The Perfect Stranger

by Marin Montgomery

  Drained, Stella makes her way to the garage steps that enter the house, too weak to even open the door. Sinking down, she rests her head on the wooden rail, tears stinging her eyes.

  She stares at the doors of the wagon, all open, the interior light illuminating the inside and the evidence of her husband’s indiscretion which she now grasps in her fist.

  And where does she go from here?

  Wiping a hand across her mouth, she buries her head in her hands, the thought of climbing the stairs to confront him inconceivable in this moment.

  10

  Stella

  A shake tugs on Stella’s shoulder, and she groggily opens her eyes.

  “What are you doing out here?” Grant’s slippered feet are next to her, and his hair stands on edge. Surveying the garage, it takes her a second to realize she fell asleep leaning against the wooden post attached to the steps that go inside the house.

  The wagon’s now dark, the interior lights have shut off, and only the doors remain open.

  Grant notices this, his eyes narrowing as he takes in her disheveled appearance and his vehicle, the garbage strewn out on the epoxy flooring.

  “What’s going on?”

  “You tell me.” Her voice is low, but laced with bitterness.

  “Why are you going through my SUV?”

  “Because you pretended you couldn’t smell the reek of perfume, yet you bothered to open the windows overnight.”

  “You said it stunk, so I did.” He shrugs. “What else did you want me to do?”

  “Explain these.” She thrusts the disturbing panties at him. Grant peers at the thong, and then at her, outrage on his face.

  “Are you purposely trying to provoke me?” he asks.

  A sickening feeling clenches her stomach, and she starts to dry heave.

  “Stella.” His tone matches his stare, ice cold. “What’re you doing tearing apart my vehicle?”

  Numb, she stares at her toes, her nail polish chipped, a scar on her ankle faded to a jagged, rosy pink.

  “If you wanted these back, all you had to do was ask.” Grant stomps to his vehicle, gazing at the ripped-out floor mats and the mess on the ground. Tossing everything back in, he slams each door in anger, his slippers padding across the garage as he dumps out some of the trash in the bin, including the pair of panties.

  Holding his nose, he complains, “If you want to talk about bad smells, what died in there?”

  “I threw up,” Stella says, gripping the hand rail to stand. “We both know those aren’t my underwear, I don’t even own anything by that brand.”

  “Are you serious right now?” He bites the inside of his cheek. “What about our anniversary?”

  “What about it?” she shoots back. “That’s not what you got me.”

  “You’re acting nuts, going through my vehicle, saying those panties aren’t yours…”

  “Oh, and what about the perfume? You going to lie and tell me that’s how I smell?” She grimaces, wiping a hand across her face in disgust.

  “No, I know where that came from,” Grant offers. “It came to me in the shower.”

  “Of course it did,” she shakes her head in annoyance, “how convenient. You had an entire shower to think about it.”

  He furrows his brow. “I tried to come to bed and tell you.” They lock eyes, Stella’s filled with hurt, Grant’s with hostility. He opens his hands as if to show he’s not hiding anything. “I took a colleague and his wife to lunch. I spaced that she wanted to ride in the back so she could freshen up her makeup, she probably sprayed perfume.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll get the mats cleaned and the whole thing detailed. Will that make you feel better?”

  “About what? That you’re a cheater?”

  “Stel, you know that’s not true.” His eyes plead with hers. “Come on, you know me better than that.”

  “Then why did you throw out my underwear?” Stella tilts her head at him. “If those are mine as you claim, why would you throw out an expensive pair of perfectly good panties?”

  He cocks his head, a stoic expression on his face.

  “Good night, Grant,” Stella murmurs. “You can sleep on the couch for all I care, just don’t come back to bed.” Turning on her heel, she tosses his keys on the counter. Defeated, she climbs one stair at a time, as if the pain in her chest has overtaken her ability to effortlessly walk.

  Locking the master bedroom door behind her, she settles back into bed, except she knows she won’t sleep. Instead she tosses and turns, her body drenched in sweat by the time she wakes up, her sheets covered in tears and sweat.

  Grant and her pass the next couple days in tenuous silence, both moving through the house like strangers. They’ve come to an impasse, since neither thinks they’re in the wrong. Grant claims he’s been faithful and Stella is messing with him, and Stella berates him for lying to her and swears the panties aren’t hers. He spends his time outside work at the gym, and she tries to avoid being in the same room.

  She wakes up early one morning to find a handwritten message from him next to her on the side table.

  I love you and all the strength and warmth you exude.

  I’ll do whatever to fix this and us, but know I’m not with anyone else but you.

  I married you.

  Love G

  When Stella calls him that morning, he answers on the first ring.

  “I hate this,” he says.

  “I know,” Stella sighs. “This isn’t how I want us to continue.”

  “What do you want us to do?” Grant asks. “Counseling?”

  “That might be best.”

  “Stel…” Grant struggles to continue, “I think a lot of this has to do with your BPD.”

  “In what way?”

  “I think you manifest things too much in your mind is all.” He rushes to finish his sentence, worried she’ll be upset or cut him off, “I just want us to talk it all out, but with a counselor present.”

  “Okay,” Stella’s tired of stressing over their clamorous couple of days. She needs closure.

  “I’ll pick you up after work tonight for our special night out,” Grant says. “I can’t wait to celebrate it with you.”

  When they arrive at the restaurant, Grant greets the maître d. “Hi, reservations for Masen.”

  Stella whispers in his ear, “You still mad I didn’t take your last name?”

  “Nah, I’ve never wanted you to confess to being married to such a slovenly fellow.”

  “Well, you’ve come a long way.” She squeezes his hand lovingly.

  “Your table is ready, Mr. Masen.” A hostess leads them to the patio, their preferred seat, a wrought iron table tucked into a corner, next to a cascading fountain with terra cotta pots filled with a variety of bright stems. It's the most romantic spot according to them, but maybe because it's where Grant proposed.

  Grant pulls a chair out for her as she sits, warming her hands by the massive stone fireplace that acts as a furnace for the entire patio. There are massive heat lamps that radiate warmth, and Stella's glad one is directly beside her.

  “I just love it out here,” she remarks, staring at the stacked retaining wall that’s filled with concrete planters full of tall yucca and colorful lilies.

  He reaches for her hand. “We get the best of both worlds - views of the ocean at home, followed by fine dining on a massive terrace.” Bringing her fingertips to his mouth, he kisses them one by one. “I want to tell you how beautiful you look tonight. Absolutely stunning.”

  Her dress is a few inches shorter than usual, perfectly showcasing her smooth legs and the gold Jimmy Choo gladiator sandals that have just enough heel to make them dangerous. A zipper zig-zags across the front of her black dress and her long strawberry locks are pulled into a slick bun, dangling chain earrings hanging from her lobes. She’s wearing two of her signatures, fragrance and lip color, a rich berry hue that complements her alabaster complexion.

  Leaning in to Grant
, she gives him a deep kiss. “Thank you, love. You look sexy yourself, though I still can’t believe you shaved off that beard.” Stella was astonished to walk into the master bathroom this morning and see him shaving it off, the hair piling up in the sink. He’d had a beard since she’d met him, and though she’d begged him to get rid of it, he reminded her it was his trademark look. Sometimes it was shaggy, other times trimmed, but it still tickled her face.

  “What prompted such a big change today?” she teases. “Mid-life crisis? You turning in your wagon for a sports car?”

  “Nah, I can just drive yours.”

  “It's a big change.”

  He shrugs, “Maybe I’m just ready for a change.”

  “Grant Masen, there is no such thing as a small change with you. You’ve had that voodoo-looking doll on your face since I met you. What gives?”

  He leans back in his chair, pursing his lips. “I think I’m just ready for a reset, you know? Revamping my style. I’m tired of it.”

  Seeing the sneer on her face, he adds, “Or lack of it.”

  “Just as long as this doesn’t mean I’ll hear you want to start visiting sweat lodges or move to a third-world country.”

  “No, I think I’m good on the beach.” Crossing his arms, he contemplates, “Maybe it's time I started looking the part of your dapper husband.”

  “Since when do you care what other people think?”

  “I don’t, but I also know that you need arm candy. You sell beauty. I should also try a little harder to support that.”

  “Oh stop, you’re still the same man I married.” Stella raises a brow. “At least until today.”

  “But you like my new look, don’t you?”

  “I love it.” She runs a hand over his smooth baby face. “I can’t believe this is what was under here the whole time.”

  “I’ve come alive.” He laughs, clasping his fingers through hers. “Speaking of beauty, I have something for my incredibly sexy wife.” Grant fumbles in his gray suit jacket, and his eyes take on an air of concern, as if he can’t locate whatever it is he’s looking for.

  “What’s wrong, baby?”

  “There’s something I want you to have tonight. It’ll match your radiance.” A relieved sigh escapes his lips as he finds whatever it is he's looking for in his back pocket. “That scared me. I thought I lost it.”

  Stella’s eyes stare eagerly at the burgundy velvet box he pulls out.

  Grant holds her stare. “Stella, I’ve been the luckiest husband for the last decade, and I’m constantly surprised and blown away by how driven and passionate you are.” He slides the box across the table. “This is for the big things you have coming your way.”

  Clasping the lid, her hands shake as the flicker from the fire bounces off the contents, a diamond engagement band. Her ring's an antique heirloom, but they had never gotten around to replacing the thin band.

  “It’s beautiful,” she breathes. “I love it. It’s perfect.”

  “Classic and timeless, just like you, my Veronica Lake lookalike.” He delicately removes the band from the box as she slips off her old one. Replacing it, Grant gives her ring finger another kiss.

  “Congratulations baby, here’s to your continued success.”

  She stands, coming around to his side of the table to wrap her arms around his neck. “I love you,” she murmurs in his ear.

  “Love you too.” He clutches her hands to his neck. “My forever Stel.”

  They enjoy their candlelit dinner, the diamonds sparkling around her finger as she sips her wine. After they finish their dessert, Grant sets his fork down, both of them looking at each other in silent contentment.

  Grant scans the check, then puts his credit card in the sleeve. “I arranged for Lucy to bring you back home tonight after I drop you off since we know I have no business being in a club.”

  “Thank you.” Stella gives his smooth face a pat. “I’ll shoot her a quick text and tell her we’re heading that way.”

  11

  Stella

  Lucy's waiting at the valet stand, handing her keys to the driver when she sees them arrive. She squints at Grant’s wagon, the tinted windows making it nearly impossible to see inside. When she realizes it’s them, she breaks into a big grin.

  Stella rolls down her window and waves as Lucy exclaims, “Well, if it isn’t my soon-to-be famous friend.”

  Grant puts the vehicle in park and gets out, giving Lucy a quick hug and kiss before he opens Stella’s car door, helping her out of the front seat. When she steps out, he jokingly presents her to Lucy. “Our precious cargo has now arrived for her big celebration.”

  Scanning her from head to toe, Lucy remarks, “Something’s different about you tonight.”

  “Is there?” Stella giggles. “I have no idea what.”

  Tapping a finger to her chin, Lucy instructs her to do a full spin. “I just don’t know,” she muses, “maybe it’s the way you’re wearing your hair.”

  “Could it be that Grant surprised me with a new diamond band?” Holding her finger out to Lucy, she beams.

  Lucy wrinkles her nose. “Oh, this flashy piece of nonsense, not at all. I’d never have noticed that ridiculous display of wealth.” Grabbing her finger, she whistles, “This is beautiful, Grant. You do have impeccable taste in your women...”

  Abashed, Grant gives her a small smile, “Thank you for your endorsement.”

  “…jewelry,” Lucy finishes.

  Stella notices his discomfort and gives him a long, lingering kiss as Lucy peers at the two of them in mock disgust.

  “What’re you doing tonight, Grant?” Lucy asks. “Club still not your scene?”

  “No, but it should be a good place for a cougar like you,” Grant teases as Lucy lightly swats him with her clutch.

  “Watch out, don’t make me get these claws out.”

  He shrugs, “I’m just going to meet one of my friends for a drink.” Giving Stella another kiss, he reaches for his wallet. "Do you need any cash, babe?”

  “I think I'm covered.”

  “Not in those clothes,” Lucy whistles, turning back to Grant. “Where are you headed instead of out with your wife and her train-wreck friends, present company included? Anywhere good?”

  “Don't know. Maybe the Brownstone or the Bradley.”

  “Who you going with?” Lucy smirks, “and are they cute and available?”

  “Stop giving him the third degree.” Stella shoves her shoulder. “Let's go while the night is still young.”

  “But you aren't,” Lucy mutters as Grant walks back to the driver’s side. "Bye Grant.”

  Shutting his door with a thud, Grant waves at them as he drives off, and they turn to consider the typical red velvet rope in front of them at The Shock Room. The patrons feel an air of importance, or annoyance, depending on how long they have to wait to enter the club.

  Lucy doesn’t bother waiting in line, heading straight to the bouncer checking IDs. She whispers something in his ear and he waves them both to the front of the line.

  “What did you say?” Stella murmurs in her ear.

  “How famous you are.”

  “Oh stop.”

  “I said you're Blake Lively.”

  Stella grips her elbow, “You did not.”

  “I did not.” Lucy tugs her hand impatiently. “Shut up and come on.”

  The hostesses are wearing little more than sheer red knee-high stockings, patent leather Mary Jane heels, and bustiers with garter belts.

  Lucy pauses at the hostess stand, hands on her hips. She’s wearing a one-shoulder red dress, the cinnamon color complimenting her golden tan.

  “Any extra tables tonight?” She fingers a curl that’s fallen out of her messy bun.

  The hostess stares her down. “For how many?”

  “Six.”

  Pretending to scan a list, she remarks, “I don't think so ... it is a Saturday night.”

  Lucy turns to Stella, rolling her eyes. “Can you at least take
our name?”

  “Okay.”

  “Stella McKinney.”

  The hostess taps a screen. “Stella McKinney?”

  “Yes.”

  “You already have bottle service.”

  “What?”

  She looks at the two of them like they’re moronic, enunciating every word. “You have a VIP booth. Four people are already inside.”

  “Well, shit, sounds good.” Lucy winks.

  “Did one of the other girls reserve it?” Stella asks.

  “They must have.”

  Stella mocks, “I guess they’re better friends than you after all.”

  The hostess leads them to a roped-off area, the DJ a mere fifty feet from them, the sound of electronic dance music and a pulsating dance floor enough to cause temporary hearing loss. Stella loves the thrill of clubs but hates them at the same time, because they remind her of her age. A burgundy velvet couch lines each side of the booth, which is roped off and on a higher platform to make the minions below you wish they were part of the inclusive club. The booth’s decorated with black and white paneling on the wall.

  On the table is a single rose with a card.

  Stella’s greeted by shrieks as her other friends, Nichole, Jess, Chelsey, and Michelle all lean in for hugs and congratulatory high-fives.

  “Did you guys do all this?” Stella turns to them. “What a surprise."

  “No, we didn't.” Jess tries to scream over the electronic dance music. “We just said your name.”

  A waitress comes over to refill their champagne, two bottles already emptied by the early arrivals.

  “Excuse me,” Lucy loudly asks, “who reserved this booth?”

  The hostess pulls a card out of an envelope that's resting on the ledge.

  “Says ‘In celebration of Stella McKinney, even though I hate clubs, I hope you dance your asses off.’” She shoves the card in Stella’s hand, “signed love Grant.”

  Chelsey squeals, “You have the best husband.”