hip, smirk on her face, eyeing me through half-narrowed slits. She wants me. Reaching her hand out to grab my junk, she leans into me, grabbing my hand, her heels sliding across the ground as we act as each other’s support system.
Where to?” she asks as I nibble her earlobes, the diamond studs a bulls-eye, my tongue on her delicate skin making her moan. She must think we’re are going to my house or somewhere reputable.
“I parked underground.”
She whispers in my ear, “Should we go to my place?”
Hell no, I hesitate before answering. “Where do you live?”
She licks her lips. “Twenty from here.” She gives me a sly smile, catching my uncertainty. Quickly she adds. “Let’s have a little fun now, be spontaneous.” Holding my hand in hers, we head down the concrete stairs to the garage, her heel getting caught in a grate as she giggles. I help her disengage from the metal, both of us laughing as we kiss, her hands resting on my chest. She purrs like a kitten, licking her lips, giving me the most sensual come-fuck-me eyes.
“My truck is over this way.” I motion to the left.
“Let’s break in my back seat.” She pulls me in the other direction. Good thinking, even though my truck is big, I don’t want reminders of my family. The strawberry-scented air freshener Livvie picked last time we went to the car wash hanging off the mirror, my wife’s iPod in the console along with the tube of lipstick she calls her money shot a.k.a. the perfect shade of pink. My truck is comforting—it feels like a snug, well-lived-in home that gets us from point A to B, not a place to fuck a woman you just met.
“Where’s your car?” I ask, tasting her neck, my lips moving down to her décolletage.
“Ahh, you want a backseat quickie fast.” She pulls me along to a white Kia fumbling in her clutch for the key. She clicks the fob, and it beeps, opening the back door for me like she’s my chauffeur. I climb inside, stumble is more like it, my height and impairment factoring in my uneasiness.
First, I’m on top, then she’s on top, both trying to figure out a way to fuck. I don’t mean to use that word crassly, dropping the ‘f’ bomb like I’m trying to sound younger than a middle-aged man.
Except that’s exactly what it was. Fucking. Meeting some girl in a bar, imbibing in too much alcohol, staggering to a vehicle to get our rocks off. It was foolish. I finally situate myself in the back seat with her on my lap, legs wrapped around me, heels discarded on the floor, her skirt h
itched up to her waist, panties to the side. My hands grab her hips, her waist, her breasts, as she rides me. I didn’t have a condom on me, didn’t even register until her wetness was soaking my cock that she was moving on me, by then I was in the moment.
No… no better excuse than it felt amazing, she felt amazing. I pulled her hair out of the barrette that was holding it in a bun, the strawberry blonde waves tumbling past her shoulders as she wrapped her arms around my neck.
There was grunting and whispering, licking, and kissing, both of us rushing toward an end goal of making the other satiated. I motion her hips on me and guide her, up and down, faster and slower until she moaned and collapsed on top of me. Until I got a release. Sweat drips down my back, into my pants, the air like a sauna, steaming up the windows of the car. Her body’s wet, her hair moist as I hold it in my hand in a vise-like grip. When it’s over, I leaned my head back against her gray cloth seats, the parking garage dim. We hear the slam of a door. It sounds like it’s right next to us, but it’s not. I close my eyes, her heart palpitating against my chest, her blouse unbuttoned and untucked, probably ripped. With my eyes shut, I enjoy the moment for a minute, her on my lap, head resting against my shoulder, my body at peace, the alcohol numbing all thoughts of the life I’m pretending to exit for a brief moment in time.
I untangle her from my arms. She looks stricken, her eyes half-closed as they pop open. I kiss her again on her bow-shaped lips, taking one more whiff of her.
“What’s your name?” she whispers.
“Steven.”
“I’m Veronica.”
We don’t shake hands, just look at each other quizzically. My back aches from the uncomfortable position in the cramped back seat. I help her find her shoes, button her blouse, pull her skirt down. I push the door open, the air stifling. She needs help getting out. Then I exit, flustered, straightening up. We stand there, an awkward moment, heat rising from the pavement.
“Should I like, give you my number or something?” Her face flushed, sex looks good on her skin, the creamy white now a pale pink. Crashing back to reality, I lean my arm against the window, and a sigh escapes my lips. “Look, Veronica, I’m married. Probably best we keep this between us.” Her face falls, the smile is shaky as she nods.
The Ruined Wife: Psychological Thriller Page 15
