Or maybe it’s the men. Maybe she has twisted Daddy issues. Maybe she wants to hurt them and ruin their lives, and we’re an inconsequential side effect.
I don’t fucking care anymore.
I do care about this woman, though. I think she’s fucking brave to reach out to me. I care about being present and hearing her story. “Do you want to grab some coffee and talk?”
“If you have time.”
“I have all the time in the world.” I was supposed to go for a walk with Luke. Cancelling is the no-brainer choice.
Grace: Something’s come up. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.
Luke: Okay. I love you.
Grace: I know.
And I do. But right now, I don’t care.
There is a brutal double standard for women who have been cheated on. On the hand, they are blamed for it. They weren’t sexy enough, they ignored their husband’s needs. And then, when they find out, they are expected to leave.
You think people are rewarded for staying with a spouse that betrayed them? Not by people who see them as having agency. Agency means we leave. Period. Agency means, when I’m hurt, I run.
I’m not exactly running. But I feel pretty fucking lonely in this place of fighting for what I want. Like he can’t possibly love me if he’s hurt me. Like he never loved me, not really, and so I should give him up because he wasn’t good enough for me.
But there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to give him up. I’ve loved him this whole time. We had a really wonderful life until it fell apart. I want that back. But better this time. I don’t want to try to find that with someone else, either.
I could have it now.
So why does it feel so precarious?
Will it ever not feel this precarious?
And why, as I head out the door to meet another wronged woman, are my thoughts tangled up in trying to redeem Luke?
Fuck him.
Fuck Caitlyn, too.
23
Luke
Grace is mad in a new way, an incandescent way, when she shows up on my doorstep.
She’s also dressed for sex again, and I notice. I can’t not notice, even if I’m supposed to be letting her go. She’s got a short, swingy skirt on. Easy access. And a halter top that promises she’s not wearing a bra.
I want to grab her. Pin her down.
“Come on in,” I say instead, playing at being civilized. “I thought from your text…”
“Your girlfriend has now wrecked a second marriage in less than a month,” she spits at me.
I rock back on my heels.
“Another wife found me. It pays to have a public face, I guess.”
“How did she connect you to…?”
Grace waves her hand. “That doesn’t matter.”
I bet it does. “Uh huh.”
“But the point is, your little affair wasn’t as benign as you think it was.”
“I don’t think it was benign. I think I fucked everything up, and I’ve tried to be as honest about that as I can.”
Another wave.
Okay. We’re not interested in what I have to say, and that’s fine. It’s not fucking great, but apparently the grief cycle of infidelity is a rollercoaster you didn’t ask to be strapped into, and all I can do now is hold on for dear life.
A mistake of my own making, Grace would rightly point out.
“She decided, over and over again, to fuck married men. Did you know that?”
“I don’t know. No.”
“You weren’t the only one.”
“I guess I wasn’t.”
“You weren’t the only one to have secrets with her, to be all the little things his wife was not. She was that to other men, too. That’s fucked up, right?”
“Yes. I guess so. I don’t think about her anymore.”
“I wish I had that privilege. So she’s moved on to another married man now. And this one doesn’t seem to care about hurting his wife in public. Should I be grateful that at least I don’t have to deal with the humiliation out there, as well as in here?”
“How did she know to find you, Grace?” I’m yelling a little now. Fuck me. I take a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry for that woman. I am. But you’ve let someone else’s drama pull you into a tailspin here.”
“It’s not fucking fair,” she spits at me, shoving me in the chest.
I catch her by the wrist and pull her onto the couch. “I know.”
She exhales roughly. “I’m angry.”
“I know.” I twist a lock of her hair around my finger and tug gently. I yearn for the same fairytale she does, but it’s not realistic.
She grabs my wrist, stopping me from touching her hair. But then she pulls my touch to her breast and we both gasp.
“No,” I groan, but I don’t mean it. Still, I try to be better than this. Moving my hands to her shoulders, then her hips, I pull her close. Pretend it’s just a hug. It doesn’t matter that she’s angry. I still love her just as much. If anything, her anger helps. It gives me some direction for the darkness inside. Some form, a clear penance, for the yawning grossness that would otherwise be overwhelming. “Be angry. Be loud. Be whatever you need to be. I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere.”
“I don’t like this.” She climbs into my lap and I’m helpless to say no. Her skirt rides up high on her thighs.
The warmth of her body scrambles my brain, and when I lift my hand to her arms, where I can touch her and bring her in close, I feel goosebumps rise on her skin. First the delicate, soft, pale blonde whispers of hair on her arms lift. I’m frozen, barely touching her.
Then the gooseflesh comes, a ripple of nerves, and I sink my fingers into her skin. It’s just me but that’s wrong, because I’m the devil to her. I’m dangerous.
And she sighs.
“We shouldn’t…” I don’t bother finishing that thought. I want to, is the problem.
She licks her lips. “I want to do something tonight.”
“Anything.” As long as I can hold her.
“I want to go out for dinner. Someplace kind of wild and loud.”
“Deal.” I will make this happen for her. I will fill her day with noise and delight and spoilage the likes of which she’s never had before, so she doesn’t have to feel the anger which is completely justified—but which she hates so much.
Anger at anger.
My beautiful wife. Too good for me by a mile. So good it hurts her to stay with me.
I don’t deserve her love. I hold her tight anyway. “I love you so much,” I tell her as she leans into me. Between us, my cock flexes.
She rocks against my erection.
“Careful,” I warn her.
“I don’t want to be careful.” She pushes up, sitting squarely on my lap as she grinds away. “I want you to fill me up before we go out. I want to feel your come slick on my thighs as we—”
I shove my hands under her skirt, gripping her hips tight. What I want to do is rip her panties to the side and shove two fingers deep into her cunt. “Dangerous game.”
She smiles. “Fuck me.”
I twist her around, so she’s flat on her back on the couch. “No. Not yet.”