Stitches

by Sam Mariano

  “Then what?” he asks.

  I lean back in my chair. “How are things with you and Ashley lately?”

  He frowns—confused, like he doesn’t see what that has to do with what we were just talking about. “Things are… fine, I guess. You know, a little stale. That happens to normal folks,” he adds, rolling his eyes at me. “I thought a few days away from everything might be nice.”

  “Yeah, she leads such a stressful life,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “What is your problem with her lately?” he demands, scowling at me. “Moira stays home and you take care of the finances; you don’t have a problem with that.”

  “Of course I don’t.”

  “So, why are you being snide about me spending money on my wife?”

  “She fucked someone else.”

  He blinks, then looks surprised. Not crushed, just surprised. “How the hell did you find out about that?”

  Now I’m the one scowling. “What? You knew? Why the fuck didn’t you say anything?”

  “What do you mean, why didn’t I say anything? Why would I say anything? It was a long fucking time ago. You went off on your honeymoon. You want me to call you up in Rome to cry on your shoulder because my wife got drunk and let someone else fuck her?”

  “Rome? My—” I halt, trying to keep up. He’s not talking about right now. He’s not talking about the other time I know about, either.

  She cheated a third time.

  At least. If she cheated three times, I bet she cheated more than that. She’s not a weak bitch who makes mistakes; she’s a serial offender.

  “Aw, fuck,” I mutter, rubbing my temples and closing my eyes. “Griff, no. I don’t mean… I didn’t know about that. Friday night. At the club.”

  His face sort of freezes. His expression doesn’t change, he just stares at me, like if he stares long enough, this moment will expire and we can pretend it never happened.

  We can’t do that, though. Maybe he’s willing to forgive the stupid whore, but I’m not. He’s not wasting his life on this cheating parasite. Fuck that.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him, leaning forward and holding his gaze. “It was tactless, the way I told you. I can do better than that. I just can’t stand seeing you waste another minute on this bitch.”

  “Watch it,” he says, but it’s an old instinct to defend her. I assume he’s just used to it, not that he means it. Why would he defend her?

  “Just calling a spade a spade,” I inform him.

  “No, you’re calling my wife a bitch,” he says, distinctly.

  My eyebrows rise. “Yeah, your wife who cheated on you. More than once, apparently. Would you like me to bring up the footage? You can see for yourself.”

  “Don’t be a fucking asshole,” he says.

  “I’m not trying to be an asshole.”

  “Just comes naturally to you, doesn’t it?” he mutters, standing.

  I frown and watch him turn his back and head for the door. “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Griff… come on.”

  “You’re the last person I want to talk to about this,” he states.

  That’s cold. He’s angry, though. I should have known. No one likes the asshole who has to play messenger in a situation like this. I should’ve made someone else tell him. I just didn’t want to embarrass him. I figured the fewer people who knew, the better.

  He’ll come around. He just needs some time to process.

  I don’t see Griff for the rest of the day. I texted Moira after he stormed out to let her know he might be stopping by the house, but I guess he never did. I didn’t explain why, even though she asked. I figured that was his story to tell, not mine.

  Moira’s a good listener, so it’s where he should have gone.

  He probably went home to talk to Ashley. Hopefully to burn all her fucking clothes and toss her out on her ass. Poor guy. He has a lot to deal with.

  When I walk in the front door tonight, I’m even more grateful than usual that I have Moira to come home to. I have a great wife, and I wish Griff did, too.

  “So, why did you think Griff might stop by?” she asks me, cutting up her grilled chicken as we sit together at the dinner table.

  I tried to get in touch with him all day, but he ignored every text, declined every phone call. “He and Ashley are having problems,” I say, as vaguely as I can.

  “Oh no, again?”

  I glance up at her, surprised.

  She shrugs one shoulder. “Well, Ashley said they were a few months ago, but then she didn’t say much else; I figured it got better.” She pauses, taking a sip of her water. “She seems difficult. I wouldn’t want to be married to her. I feel sorry for him, to be honest.”

  “Yeah, so do I,” I murmur.

  Moira goes on. “She just seems so mean to him sometimes. Griff is such a sweetheart. I don’t get it.”

  “She’s a stupid whore.”

  “Whoa,” Moira says, frowning at me. “That’s a little—no, a lot harsh. What did she do?”

  I stab a piece of broccoli. “Who did she do, you mean. And I don’t know his name.”

  Now her face falls, like I’ve just devastated her. “She didn’t.”

  I nod, her dread making my own grow.

  Her fork clatters as it hits the plate. “Oh, my God, how could she? Poor Griff.” Heaving a sigh, she throws her napkin, like she can’t even enjoy her meal now. “I can’t believe this. How is he? Is he with her? Are they… trying to work through it?”

  “I fucking hope not. If they are, I’ll kick his ass.”

  “Well… Sebastian, they’re married. Maybe that means something.”

  “If it meant something, she shouldn’t make a hobby of fucking other men and making him look like an asshole. This wasn’t the first time she did it. Apparently she cheated at least two other times.”

  Moira stands, shaking her head and walking over to the counter. She grabs her phone and starts scrolling.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m calling him. We need to make sure he isn’t alone, and if he is, he knows he doesn’t have to be. He should come over and spend the evening with us.”

  I push back my chair and stand, sighing. “That won’t help, Moira.”

  “Why not?” she flings back, ignoring me and tapping her screen before bringing the phone to her ear.

  “Because his marriage just fell apart; he doesn’t want to see us enjoying ours.”

  “So I’ll ignore you and pay attention to him,” she says. “You get my attention all the time. Griff needs us now.”

  I walk up behind my loving wife and wrap my arms snugly around her waist. “I love you.”

  Caressing my hand, she tells me, “I love you, too.”

  I wait there, holding her. I can hear the phone ringing and ringing, then it clicks and goes to voice mail.

  He ignored her call.

  She waits for his voice mail message, then says brightly, “Hey Griff, it’s Moira. Sebastian and I were just bumming around at home tonight and we wanted to see if you were busy. If not, you should come over and hang out with us this evening. We already had dinner but there are lots of leftovers. I could make us some drinks and we’ll all watch a movie together like old times. If you’re interested, we will be waiting. Hope to see you soon. Bye!”

  I smile as she ends the call, then I grab her jaw and turn her face toward me so I can kiss her. “You’re a good friend.”

  “Griff is family,” she states.

  I caress her face approvingly. “Agreed.”

  “I hate that he’s alone and sad right now. It just breaks my heart. I think it might be even worse if he’s not alone and sad. I’m so mad at Ashley right now; I can’t believe she did this to him. I know she has her bad habits, but I never thought she’d take it this far.”

  I’m obviously pissed at Ashley, but I’m also worried I embarrassed Griff. It’s thoughtful that Moira wanted to reach out—natural, given their
friendship, but it was also transparent. When he gets that message, he’ll know I told her. I probably shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t keep it from her, either. We don’t have that kind of relationship. Moira and I don’t have secrets.

  It takes about three minutes for him to text me. One word: Asshole.

  I text right back, “Just stop sulking and come over.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “There’s no reason to feel bad. It isn’t your fault Ashley’s a slut. It doesn’t make YOU look bad, it makes HER look bad.”

  “Would you stop with the fucking name-calling?”

  My eyes widen with surprise. “No. Slut, tramp, cocksucking daughter of a fucking whore. I’ll keep going. Do not defend her. Fuck that bitch. If you haven’t already, call Carrie tomorrow and set up an appointment. Get rid of her ass.”

  “So I can sit in the shadows and watch you live your perfect life with your perfect fucking love and your perfect wife? I’ll pass.”

  “Don’t be like that,” I text back. “We both love you and neither of us wants you to be alone right now.”

  “I’m always alone,” he sends back.

  I stare at that one for a minute before sending back, “You don’t have to be.”

  “Seems like I do,” he sends back.

  “Come over,” I say, again.

  He doesn’t respond that time.

  He doesn’t respond for the rest of the night.

  4

  Griff

  I’m entirely too drunk to drive home.

  The bar is closing, so that’s bad.

  I should call for a ride. Uber or some shit. I squint at my phone, then blink, stumbling over my own feet as I make my way outside. Fuck, I am drunk. I can’t see clearly.

  I don’t have the app I need, so I open up the app store, but it seems like a lot of steps. I have to touch the tiny fucking buttons to type in the name, then I’ll have to wait for it to download. I’ll probably need to sign up for an account or some shit.

  Too much work. Fuck it.

  I swipe away from all that and touch the green contacts icon. I scroll down toward Seb’s name, but I stop at the sight of Moira’s.

  I’m drunk enough to tap it.

  My head feels so heavy. It lolls back as I wait for the rings to stop. Finally she answers, her tone raspy from sleep. “Hello?”

  “Hey, friend,” I say, grinning.

  “Griff.” She clears her throat, trying not to sound sleepy. “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Can you come pick me up?”

  “Of course. Where are you?” Now she sounds urgent, like she’s afraid I beat the shit out of whatever asshole put his dick in my wife and got myself arrested. Not like she can’t bring the bail money considering who she’s married to, but it would still distress her.

  “Callahan’s,” I slur, leaning back against the brick storefront. “I can’t drive. Way too drunk.”

  “No, don’t get behind the wheel,” she says, and I hear the rustling of fabric. I close my eyes, imagining her pulling on clothes to come get me. That shouldn’t turn me on, but it’s probably the alcohol. I’m an ornery drunk. I should tell her to bring Seb so I don’t say or do anything idiotic when she gets here.

  Instead I tell her, “Come alone.”

  “Of course,” she answers, like that was a given.

  It wasn’t though. I expected her to hesitate, and it almost makes me irrationally annoyed that she didn’t. It makes me feel like she pities me. Oh, poor fucking Griff, couldn’t even keep his wife satisfied so she had to surf a sea of other cocks to get off.

  Fuck, that hurts.

  And it’s insulting.

  And I don’t want Moira to think I can’t please a woman.

  “I don’t know why Ashley—It wasn’t because of me,” I tell her.

  “Of course it wasn’t,” she agrees, vehemently. “Ashley has her own issues. It’s terrible that she betrayed you and hurt you this way. I want to kick her in the face.”

  That makes me grin. “Yeah?”

  “Oh yeah,” she says, gaining enthusiasm. “Nair in her shampoo, cut the butt cheeks out of her favorite pants. If it’s petty and mean, I want to do it to her.”

  My grin widens. “You’re adorable.”

  “I’m not adorable,” she mutters.

  “You are. The meanest thing you can think of is cutting the butt cheeks out of her favorite pants. That’s fucking adorable.”

  “I opened with kicking her in the face,” she states. “That was mean. And Nair in her shampoo? That’s super mean. Ashley would be ugly without hair. She even looks weird when she pulls her hair back in a pony tail. All of this is purely vicious—totally not adorable.”

  “Yeah, with all this badassery, we better lock you up and throw away the key.”

  “Damn straight,” she agrees. “Lock up your sons and daughters; I’ll corrupt them all and cut the butt cheeks out of their pants if they piss me off.”

  I can’t stop smiling. That’s a nice change from earlier. We sit here for a few minutes in companionable silence. I don’t know how silence can be companionable over the phone, but I just listen as she gathers her things and gets in her BMW. I’m feeling the alcohol hard, but thankfully I have this building here to hold me up.

  “Tell me something nice,” I tell her.

  “Something nice?” she asks gently. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  That’s not helpful, so she has to think about it for a minute. “My sister finally had her baby. It was a girl. They named her Layla. I’ll show you a picture when I pick you up; she’s so adorable. Looking at it gives me just a touch of baby fever.”

  My face screws up with displeasure. “That’s not nice.”

  She sounds surprised. “Why isn’t it?”

  “Because you’re going to have babies with Seb.”

  Laughing lightly, she says, “Well, yeah, he’s my husband, so I should hope he’s the one I’m having babies with.”

  “Like I said,” I mutter.

  She falls silent. After a moment, she wrongly interprets why this bothers me. “I’m sorry, that probably made you think of—I meant to distract you with something nice, not rub your nose in… I mean, I don’t even know if you and Ashley were planning to have… Sorry. I’m just snowballing. Let’s pick a new topic.” She misses a beat, then she says, “You’re going to spend the night at our place tonight, and I won’t hear otherwise. I have the guest room already made up. Then tomorrow morning I’m going to make you and Sebastian both breakfast—and cookies,” she adds, inspired. “Because cookies make everything better.”

  “You’re not his housekeeper, you know,” I mutter.

  “No, I’m his wife.”

  Just hearing that clear fact makes me surly as hell. “You do everything for him.”

  She doesn’t reiterate what she already said, but she probably wants to.

  “Ashley never made me cookies,” I mutter.

  Displeasure seeps into her tone. “Ashley’s probably too stupid to read a recipe. Clearly she couldn’t read her marriage vows.”

  Her words cause me to visualize Ashley with some nameless fuck. That image has played through my head about a thousand times today. I never saw it before—never saw the guy from the wedding, never even knew his name. I didn’t want to, after the fact. When I decided to stick it out with her, the best thing to do seemed to be to learn as little as I could about it so I had less to relive.

  But Seb had to go and tell me there was footage this time, so once he left, I just had to go back and watch it. That was a mistake. Now I’m haunted by her enthusiasm—enthusiasm she hasn’t had for me in a long-ass time.

  “I can’t get it out of my head,” I finally say.

  Her tone is soft and understanding. “I can imagine.”

  “Why am I not allowed to be happy? I tried so fucking hard.”

  “Oh, Griff.” She says this like I’m breaking her heart.

  “It’s just… impossibl
e. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m the problem.”

  “You are not the problem,” she states. “You are amazing and Ashley is an idiot.”

  “Your name-calling is much less aggressive than your husband’s,” I inform her.

  “Well, yeah,” she says, and I can picture her rolling her eyes. “Want me to step it up a notch? I can be meaner.”

  I shake my head, completely fucking enamored. She’s made me feel better in the space of a few minutes than I’ve felt in… I don’t even know, months? “Sometimes I can’t get you out of my head.”

  She falls silent again, but this time I doubt it’s companionable. For her, anyhow. I’m drunk as fuck; it’s just fine for me.

  Instead of responding, she pulls in a moment later. I shield my eyes with my hand and look at her car as she navigates into a spot in front of me, then I walk around to the passenger side and open up the door. I practically fall inside, yanking the door shut and narrowly missing my foot.

  “Fuck, I am drunk.”

  “I figured,” she says, lightly, reaching over and absently patting my thigh. “You okay? If you’re going to be sick, please do it outside the car. I know Sebastian loves you and all, but he will kill you if you vomit in my car.”

  I lean my head back and smile up at her. “I’m good.”

  “Okay,” she says, laughing a little. “Put your seatbelt on.”

  “Thank you for coming to get me,” I tell her.

  “Anytime, Griff.”

  I force myself to sit upright and buckle the belt around me. Moira waits, then puts the car in reverse and drives me back to her house.

  Their house.

  The house where Seb lives with his perfect wife who would never cheat on him.

  Fucking Seb.

  I love the guy, so I hate being jealous of him, but I am. The ache I felt years ago feels so much worse tonight. I was wrong about her getting dressed—the rustling must have been the sound of the bedclothes, because right now she’s dressed in a satin nightie—baby blue, like her eyes. God, she looks good. I want to forget she’s married to my best friend. I want to push her up against the wall, hike up that nightie, and fuck her until she’s crying out my name instead of his.