The Crush: An Affair in Three Parts

by Ben Boswell

  The Crush

  Ben Boswell

  The Crush All Right Reserved © 2017 by Ben Boswell

  Cover image ©BigStockImage. Used under license.

  First digital edition electronically published by Ben Boswell, March 2017

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without explicit written permission of the copyright holder.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  FOREWORD

  This book is written in three parts, one each from the viewpoint of the three main characters. They are relating much the same story, but from their own perspectives with their own concerns. As a result, you’ll find some subtle differences in chronology and particularly in the dialogue they remember or choose to emphasize. That’s a feature, not a bug.

  I know a lot of readers will want a more definitive conclusion than I provide – some punishment and retribution for sins both actual and imagined. I don’t write books like that. In real life, not everything ends up neatly tied up in a bow. Karma is not instantaneous, and not certain in any case. I know this sort of warning will do nothing to deter the trolls who will read this book despite my cautions and feel obligated to write nasty comments, but nevertheless consider yourselves forewarned.

  Each of these parts was composed separately, sometimes with a significant interval between their writing. I think the story holds together nicely, but I don’t necessarily think it is required to read all three parts in immediate succession. Either way, I’ll be interested to see what readers think of this book, and in particular whether the different perspectives flesh out the story as well as I think.

  As always, I appreciate all feedback and comments. You can reach me at ben.boswell.author@gmail.com or visit my twitter @BenBoswellAut.

  Ben Boswell

  March 2017

  Book One: Dave’s Dilemma

  CHAPTER ONE

  What would you do if your wife told you she had a crush on another man and that she wanted to act on it? Annie didn't actually say the second half of that, but it was sort of implied. She's always been direct and practical, not the sort of woman to want to sit up for hours and talk about feelings. It is one of the things I most like about her. If she says something, it is because she wants something to happen.

  Knowing that about her is what made her revelation so challenging. What's worse is that I should have seen it coming... but I am getting ahead of myself.

  Annie is not actually her real name. Her parents named her Gloria. I met her at college. She was an eighteen-year-old freshman, and I was a twenty-three-year-old graduate student. We were both in the film club. We were screening that goofy old Elvis flick, Viva Las Vegas, when someone noticed that Gloria was the spitting image of a young Ann-Margret. People started calling her Ann, and it stuck because it worked.

  We got to know each other, started dating, and by the end of her freshman year we were basically inseparable. The term “soul mate” is a cliché, but in this case it probably fits.

  We laugh at the same jokes – the more obscure and nerdy the better. Share the same idea of a fun date – Chinese food and an old movie. But we also complete each other. She has drive and ambition for two, which is great because left to me own devices I tend to drift, lose focus. There is no way I’d have finished my dissertation in two years if I hadn’t been dating her. And I brought out her softer, sillier side, piercing that protective shell she had built around her, letting her take an afternoon off to just sit and cuddle and watch TV.

  We dated throughout her undergrad years. She was a hard-charger. She majored in mechanical engineering, and managed to complete her studies in three years. I was getting a Ph.D. in English and getting ready to start a post-doc. I knew she'd have lot of opportunities, and as practical as she was I knew she would not be willing to stick around with me unless I made a commitment to the future. So I started thinking about asking her to marry me. She was only twenty-one, but mature, and I was completely head-over-heels.

  I mentioned my plans to my friend Barry. He congratulated me, but I could tell he had his doubts. After a half-dozen beers, he finally told me his concerns.

  "Dude, you guys started dating when she was like eighteen. And, weren't you like her first?"

  I laughed. It had never occurred to me that having found a pretty girl who happened not to have slept around was a bad thing.

  "Yeah, so?"

  "So, I mean, she's never been with another guy. Sooner or later, she's going to get curious."

  At first, I tried to laugh it off, but the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if Barry might not have a point. After all, I was no big stud, but even I had been with half-dozen or so women over the years, and I would not have traded those experiences for the world. I decided to confront Ann with Barry's argument.

  She laughed. "Has Barry ever been in a relationship that's lasted longer than three weeks?" I shook my head no. "So maybe he isn't the best person to go to for this sort of advice, eh?"

  That broke the tension.

  "Look," she continued analytically, "there are three ways to deal with this. First, you could just dump me because you're worried that at some point in the future, I'll get curious. Second, I guess I could go out and sleep with a bunch of guys. Heck, I could probably go to the frat house down the street and have like twenty of them pull a train on me. I'd consider that if you asked me to, but I'm not sure I'd want to be with a man who wants me to screw other guys no matter what the reason is. Third, you could just forget this nonsense and ask me what you've been thinking of asking me.”

  She smiled and her tone softened. “You know, I know I'm attractive. It's not like you were the first guy to come on to me... or the last... I'm not with you because I can't get anyone else. I'm with you because I love you. So yeah, I can't promise that I won't ever wonder what it would be like to be with another man, but we'll just have to cross that bridge when we get to it. So, what do you think?"

  It was weird. The sun was shining into our apartment. Her red hair looked like it was on fire. All I could think was how beautiful she was. Even though the conversation wasn't the most romantic lead-in to popping the question, it was good enough. "Baby, will you marry me?" I asked.

  She smiled, "you sure you don't want me to visit the frat house first?"

  "Never."

  "Then, yes, Dave, I will marry you."

  That was ten years ago. She's now an associate VP at multi-national construction firm. And people still sometimes ask her if she's related to Ann-Margret. I teach at a prestigious private school. We live in Connecticut, outside of New York City. No kids yet, though we're thinking about it. Like many married couples, we've had a few ups and downs over money and career stuff, but most of our friends consider our relationship a rock of stability. I guess I'd have said the same thing until last week.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I'd noticed Annie had been a little distracted. She sometimes got that way when work was pressing in, and I knew they were putting together a multi-billion dollar proposal to build a bridge down in the Amazon basin. We were having a nice dinner, sharing a bottle of wine, when suddenly she came out with it.

  "Dave? You know that guy Greg at my office?"

  "I don't think I've met him. You've mentioned him though."

  "I've been thinking a lot about him recently," she said tentatively.

  "Is he giving you trouble?"

  "Well, no. Actually, yes, but not in a bad way. Or maybe in a ba
d way."

  I don't think I'd ever really seen her babbling before. I was thinking it was sort of cute and about to make a joke, but then she continued. She took a deep breath. "I've been thinking of him sexually. I guess I sort of have a crush on him. He's getting transferred to San Diego at the end of the quarter."

  Now it was my turn to be flustered. It seemed pretty obvious where this was going. She was attracted to her co-worker, and he was going to be leaving town soon, which made him safe for a fling. If she had just been relieved he was leaving town so she would no longer be tempted, she wouldn't have brought the whole issue up.

  "Have you?" I asked.

  "Not yet," she replied.

  That one word -- "yet" -- sent me reeling. She had already made up her mind, and my only choice was how. She was looking at me closely, seeing that I had understood and looking for my reaction.

  "I need a little time to think," I said.

  "I understand." She paused. "You know, we always knew this day might come."

  I nodded.

  "Well, I guess I should do the dishes," she said as she stood and walked the plates into the kitchen. I poured myself another big glass of wine.

  I sat there for a long while.

  There it was. The moment Barry had warned me about. The moment that Annie and I had discussed briefly before I’d proposed to her. The moment when my beautiful, confident, brilliant wife got curious about being with another man.

  What does one say at a moment like that? Oh, sure, the easy answer is to just refuse. Or perhaps break something and then refuse. But then what?

  Annie had come to me with this because she was serious. I knew her. Knew her too well to think this was just some creepy test of my character. Annie didn’t play games. She wasn’t looking to make me jealous. And she wasn’t looking for me to control her either. A simple “no” wasn’t an acceptable answer. Not to me, and not for her.

  I needed a reason, an explanation, something more than just a kneejerk reaction. Something more than just the fact that the idea of her with another man made me feel queasy and heartbroken.

  My dilemma was that thinking about saying no also made me anxious. How would she react? Would she meekly accept my word as the final answer? I couldn’t see that. It would always be there. The fact that she’d told me her desires and that I’d refused them because of my own insecurities. It would be putting my needs above hers.

  She’d been thinking about this for a long time. She wouldn’t have asked if we were not serious about it.

  I finished my wine and opened another bottle. I’m not a big drinker; I never have been, but for the first time in my life, I felt like I needed another drink.

  She came back into the dining room, her expression a mix of anxiety and anticipation. What was she expecting from me?

  “How did this happen?” I asked.

  She let out a relieved sigh. I felt a moment of regret. I was now committed to being reasonable. But it hadn’t occurred as a matter of calculation. I was off-balance, at sea, unsteady. There was this weird disconnect. My mind was reeling, my stomach churning, I could taste angry bile in my throat. And yet, it was like there was a wall, a moat between my emotions and my reaction. Whereas inside I felt like I was going to die, somehow to Annie, I was calm, understanding.

  She approached me slowly, as if she could sense my turmoil, not quite believing my apparently placidness in the face of her, what, confusion? Provocation? Need?

  “I wasn’t looking for this.”

  I nodded. Again, my reactions were disconnected from my instincts. For the first time in my life, I felt the urge to strike her, hurt her. Still, my fists remained unclenched, my arms at my side, my shoulders slumped under the weight of her confession.

  Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. I screamed to myself. But my response was the opposite. Meek. Empathetic.

  “I know.”

  Her eyes watered. What was she feeling, sensing? Surely, she knew she was killing me, that my response didn’t reflect acceptance, but rather paralysis. Shock. Terror. I didn’t... I couldn’t know how to respond. Even though I’d thought about it; that we’d even discussed it; I was completely unprepared to deal with it. I knew, even then, how my flat affect might be interpreted. That she might see my quiescence as acceptance, my placidity as concurrence. And yet, I couldn’t act otherwise. I was locked-in, locked-out, locked-up. A wall rising up, cutting me off from my own passions.

  “He’s… he’s beautiful… and meaningless… and I don’t even like him… but I want him.”

  I could see her struggling as well. Annie… Gloria… she’d always been so in control. So mature. So… so fucking practical. Even at eighteen, she was all grown up. Fully-formed. She was just a kid when we met, and yet, not. A throwback to some earlier era when people grew up faster, somehow. A frontier wife, with three kids before she turned twenty, and an endless expanse of prairie, keeping a family together. A Rosie the Riveter, sweetheart in the Pacific, away from her family, never losing her spirit. We live in an infantilizing society. How many of us are subsidized by generous parents well into our twenties? But that was never Annie. She’d never been a kid. Her parents were crazy… or crazily insightful. It had never been clear to me which was closer to the truth. And now, for the first time, I saw, in her uncertainty, in her stumbling and mumbling, a kid, immature, searching, selfish, and yet honest, passionate. I couldn’t process it all. In the moment, it was a blur, a buzz. I was seeing my wife in a different light for the first time. Was she feeling different for the first time as well?

  Her words, as if on a delay now cut through my haze.

  “Want him?” I repeated.

  She looked away, embarrassed, blushing, smiling.

  “Oh God, Dave, I’m so sorry.”

  But she didn’t seem sorry. There was now a glow about her as she thought about him. But what was she thinking? Surely to get to know this man, to peer into his soul, to understand his dreams and ambitions and fears. It couldn’t just be that she wanted to fuck him… simply to feel his hands on her body, feel his cock inside her. She couldn’t be tearing me apart just for that, could she?

  She took my hands, squeezed them tight. Was it a gesture of reassurance or a way of demonstrated her intensity.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I said honestly.

  She nodded. “You don’t have to say anything now.”

  She gave my hands another squeeze and then went back into the kitchen to finish up the dishes.

  I remained rooted to the spot. I can’t say that I ever really thought about saying no. People aren’t possessions. If she was looking for me to be enthusiastic about it, I wasn’t. The idea didn’t turn me on; not even a little. In fact, it terrified me. Not because of the physical act, but the idea of losing her. And yet, it wasn’t something I could easily enunciate, because what did it mean at the core? That the only way I could keep her was to deny her experiences? What kind of a relationship was that?

  Ultimately, there was only one thing I really cared about. I walked into the kitchen and snuggled her from behind. "I don't want to lose you," I whispered in her ear.

  She squeezed my hand. "Don't worry, you won't."

  "Okay," I said. She smiled.

  I didn't quite know where that left things. In the back of my mind, I was sort of hoping it was just a test, or perhaps just a passing temptation, even though Ann has never been the sort to play that kind of game. When nothing happened over the next few days, I almost forgot about it because in the end, trying to forget about it was easier than dwelling on it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I was grading some papers Friday evening when the phone rang. It was almost 7:00pm and Annie was still at the office. I picked up expecting her to give me an ETA on when she'd be home for dinner. "We finished up the proposal," she said brightly.

  "Great, come home and we'll celebrate!"

  She giggled. "We had a little party at the office. Jack broke out champagne for a toast." Jack was her boss. "I've
had a couple of glasses. Can you tell?" She giggled again.

  "Just a couple, eh?"

  "Well, more or less, give or take."

  "You want me to pick you up?"

  "No, I'll get a ride. We're heading out in a couple. I just wanted to give you a heads up." She paused. "I'm bringing a friend home.” Another interminable pause. “It's Greg."

  I swallowed hard, my heart suddenly racing wildly. But even though my heart was racing, my mind was hazy, dull. "Oh.... well, what, should I go out or something?"

  "No, please don't do that. I'll see you soon."

  “Um… okay… I’ll… um… wait… for you…” I mumbled as she hung up.

  I was thoroughly confused at this point. I poured myself a beer and waited.

  I was in the den when I heard the door open. As I walked out to the living room, I saw Annie in the foyer. She looked radiant. A couple of drinks gives her a little glow and loosens her up, adding a sexy swivel to her walk. She was wearing a clingy red dress that looked a lot less conservative than it had this morning when she had it paired with a navy blazer. She walked over to me and gave me a big, wet kiss.

  I heard footsteps and turned back toward the doorway.

  "This, Dave, is Greg," she said.

  He strode forward and gave me a firm handshake. I looked him over. He was a class A nightmare. He towered almost half a foot above me. He was about 6'3" with a narrow waist and a chiseled chin. Mediterranean complexion. Blue-grey eyes. Coal-black hair with just a hint of grey. His pinstripe suit was perfectly tailored, his shoes gleaming. 100% ladykiller.

  "Greg, can I get you a drink?" Ann asked. Her tone was unfamiliar, domestic.

  "Sure, scotch and water?" His voice was deep, smooth.

  She nodded. "Back in a jiff."