Damn. I’m jealous. I continue to stare at my phone, though by this point, I’m not even registering the words on my screen.
“Did he stay the night?”
“No. He said he had to work early today. He left around three or so, but swore that if he could stay, he would have bought me breakfast. Then he kissed me goodbye and left.”
I almost want to snicker at that. I guess I’m too far removed from the dating and one-night stand scene to relate. A guy saying he’d buy you breakfast doesn’t really seem like it should be the big deal she’s making it out to be. But maybe I’m wrong. That girl, from the quick glance I got of her, can’t be any older than twenty-four. So maybe I’m just out of my depth here.
“Did he leave you his number at least?” her friend Sheri presses with interest.
“Yes, but I haven’t used it yet. It’s too soon and I don’t want to seem desperate. I figure I’ll text him tomorrow or something and see if he wants to meet up for a drink sometime this week.”
“Good plan. What does he do that he’s working on a Saturday?”
“He’s a lawyer; like all the guys in the bar last night were. They work for some big firm in Back Bay. He’s not a partner yet, but he said he was close. I teased him and said they’d have to add his name to the letterhead once that happens. Parker, Slade, Barker, and Marvelo.”
Marvelo? My lungs empty.
No. It can’t be. There’s no way.
Before she can say anything else, I find myself on my feet, staring down at her. Her blonde head whips around at my sudden movement and she gives me that smile again. She’s pretty. My mouth opens to speak, but no sound comes out. I don’t even know what to say.
And young. Twenty-four might have been generous.
My mouth opens to speak, but no sound comes out.
“Are you okay?” she asks, but all I can hear is the sound of blood rushing through my ears. My heart is racing out of my chest and my legs feel weak, ready to give out on me any second.
All I can do is shake my head. “I’m sorry, did you just say Marvelo?”
She blinks up at me, surprised, and then blushes as she realizes I overheard her entire conversation. “Um. Yes.” She shifts uncomfortably, glancing over to her friend and then back up to me. “I’m sorry, is there a problem?”
Yes. Yes, there’s a big fucking problem.
I want to say something to her. I want to tell her that the man she had the best sex of her life with is my fiancé. I want to scream at her. Shake her. Pound my fists into her small body.
But I’m rendered helpless, my thoughts chaotic.
Everything blurs and somehow I’m racing from the café out onto the street, my hand pressed to my chest, my thundering heart beneath it. I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe?
Hot tears begin to rain down my face. I can’t stop them. I can’t do anything.
I begin to walk, the motion of the crowd forcing me along like the current in the ocean. But all I hear in my head, set on blaring repeat, are her explicit descriptions of their night together. He made her come twice with his mouth. They had sex three times. They did it in all kinds of positions. He kissed her goodbye before he left.
He gave her his number.
Last night. He did this last night when I was out with my friends. No wonder I didn’t hear him come home. And then he kissed me goodbye this morning. He kissed me goodbye after he kissed her goodbye. He told me he loved me, that fucking son of a bitch.
We’re supposed to go on a date tonight. Would we make love after all the things he did with her the night before?
Tony never gives me oral sex. Not anymore, at least. I think maybe in the three years we’ve been together, he’s done it only a handful of times. And not since we got engaged. Every time I’ve asked him to do it, he says he’s too tired. Or too stressed. Or has too much work to get back to. Or that his fucking neck hurts.
He’s filled with a million bullshit excuses.
Same with the crazy positions thing. He doesn’t do those anymore either. Missionary and occasionally me on top. But that’s it.
Our sex life has become decidedly boring and lackluster. And that’s when we can find time to fucking have sex.
Every time I’ve tried to mix things up for us, he’s balked. I’ve tried toys, lingerie, anything I could think of to spice things up and it never worked. Never. The one time I attempted to talk to him about it, other than becoming angry, he said that couples at our stage just don’t do the wild sex thing anymore.
And in truth, I let it slide.
I was afraid to rock our happy little boat. I figured it was a rut. We were both so busy and I dumbly assumed once we reached the top of our careers and things settled a bit, our sex life would fall back into place.
But now? Now I wonder how many women there have been. If his sexual indifference with me is a product of sex he’s having elsewhere.
How did this happen?
How did I go from a relaxed, easy-going day off to this?
My mind swings back and forth, a runaway pendulum oscillating between completely devastated and inconsolably enraged.
For a fleeting moment, I consider going to his office to confront him. But then I think better of that. I’ve suffered enough humiliation for one day.
Home. I just want to go home.
So that’s what I do. I walk the ten blocks home. This time with purpose. No more aimless wandering. When I get there, I immediately head for his closet. My hands ripping open drawers and rummaging through the contents before I can even comprehend what I’m doing or what I’m looking for.
Condoms. Maybe a note or a phone number of a woman. Clothes that smell like her and not me. Anything.
I need something that will tell me unequivocally, yes, my fiancé is a lying, two-timing piece of shit, cheater. That’s what I need. Proof. But I come up empty after tearing apart his closet, his nightstand, and even his office. Nothing.
“Ahhhh!” I scream, pounding my fist on a shelf, somehow back in his closet. Reaching mindlessly, I tear every single piece of clothing down, throwing them in a blind rage. And when there is nothing left on the shelves or hanging from hangers, I drop down into the large pile I made and weep.
I weep so hard and for so long that eventually I must have fallen asleep, because in what seems like the next second, I’m startled awake by the sounds of my fiancé yelling at me. “What the hell is going on in here, Grace?”
His olive skin is ruddy with anger and confusion, and I take a second to look at him. Really trying to see the man beneath. The one he’s been hiding from me.
I stand up slowly, my eyes trailing up to his and when I meet his blue eyes, I begin to cry again. Because somehow, just looking at him, I know everything she said was true. I can longer deny it. Write it off in my head. Pretend I misheard.
I know.
“You had an affair,” I say, not even bothering to ask it like a question.
He blanches before quickly recovering, all that red-tinted anger disappears along with the blood in his face until he’s an ashen white.
“Where did you hear something like that?”
He didn’t even deny it.
“At lunch today,” I tell him in a calm tone that surprises me, my tears drying instantly. All my anger is laying before me in the form of his clothes on the floor and I can’t seem to resurrect it. “I was sitting in the café I like so much.” I pause, tilting my head, still studying him. “A young woman with blonde hair and brown eyes sat down behind me. She proceeded to tell her friend in explicit detail all about her wild night last night with a lawyer who has the last name Marvelo and works at your firm. Not exactly the stuff of coincidence, is it?”