by Penny Reid
Greg stiffened. “Is he okay?”
“Yes, but—”
“I have to go, we’ll talk about it later. Speaking of which, when I return, it would be super great if you were still mostly naked, mmm-kay?’
“Mmm-kay.” I stood, giving him a goofy grin. “I’m sure the kids won’t mind their mother walking around the house naked. That’s not weird at all.”
“Good.” He nodded once, a smile brightening his eyes, then turned. I was halfway to our bathroom when I heard him open the front door then bellow at me, “And by mostly naked, I mean completely naked. And wet!”
This made me smile, until I heard Greg say, “Oh, hi neighbor Matt. I didn’t see you lurking there in the hallway. Awkward.”
And then I laughed.
Good Lord, I’d missed him.
CHAPTER 3
Dearest Wife,
I really thought love at first sight and soul mates were bullshit. But the second I saw you, nothing else seemed possible. How could I not spend the rest of my breathing moments with you? I needed to be with you. I was in love with you from the moment I saw you, and every time I see you now it's that same feeling of, “NOW I am complete.”
-Mark
Letter
Ohio, USA
Married 7 years
~18 years ago~
*Greg*
“She’s a six.”
Frowning at the class syllabus for English Composition 101, I endeavored to ignore the males of my species directly behind me.
“What? No. Look at that rack. It adds three points. She’s at least a seven. Maybe even a seven point five.”
This statement was deserving of an eye-roll. Thus, I rolled my eyes.
Barely functioning, hormone-addled cretins were my punishment for putting off first year English until my third year at university. I ought to have CLEP-ed out of the class—which was where one takes a proficiency test in lieu of three credit hours spent weekly in a classroom. This approach hadn’t come to fruition for two reasons.
First, I got drunk the night before the exam last summer and failed it. I fell asleep halfway through the essay portion.
I’m not a drunk, not yet at any rate, but I do enjoy a night of oblivion from time to time. I’m haunted, mostly by ghosts of blokes I used to know. Watching other people die requires turning off a switch within oneself. When everything was illuminated and yet still dark—shadowy with regret and the knowledge of true pain, true suffering—my ability to live and function in the present was compromised.
How I longed to scream at people, how I longed to wake them to the world around them, and not their petty concerns of TV dinners and the cancellation of their favorite TV shows . . .
But alas, no one likes a harbinger of truth. So I opted for infrequent periods of drunk debauchery in an effort to curb my killjoy proclivities.
The other reason I’d enrolled in English 101 was because I needed a boost to my grade point average. My humanities teacher had given me a C last semester. Note the distinction: It hadn’t been deserved. It had been given. Like a present. Or a sexually transmitted disease.
I’d had the audacity to call him an insufferable twat. He was an insufferable twat. But then what did I expect from a ponytail-wearing pacifist who spent five dollars on a cup of coffee, yet complained daily about his paltry adjunct stipend?
Also, he was a philosophy Ph.D. candidate. The most pretentious and worthless of all college degrees, where nothing was made or produced or accomplished, except endless discussion of feelings and thoughts. So, again, nothing accomplished.
In retrospect, I ought not to have called him an insufferable twat in front of the entire class. That was on me. My bad.
English Composition 101 was my penance.
Apparently the hormone-addled cretins behind me were part of that penance.
“She’s a six point five and no higher. Butterface. Put a paper bag over her head or fuck her from behind and she goes up a half point.”
I gritted my teeth.
Lord, give me strength.
“What about her?”
“Which one? The fat one?”
“No. The short one; she just walked in. I’d totally fuck her face to face.”
My attention flickered to the side, to the young lady at my left. She wasn’t the subject of their objectification, but she had obviously overheard their comments. Her youthful face was flushed and stricken, clearly horrified. From the looks of her, she was in her first year, likely fresh from some corn farm in Iowa.
And now she was going to think all men were insufferable twats. I felt sorry for her. But mostly, I felt sorry for the nice boy who would one day want to court her attention, only to find her prejudiced against all men, and living with a flannel-wearing lesbian.
Then again, I considered the matter and concluded, flannel-wearing lesbians are pretty awesome. I decided the wankers behind me might be doing her a favor.
“Whoa . . . I see her. Christ. I’d let her suck my dick.”
I gripped the edge of the desk. Where the hell was the professor?
I hadn’t checked to see who they were speaking of. It didn’t matter. No one deserved to be subjected to such filth and degradation. If the next statement out of their mouths wasn’t in reference to their cherished mother, I would have no choice but to ruin their day.
“I would come all over her face.”
“She has small tits.”
“But that ass.”
“Anal, with a mirror.”
That’s it.
Straightening in my seat, I glanced over my shoulder at the boys behind me, eyed them up and down, then laughed lightly. They were as I imagined they would be, barely out of diapers.
Wait for it.
One of them, a pale-complexioned fellow with nostrils betraying his pig-nature and pockmarks betraying his juvenile mind, smirked. “You see her too? She’s got a sweet ass.”
“No. I smelled your desperation. It stinks.”
His smirk fell.
“What?”
“Your desperation,” I repeated. “You stink.”
His vanilla cheeks flushed red. “What did you say?”
“I said you smell of callow youth and masturbatory semen, also known as desperation. And I’m not the only one affected by the stench.” I lifted my chin to the young girl at my left, some seats away. Her eyes were fastened to the front of the room, though I knew she was listening to the exchange. “Perhaps save your infantile babble for someplace more appropriate, like a play yard, or your crib.”
“You want a fight, asshole?”
“Not particularly. But if you children come across any other adults, I must caution you. Not every man is as forgiving as I.” Holding the chatty one’s feeble glare for a long moment, I added, “Boys, if you insist upon your current course of innate thought pollution, I’m liable to lose my temper. Cease or I shall have to punish you.”
His eyes wavered to the side, to the girl. His fragile ego threatened, he lifted his hand as though to strike me and blurted, “Hey, fuck you, man.”
I caught his hand, twisting his wrist easily, and constricted my fingers around his fist, eliciting a sharp cry of pain. “I don’t want to beat you senseless—not today at any rate, perhaps tomorrow—but allow me to speak clearly since your comprehension of the English language is apparently deficient.”
I paused, squeezing his hand, feeling the bones crunch together. He cried out again. Thankfully we were at the back of the giant, bustling lecture hall, and he had enough pride to muffle the involuntary sounds of pain.
“Stop. Talking.” I shifted my attention to his little friend; his eyes were wide and panicked. “Never speak again in my presence. Or in the presence of any woman. Everything out of your mouth shows that you are vile and insignificant. If you died tomorrow, the world would be a better place. You are filthy little beasts and I shall not hesitate breaking all the bones in your hands. And that would certainly be devastating because we all know the only
two types of sexual satisfaction you’re ever likely to receive is of the self-serve variety, or the four legged variety.”
After another long stare and threatening squeeze, I released his fist and turned back to the front of the class, glancing at my watch. The professor was already several minutes late. I hoped this teacher didn’t expect us to stay longer in recompense for his poor planning.
Telltale sounds of the boys vacating their seats, scurrying out of the room like the vermin they were, calmed me considerably. I made another attempt to study the syllabus, but then I felt the weight of someone watching me. Lifting my eyes, I found the girl at my left giving me a shy smile of reverential gratitude.
I nodded once, noting that—if her eyes were any indication—she possessed some intelligence. But she was very young. I had no desire to be worshipped. No desire to be fawned over or—God forbid—needed.
Most importantly, however, I already had a girlfriend. And Vanessa suited me just fine.
She was the shrewd, practical sort who enjoyed frequent orgasms and liberally employed me as arm candy. Intelligent, independent, reasonably even-tempered, Vanessa required very little maintenance. Her self-sufficiency left me plenty of time for my preferred solitary pursuits—namely long-distance running and voracious reading.
Plus, Vanessa was tall. I preferred tall women. I liked not having to stoop when carrying on a conversation.
“I’m Madeline.” Introducing herself, the girl to my left gave me a little wave.
“Greg.” I pressed my lips together, issuing a tight smile, relieved she hadn’t extended her hand for me to shake.
“Do you know her?” Madeline asked, lifting her chin toward a spot a few rows below us. “The girl they were talking about? Is she a friend of yours?”
“I don’t . . .” I shook my head, my attention straying absentmindedly to where Madeline had indicated.
Her.
There.
She.
You.
Stunning.
Are.
Woman.
Want.
I lost my train of thought.
I lost my words.
In truth, I lost my ability to speak.
And think.
I’d been addled insensible by the vision before me.
Dark eyes lined by thick lashes set in an extraordinarily exquisite face—she was a painting. A marble statue, set apart and untouchable. Yet a moving, breathing object of artistry. Everything grace and elegance and beauty.
Her red lips pursed thoughtfully. The unknown woman was searching for something, eyeing the space around her desk, unaware she was being watched, the subject of intense fascination.
My mother had been an object to my father, a means to an end. A tool for a purpose. He was handsome, unfaithful, and soulless. His cold lack of regard eventually killed her. As such, I’d never allowed myself to be blinded or corrupted by a façade. I’d trained myself to search for signs of authenticity and intelligence beyond the false and oftentimes misleading stucco of appearance.
But this woman . . . she was blinding.
Enchanting.
And she was bending over.
And now I was gaping at her remarkably perfect ass. It was the Helen of Troy of asses, the kind wars are fought over.
“You know her?” Madeline’s repeated question pulled me from my brazen gawking.
Ashamed, I forced my eyes away and cleared my throat twice before answering, “I don’t know her.”
“Oh. I thought she might be your friend. Why did you defend her if you don’t know her?”
“Mutual flirting and willing seduction are one thing, but forceful leering and being the target of unwelcome objectification are quite another,” I answered offhandedly. “I defended human decency.”
Unable to help myself, I re-centered the woman in my vision, appreciating the curve of her narrow waist, the bewitching line of her jaw and neck, as I might admire the handiwork of an exceptionally gifted artist. She’d twisted around again, sending me chasing my breath. Her loveliness again jarring and startling.
“She’s pretty,” Madeline said. It sounded like a fishing lure, a comment meant for me to contradict.
I ignored it, instead focusing on the woman’s sad eyes. But also curious. And wise. They held depth of thought, of knowing.
No. The thought was unbidden. She’s a reminder that true and brilliant beauty exists in this world.
I shrugged, dazedly watching the captivating creature as she slipped into her seat, and replied clumsily, “I have a girlfriend.” It was more a reminder to myself than a response to the girl’s remark.
Madeline said nothing else.
I heard nothing of the lecture.
And when the class ended, I battled my guilt, keeping my eyes pointedly downcast in atonement for looking.
But mostly for noticing, and allowing myself to be intoxicated by the sight.
CHAPTER 4
Dear Husband,
You know I love you because I don’t murder your mother.
-Jenna
Post-it Note
United Kingdom
Married 22 years
~Present Day~
*Fiona*
Greg and I arrived at the party five minutes early. This was a miracle because we’d left our apartment fifteen minutes late; the kids were ecstatic to have their dad home and didn’t want to let him go. Also, we encountered blizzard-like conditions on the streets of Chicago. Recognizing the plight of our tardiness, Greg suggested I call Janie—another of our close-knit group, though she crocheted mostly—and ask if she could send a car to pick us up.
I rationalized this frivolity by reminding myself I was bringing the cake. It was the cake, not us, that warranted the fancy car ride.
Greg saw nothing frivolous in asking Janie to send a car, remarking, “What’s the good of having friends if you can’t exploit them for their resources?” This statement earned him a stern look because he was only half-joking.
I’d known Janie—savant, guileless, tall—in college; when I was a master’s student she was starting her freshman year. I was the resident advisor on the dorm floor. We’d kept in touch over the years. Janie and her husband Quinn—resourceful, stoic, covertly noble—live in a penthouse apartment in a building he owns, at the north end of Millennium Park. He is in the security business.
In addition to Janie and me, the remainder of our knitting group is as follows:
Dr. Elizabeth Finney, emergency room physician, twenty-nine, blonde hair, blue eyes, average height; Janie’s roommate from college; stubborn and, similarly to Quinn Sullivan, covertly noble. Married to Nico Moretti—aka Niccolò Manganiello—celebrity comedian, thirty, black hair, green eyes, medium build, and enough charisma to indiscriminately paralyze women, men, and house pets.
Dr. Sandra Fielding-Greene, child psychiatrist, thirty, red hair, green eyes, five foot seven; works with Elizabeth at the hospital; altruistic, fun-loving, wickedly clever. Married to Alex Greene, genius, world-class hacker, twenty-three, black hair, dark blue eyes, six foot two; mistrusting and resourceful.
Ashley Winston, pediatric intensive care nurse, twenty-six, brown hair, blue eyes, five foot eight; worked with Sandra and Elizabeth at the hospital until recently; sassy bookworm. Involved with Dr. Drew Runous, federal game warden, PhD biologist, thirty-one, blonde hair, blue eyes, six foot four; reserved and intense.
Marie Harris, freelance journalist and artist, thirty, blonde hair, blue eyes, average height, headstrong, food enthusiast. I met Marie when she was doing an article on women of the CIA and brought her into the knitting circle. She was involved with a chef for a prolonged period, David Carter, but they’d split about a year ago.
And lastly, Kat Tanner—aka Kathleen Tyson—administrative assistant, twenty-three, brown hair, brown eyes, five foot four. Kat had worked with Janie for a number of years at an architecture firm before Janie went to work for Quinn at his security company. Little known fact: Kat is the heiress to a
vast pharmaceutical fortune, and her family was based out of Boston. She doesn’t speak of it, or them.
“You’re early!” Sandra rushed forward as soon as she spotted me and stopped short of wrapping me in a hug. I understood her surprise. I was never early. People with children are only ever early by accident.
“Goodness, Fiona. What’s the deal with the cake? That’s the largest cake I’ve ever seen.”
“My neighbor accidentally ate a slice of the coconut cake I made yesterday, so he went out and bought this one to replace it.” I handed Greg the cake so I could accept Sandra’s hug.
“He has a habit of overcompensation,” Greg added with a note of cheerful sarcasm.
I gave him a warning look. He winked at me, the stinker.
“Well, hello, Mr. Fiona.” Sandra grinned at my husband, using the name she’d assigned him years ago. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you still trying to teach Grace how to code?”
“If she doesn’t learn about data structures at home, she’ll just learn about it on the streets.”
Sandra laughed. This was Greg’s stock answer for all the age-inappropriate activities he tried to teach the kids. Most of them were odd, but benign, like computer programming. However some—like coaching them to win every argument by declaring, That sounds like something Hitler would say—were much less benign.
“Are you back for good?”
Back for good meant a month, maybe two, if we were lucky.
“No, just twenty-four hours.”
“E-gads! How long was the flight?”
“Twenty-two hours,” he answered smoothly, like it was no big deal. For him it wasn’t a big deal. His longest trip home had taken three days. That was four years ago when he’d traveled home from Nepal. One leg of his journey was by pack mule.
Greg had informed me in the car on the way over that the company had evacuated all rig workers from the site for four days and given them comp time. Instead of staying in South Africa, he’d decided to jump on a plane so we could spend a day and a half together. The older I get the more I understood everything is relative. One person’s travel horror story is another person’s dream vacation.
