There’s a real resignation to his voice, and it alarms me, even though he’s saying everything I want to hear. “What are you doing?”
“The right thing, no matter how much I hate it.” He hands over a printed piece of paper. “I’ve written something I want you to read.”
I reach out and take it.
I have to read it twice to understand what it is saying.
To Whom It May Concern, So Long As You Are a Better Person Than I Am;
I want you to date my wife. See, the thing is, I cheated on her. Like a lot of cheating spouses, I don’t have any good reasons why I did it. Sex, escape, adrenaline.
But I didn’t do it out of any sense of romance or love. Those, as pathetic as it sounds, are reserved for my wife, and she doesn’t want them from me right now.
So I think you should give it a go.
Know that I will always want her. Know that I will always love her. But I think she deserves a chance at a selfless love that doesn’t ask as much as my love asks.
Let me tell you about her. She’s creative as hell. Smart. Gorgeous. Her beauty is quiet, but lasting. She’s prettier now than she was when we met in university, although she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen then, and still is. She’s sexier now, too, in ways I was too selfish to properly explore when I had the chance. She works with her hands, with her entire body, and it shows. She’s got softness, too.
The way her muscles move beneath her curves is the most erotic thing I can picture.
Now she deserves the chance to freely be who she wants to be without any pressure.
If you think you might be the right person to give this woman the happiness she deserves—for a night, a day, a week, a month, or forever—submit your best effort to the P.O. Box listed below. All submissions will be treated with the utmost confidence by the person with the most integrity of anyone I’ve ever known.
My wife.
Who I don’t deserve.
I won’t know the entries. I’ve given her the key to the P.O. Box, and she won’t share them with me. She won’t want to, and that has to be my cross to bear.
“You’re joking,” I whisper.
“No.”
“Luke, this is a hell of a way to tell me that I’m pretty.”
“That’s not what I’m doing. You are, by the way. Very pretty.”
“You want me to date other people? Through a system you have set up, rather than just, you know, the normal way.”
“You don’t need to use the letter if you don’t want to.” He shrugs, his whole body tight. “I just thought—I mean, it’s mostly for you, so you know how I feel about you. Yeah, that’s true. But I’m serious about other people dating you. You dating…other people. That’s—you should have that. If you want it.”
“And what if I say I do?” I stand up, furious and desperately in need of a cup of tea to restore me to the perfectly reasonable day I had been having up until he gave me this note. “Don’t answer that.”
I wish I was only angry. Sadness is a bigger emotion. Takes up more space. Lasts a hell of a lot longer.
I fill the largest mug I own, a handmade thing Luke gave me one year for Christmas that has a chip in it, but I keep because it’s my favourite—and oh, the irony is not lost on me there—and take my time adding milk and sugar.
The last thing I want is my cheating husband to pimp me out to strangers out of some sense of obligation.
The way her muscles move beneath her curves is the most erotic thing I can picture.
What the fuck is that? He has no right to describe me like that. Not anymore.
I take a steadying breath, pick up my mug, and return to the living room. He hasn’t changed positions at all.
It’s such a strange idea to consider as I sit across from him, drinking tea out of a mug he gave me, in the loft I bought us to rebuild our lives after his firm almost imploded.
But maybe he’s right. Maybe I need to test this out. If we’re going to come to an end anyway, why not rip that bandaid off sooner than later?
“You’re serious,” I repeat for what feels like the tenth time.
“What’s the saying? If you love something, set it free.”
My heart pounds in my chest. “And what if I’m not ready to start dating?”
“It’s up to you. But if you ever want a reference letter for a—”
“Shut up.” I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of tea. Think about the shape of the mug in my hand, the sounds of Luke being in my apartment again.
And I imagine everything being different.
Different men, different mugs.
22
Grace
It takes me two weeks to realize that Luke is serious about this. We both get the all clear from the health clinic, which is a relief.
I don’t like the idea of him posting that ad about me, although I keep the printout of his letter in my bedside drawer. There’s something deeply kinky about it, and I can’t put my finger on it exactly—but the only place I would consider playing with something like that is The Wheelhouse, and with both Sam and Alex connected to that space, it’s a non-starter for using it to have some side fun outside of my marriage.
Even if it is officially sanctioned by my husband.
The idea of it makes me hot and achy, but…no.
I do like the idea, though. But in reality, I’m not that kind of woman. I’m pretty sure.
And then something happens that drags me back into the muck, into the despair and the grossness of infidelity.
I get a phone call from a woman who tracked me down through the gallery.
“You don’t know me,” the woman says, her voice breaking. “But I think we both have a problem with Caitlyn Jobst.”
My stomach drops away, like an endless dark chasm has opened up inside me. I start shaking. “Yes, I know her. Sort of. I mean—”
“My husband just left me. I think they’ve been having an affair. And you had responded to some of his pictures last month…”
I remember now. “I was drunk,” I whisper. “And drunk and Facebook don’t really work well together. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. It started something…I asked him about it. He didn’t know who you were, but he got shifty when I asked him about Caitlyn.”
“She had an affair with my husband, too. I know of one other affair as well. It’s her thing.”
There’s a long pause. “Did he leave you?”
My heart cracks open. I don’t know if this answer is better or worse. Like everything else in this fucked up story, it is what it is. “It’s complicated. I asked him to leave. We’re trying to work on it, maybe, but I dunno.”
“Oh.”
Yeah, oh. That’s accurate. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know it’s his fault,” she says. Like I did.
Like I’m sure we all do, and the thing is, it is his fault. Our partners are absolutely to blame for the fuckery they bring to our lives.
But at what point can you point to a serial home-wrecker and say, she’s a fucking problem, too? What dark trauma did she suffer as a child that made her grow up to want to destroy the happiness of other women?