Backstage Pass

by K T Morrison

  “How’s your room?”

  “It’s really great,” she said.

  “How’s the bed?”

  “Clean. Comfy,” she said. “It’s gonna be empty without you in it.” Now she pouted out her lower lip again.

  “I really wish I was there, Lib,” he said.

  She turned away again, listened to someone speaking to her. She said, “Okay, I gotta go, Ben, we’re going to a different room. Finn needs his phone for a bit...”

  “Call me later, baby.”

  “I will if I can,” she said, eyes turned down like she was trying to figure out the phone’s controls. “How do I...?”

  Finn’s low voice instructed her.

  “And this is for hang up?”

  Now Finn’s face loomed, sharing space with Libby’s. They were almost cheek to cheek, but they didn’t touch. Finn’s hand came around her shoulder, his tented fingers holding up the almost empty beer cup. He said, “How’s Big Ben?”

  “How’s it going, Finn?”

  “Awesome, man, you’re missing the best show this summer, guaranteed.”

  Libby agreed, saying, “It’s so awesome, Ben...”

  “You guys have fun,” he said, the sound of his own words creeping a pair of cuckold horns behind his head. Was Libby thinking right at this moment that there may be a possibility...?

  Finn said, “I’ll make sure she does. You’re having fun, right, Lib?” Their faces turned toward each other’s—far too close together.

  Lib said, “I guess we are already,” and laughed. She turned to face Ben, said, “Don’t worry about me, baby, I’m having fun...”

  “I love you,” he said, feeling his heart beginning to ache.

  “I love you, too,” she said, eyes turned down, and then Finn pointing to show her which button to press. “Bye, baby,” she said, her last word cut off as the screen went blank.

  His stomach grumbled again, and he hunched forward hugging his elbows into his hips as real pain tightened through him. “Oh, God,” he hissed over and over again, delightful pain almost caressing over him like a teasing sheet being drawn up his body, its tassel-strung hem tickling over his scalp. Why wouldn’t he stop this?

  Because you deserve it…

  “I know,” he said finally, gasping as a measure of relief washed over him. He panted for breath, pushing those thoughts out of his mind. He fired up the truck, backed out and went through the drive-through. He’d need a coffee because this was going to be a long night…

  15

  Libby never called him again that night, though she only promised she would try, and as the clock turned over to one in the morning, he broke the Apple remote. He told himself, sitting on the couch waiting for her call, that if she didn’t call by midnight, then she was sleeping with Finn.

  The hour between eleven and twelve was the worst hour of his life. It was spent twisted on the couch, a pillow held to his chest. As the witching hour drew near, he ended up with his head resting on the back of the couch as he rabbit-punched body blows into the pillow’s plumped up center, pinched in the corner of the couch where it couldn’t get away from him.

  The dark and ugly truth was clear. He could call Finn, he told himself, and cancel this. Finn had said it. No. He was all alone, his wife so far away, and there was no way to stop her. He could call Finn and Finn wouldn’t answer. Wouldn’t hear his pleas of surrender. Please don’t sleep with my wife!

  What scared him the most when he faced it was the ugliest of suspected truths. Finn would pick up. Why wouldn’t he pick up? The reason Ben wasn’t calling yet was because he wanted to wait just a little bit longer. Just a minute more. I want to hold out... I’ll decide later... Because there was a dark part of him that wanted this to happen. He could try to fool himself saying he wanted it to happen because he could explore with Chelsea, maybe even spend a little more time with Neve, and do it guilt-free... But the truth was since this awful summer project had changed into second gear and became about Libby and Finn—not his absolution—he hadn’t thought about Chelsea in that way at all. Quite the opposite. All his focus was pinpointed on that petite squeaky clean fresh-faced young girl he married... Who right now had her little legs wrapped around Finn’s hips, her nails dragging lines on the hard shapes of his muscular back...

  Part 3

  Dorchester

  Saturday, July 13

  16

  When he awoke, there was a text waiting for him.

  Finn: got into our hotel room safe and sound everything great! Call you tomorrow

  Was it Finn who’d written it? Was that Libby’s text? If it was Libby, wouldn’t she have sent him some hearts? Or maybe hearts for her husband were the last thing on her mind when she tumbled into the hotel room after partying with some band. Was Finn on her the moment they fell into the room?—her back going up against the wall, her arms going around his neck as he kissed her? Was that how it played out?

  Maybe she texted you after the deed was done...

  Maybe when they came in the hotel room, all Libby’s thoughts of her Ben were long gone. Maybe this text was sent in that hazy afterglow of sex. He could picture her, the way she’d get bashful, hide herself in the sheets, her cheeks were broadcast with red and there was a sparkle in her eye. After sex, her hair would hang limp and she would have to keep tucking it behind her ears. Is that what she was like, sitting next to Finn in bed, him stretched out and satiated, her little thumbs dabbing out an A-OK message to her witless husband…

  Maybe it hadn’t happened. Maybe nothing had happened.

  It was possible. It wasn’t likely, but it was possible. Perhaps they just came in after a night out, keeping it sensible, neither of them drinking too much—Finn was at work after all, just drank that one beer, that was all he’d had, Finn had to keep his wits around these bands, didn’t want to lose respect—they came in but it was just too late to call. Before Finn disappeared into his separate room, Libby asked him to send Ben a quick text. Then she went and crawled into bed solo and thought about her husband and the great night he was missing...

  Unlikely.

  Maybe he didn’t want to know how it played out. Maybe it would be sufficient to know that it had been done. He didn’t care where. Didn’t care if it was in a luxury suite penthouse hotel room’s bathroom, done up against the sink, in the back of a limo, or a cab, back at the hotel room... It didn’t matter where or how, just that it was done.

  Only, he had no more pervasive thought than ‘the how.’ All morning he limped around the house, head hung like a man in mourning. Physical pain gripped him, crippled his gait, had him lurching and wincing and grimacing as he moved from room to room trying to find a comfortable place for him to curl up and die in.

  One o’clock, she texted again.

  Finn: up and at em

  Ben: how’d it go?

  Finn: How’d what go?

  Was it Libby? His mind raced and his heart hammered. He texted.

  Ben: The party. This is Libby?

  Finn: It’s me. Hi baby. I’ll call you in a bit. I just want you to know that I’m okay, we were out late

  Ben: did you go to a party?

  Finn: I’ll call you in a bit

  He sent a thumbs up, and clutched his phone like it was a lifesaver and he was adrift at sea, eyes boring into that screen and waiting for it to text him back. She didn’t call again until three.

  17

  He took a video call sitting in a park. The park could pass for Niagara, he figured, and he’d spent the day catching up on paperwork and calls, doing it all out of the house and playing a weird game of musical chairs, moving from unfamiliar locale to unfamiliar locale so Lib wouldn’t recognize the background.

  It wasn’t Libby’s face that popped up on the screen. It was Libby’s bottom. She wore a pair of denim shorts much like the black ones that were new to him yesterday. These ones were shorter. There wasn’t the cuff, and they rode about three inches higher than the black ones—tucking just below the curve
of her buttock. He watched that bottom he married swish from side to side as she danced; music blared into distortion, and the image was blurry. Libby’s hair danced on her back, and her dancing and swaying grew more pronounced as the tempo picked up. This would be an opening band, an early afternoon starter. He didn’t recognize the song, but Libby sure seemed to like it.

  “Just calling to check in...” Finn’s voice near the mic.

  He asked, “Is it done?”

  Finn didn’t answer, and now the camera was moving closer to Lib. She held a plastic cup of beer up above her shoulder as she danced, her head bobbing from side to side, in opposite beat to the boom-boom of her jean-hugged ass. Finn’s hand loomed in the image now, reaching out and touching Libby on her shoulder. He could hear Finn shouting Lib, it’s Ben, it’s Ben over top of the music.

  When Libby turned, it was like she had been expecting Finn, and like she’d been alone for a little while, because when she turned to see him approaching with the camera she lit up, dancing for him, putting her arms out like she wanted to hug him.

  “It’s Ben,” Finn shouted over the crashing music again.

  Libby tucked her hair behind an ear, leaned close, pushing her ear forward.

  “It’s Ben!”

  Libby jumped back in instant happiness, and she shouted Ben?

  “Hey,” he shouted, waving at the screen, looking like a dummy to anyone passing by his park bench. “I love you!”

  So this was what her face looked like after she fucked another man. His guts let out a tremulous whimper.

  “I miss you so much,” she shouted, waving now frantically at him.

  “I miss you too,” he shouted.

  The tempo changed and the band that played entered another song. Libby turned over her shoulder to watch them. She cheered loudly, the sound like a shrill siren from his phone’s speakers, making him wince. She pumped another fist overhead and beer sloshed over the lip of her glass.

  That simple image of her experiencing a simple carefree joy—something not always attainable to his timid wife—warmed a glow over him. He loved to see her like that. Maybe there was a future in this. She’d been with another man. She would be hurt by her own actions, maybe. Hopefully. And she would have regrets. He would tell her that he’d done it as well, and maybe they could engage in this new something together. Had he ever even wanted that? The clear question was: had he ever dared to dream it?

  Sudden brave command rose up within him. He was proud to see her like that. Proud for her because he loved her. She had attained a level of independence that had helped her squeeze through the iron bars of her buckram prison. Sure, maybe it had been drawn from her by another man, but it was his warm and coaxing hand on her back that gave her the courage to take the step she feared. His guilt was cleared. He was free. She slept with another man. She was a new woman. She clearly loved him. She was happy where she was. His eyes welled with sudden tears. There was a sadness, a longing for something that had been lost. But there was a proud feeling in his heart, thinking that whatever they faced going ahead they could manage together. He sniffed, wiped at an eye and said, “I’m so happy you’re having a good time, Lib.”

  “It’s awesome, Dorchester’s on soon,” she shouted over the cacophony, the phone jostling and blurry still.

  He said, “Go. Go Libby, I’m just glad to see you. I’m glad to see you with that smile on your face...”

  “I love you,” she shouted, and he wasn’t sure she’d even heard what he’d said. He just gave her the biggest smile he could muster and waved to her. She waved in return and his heart swelled. He took a shaky breath and held it, waved at her further and hung up.

  The next half hour a numb feeling cradled him. A buzzing nonexistence. A feeling of not knowing who you were. Feeling like he was a stranger with amnesia in a house that seemed so familiar to him. The half hour after that he took it all back. He burst into tears, cried into his hands at what he’d done and what was gone from his wife now. She’d done it and it was over. She wasn’t entirely his anymore. He deserved it, Lord, did he deserve it; he would take the pain and the hurt, but he wished it was never like this. He wished they were restored to the weekend before Chelsea had returned to their lives.

  He writhed in agony on the couch. Half an hour later, Chelsea arrived and surprised him. An hour after that, Libby’s parents arrived and surprised both of them...

  18

  There was a soft rap on the aluminum screen door, and he lifted himself from the sofa, made his way to the kitchen and peeked out the window. Chelsea was there, leaning a shoulder up against the brick.

  The instant reaction was surprise and a happy sort of curiosity. But it was immediately quashed by dread. That pretty figure propped up on his porch portended a lot of trouble. It was her reintroduction to his life that had led him to this ruin. The lure of some sort of freestyle life paled now in the harsh reality of his Libby’s infidelity. The idea of getting between Chelsea’s sheets and getting their legs working together, putting his mouth on hers, held no current allure. The price had been too great to pay.

  He lumbered to the hallway door, clicked open the aluminum screen, said, “Aren’t you supposed to be in Ottawa?”

  “That was night. Got home this aft,” she said. She had that sly look in her eye, but there was a compassionate softness to her lips. They weren’t tense or merciless, the corners were lowered in solemn repose. She raised a fist now, fingers clasped around a bottle in a brown LCBO bag. She held it aloft like a trophy, gave it a wag and made its liquid contents splosh. “Soften your sorrows,” she said, “lubricate your lamentation?”

  “Come in,” he said, pushing the door open and stepping away, shuffling through the hall to the family room and flopping onto the couch.

  Chelsea followed, the brown paper bag tucked under an elbow, head swiveling around looking at his untidy house. “Late night?” The table was littered with empty chip bags, beer cans, a dirty plate, his twisted and snapped Apple remote.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” he said.

  “Poor Ben,” she said. “But look at you now, you’re a new man.”

  “I want to be the old man. The man that I was...”

  “Own your position, Ben. You put you there. You made the mistake, but maybe you made it right now.”

  “Maybe I made it right?”

  “Time will tell, Ben, time will tell.”

  “How will I know?”

  “That all depends on Libby now.”

  He raised his eyes up to look at her standing near the side of the couch. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

  “Finn didn’t text you?”

  “I guess he’s too busy,” he said.

  Chelsea came around the L-shaped couch, let herself drop into it so the two of them both faced the TV. With elaborate performance, she kicked up one long leg to the coffee table, then the other followed, her heel hooking. Now she held the neck of the bottle in clawed fingers and whisked away the paper bag, presenting to him Kentucky bourbon.

  He sighed. “You really came to support me?”

  “Curious to see how you’re taking it.”

  “Off and on. I have my good moments...”

  “But a lot of bad ones?”

  “I’ve been freaking out sometimes. Yeah,” he said, dumbly, “really just freaking out.”

  “You’re not happy where you are?”

  “Where am I?”

  “Don’t you feel like you've been freed? Do you feel like your guilt is gone?”

  “No,” he said, rubbed his forehead.

  She put the bottle down on the glass top of the table with a loud crack, leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, her face looming closer to his. “Think about it, Ben. Really, really think about it.”

  He sat straight, imitated her position, leaning forward and draping his wrists over his knees, head hanging down. He stared at the floor between his feet. He muttered, “Do I feel better?”

  “That’s the que
stion, Benjamin. How. Do. You. Feel?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “And your guilt? I mean, the things that Libby did...”

  His chin darted up. “What did he tell you?”

  “He told me what happened.”

  “What happened?” His voice was urgent and quick now.

  “Is your guilt gone?”

  “Yeah, sure. C’mon, tell me what happened…”

  “Don’t rush me,” she said, holding up her palms and pushing them at him like she was pumping the brakes.

  “Would you just tell me what happened?”

  Chelsea raised her eyebrows, let her hands drop. “Libby sucked him off.” She shrugged, gave him her best What are you going to do? expression. “It’s done, Ben.”

  “What?—wait... What are you talking about? Lib went down on him?”

  “Finn says she did. Went down on him in some hotel bathroom. Not theirs, an after party or something. A band’s. Said she was down on her knees, he came in her mouth.”

  “Holy fuck.” His voice was just short of shouting. He stood up now, paced around the coffee table in a circle, poked at Chelsea’s feet to let him past. Libby, what the fuck are you doing? He marched around for a second time, doing the full three-hundred-sixty tour. His eyes were wild with disbelief, his vision jittered with his pulse. “Libby, oh, my God,” he said, and collapsed back in his spot. “Finn told you this?” He looked at Chelsea, she had her feet back up on the table, lounging comfortably in his couch.