Love, Michael: A second chance romance

by Gina A. Jones

  "I was celebrating," he slurred.

  "Celebrating?"

  "Yup. Guys gave me a bachelor party. And now I'm so fucking horny. Man, there was this stripper, and she was so fucking hot." He laughed into between his words and I tried to push him away. "So, now I want to fuck my wife. Come here. Give your husband a kiss."

  "Get off me," I yelled.

  "Oh, don't be like that. You're not going to be one of those wives, are you?" I pushed him away and went to the couch. I thought he would go to bed, but he came out. Even in his drunkenness, he picked me up with anger and brought me back to the bedroom.

  "Leave me alone, Michael."

  "You wanted to get married? Well, this is marriage, dear." He removed his belt with force and threw it across the room. I crawled up against the headboard and told him to stop. He removed the rest of his clothes and then came at me. "Take off your clothes, or I'll rip them off."

  "NO! Michael, stop it." It didn't matter, because, within seconds, he had my T-shirt off and jerked my panties down and was on top of me. I held my legs shut, but he pried them open with his knee. We hadn't had sex since I told him I was pregnant, and this was going to be the first. And it was our wedding night.

  He was now inside me, and for the first time, I hated it. He kissed my mouth, and I tasted cigarettes and whiskey. "You're a fucking prick tease," he said as he rocked in and out of me. I began to cry, wanting my simple teenage life back. I would even sacrifice the Michael I knew before just to forget this moment.

  He came in a few seconds, but it felt like a lifetime. When he was done, he dropped heavy on top of me and passed out. As I tried to get out from under him, he puked all over the bed. I went to the couch and curled up in a ball, rocking back and forth and cried uncontrollably. I wanted to go home. I wanted my mom. But I was now committed to the drunk, passed out man in the bedroom—my husband.

  Now

  I wake next to Michael as he sleeps peacefully beside me and carefully slide off the bed, dress and tiptoe out of the room. We fell fast asleep after the lovemaking, and I regretted last night. Why did I let myself be talked into coming here?

  The sun is coming up, and I glance around his living room. This does not look like someone who just moved in a week ago. His place is furnished, thoroughly lived-in and fully decorated with pictures of Monica…and me.

  I walk over and pick up a framed picture of me strolling on the beach of Lake Michigan. Monica took this of me last summer. I was looking down and watching the waves move in and cover my feet. I felt so at peace that day. Monica and I were spending the day together, planning her future wedding and I was proud that she would never know the wedding I had. I was wearing a string bikini top and a white, lace cover-up wrapped low on my hips. My skin was so bronzed, and the sun shined on my face with just the side of my profile showing behind a straw beach hat.

  "That's my favorite." I turn around and find Michael standing in the doorway of his bedroom. "What were you thinking when that picture was taken?" I don't answer. "Where were you going?"

  I set the picture down and look for my purse. "I need my phone. I need to go, Michael."

  "You told Monica you weren't working today. Why do you need to go?"

  "Because, Michael. Last night never should have happened. And where and why do you have all these pictures of Monica and me?"

  "Monica's Facebook. She gave me permission."

  "When?"

  "When I asked."

  I can see I'm not getting anywhere and turn to leave. "Did I leave my purse in your car?"

  "Yes. But I went out and brought it in. It's in the kitchen."

  "When did you do that?"

  "Last night as I watched you sleep."

  "How…never mind," I say and look for my purse in the kitchen. Another picture of Monica and me together on our vacation to Hilton Head. She was still in high school. I look back at him, pointing at the picture. "This one's old."

  "Yes, but it was still on her Facebook."

  I spot my purse and dig for my phone. I can't call Tammy. I'm sure she's not feeling well. Not Monica. I don't want her to know about this. I decide on an Uber and start to open the app when I see my phone is dead. Dammit! "You have a charger?"

  "Yes. You can use my phone if you need to make a call."

  "Could you call me an Uber?"

  "Jill, please don't go. Spend the morning with me. I'll make you breakfast. We'll talk, and then I'll take you home…if you still want to go." Why's he so…melodramatic, looking at me with those…eyes?

  "Michael, I don't want breakfast. I don't want to stay here. I want to go home to my house…now. As far as talking, this never happened. Monica is not to know about this. It will never happen again, and it shouldn't have happened last night." I don't believe this. After all these years…how did this happen? "I should have never agreed for you to come and walk Monica down the aisle. It was stupid on my part, and I'm ready to wipe this whole thing from my life." As I keep talking, he keeps walking closer with that desperate look in his eyes. The look I didn't recognize at the wedding. "What are you doing, Michael? I said I was ready to go home. Call me an Uber, or I'm going to start walking," I say and notice the picture above his fireplace, now with the sun shining in through the window. It's a large canvas of him and me—the one with him kissing me on the forehead from the wedding shots. "What's that doing there?"

  He turns. "Isn't it beautiful?"

  "It's weird, Michael. That's what it is. What are you? Obsessed?"

  "Yes. I'm obsessed with you." He says with no regard. No hesitation. "Not psychotically obsessed. More like…I love you obsessed. I'm still legally sane."

  "No, you're not. You're crazy. You are crazy if you think I'm falling for this. I think it wasn't enough for you to have ripped me open, tear out my heart, fill me with fallacies of a family and then take off. Oh, no. Somehow, you found out that I got over you. We became just fine, and so you're here to finish the job."

  "Good. We're talking. I'll put some coffee on." He smiles, pulls the blinds over the kitchen sink window and starts to make coffee. "Wow! Look at the gorgeous sun out there. Let's not waste it and spend the day at the lake."

  "Don't you have a job or something you need to get to? A woman? A…life?"

  "No. Just want to be here with you."

  "Oh, now I get it. It's all starting to make sense." He looks at me, smiles that strange smile and quirks his brows.

  "What is?"

  "What's going on. You don't have a job. You think you can sleep with me because I'm a sure thing, park your dick at my house until you're back on your feet and some piece of ass comes around. And then zip, you're gone."

  "Ouch. That bad, huh?" He sets out two cups. "But you're wrong." He opens a drawer and pulls out a magazine—Forbes, and thumbs through. "That's my company. I can run it from here," he says, handing me the magazine.

  Danforth Jet Center. Lead by pilots for pilots. The company is a supplier for Boeing, providing service for pilots between Seattle and Gary. Now rated as a Fortune 500 company with Michael Danforth as owner and CEO. "Well, you finally capitalized upon the mile-high club. I'm not surprised."

  He hands me a cup of coffee. "I deserve that. Let's go sit outside in the sunshine while you chastise me some more."

  "Dammit, Michael, I'm serious."

  "So am I. I'm sure you have a lot to say. And I need to hear it." I follow him outside to a patio where he pulls out a chair for me. "For you."

  "I need to stand."

  "Okay, I'll sit," he says and takes the seat. "Spill it. Because I need to hear, and you need to get it out, so we can go on." Why's he so agreeable? It's taking all the pleasure out of it.

  "Okay. Let's talk about our wedding night." I've struck home. His eyes glaze with sadness and his chest hitches with a small choke. He's about to cry.

  "Yes," he whispers. "I will always hate myself for that night especially. I've done a lot of wicked things to you, Jill. But that…" He can't finish and covers his mou
th with his fist.

  "I was just a little girl. Younger than Monica." He chokes. "I can't imagine having something like that happen to her. You were my husband. You were supposed to protect me. Take care of me. Love me. But you didn't. You…." I don't finish. His heavy sobs say it all.

  "You had your career. You made it, and I was there taking care of you. I never complained of wanting more out of life. I just wanted you to love me. Love us."

  "I know," he whispers. "I never got to experience those things and finish my adolescence. Yes, I became pregnant, and I had to become responsible and grow up overnight. You had your time. Yet, I was the one who suffered."

  "I know." Never does his eyes sway from me as he takes my verbal lashing. I'm shaking, and my words are full of rage and sadness. I don't know if it's helping or hurting me. But now is my time to get closure.

  "All I wanted was to make you happy, and I thought that would win me your love. My God, Michael. For you to think that you were the miserable one. After all, my efforts were pointless, and I never gave up. Not once, Michael, did I ever give up. Who left, Michael?"

  "I did. I did, and I'm so, so sorry for the life I gave you and Monica. I know I can say it until I'm blue in the face, but I will never stop saying it."

  I turn away. I can't look at his sorrowfulness, and I don't know why. I should be enjoying this. I finally to get to say it to his face and not my therapist, of which I stop seeing years ago. At this rate, I'll be seeing her again if I don't get away from him.

  From behind, he wraps me in his arms and cries in my hair. He's trembling—it's pitiable. He's really taking this to heart. Maybe it's his age—losing time and testosterone. "Please forgive me, Jill. Please tell me I can have another chance. Please tell me we can start again. I promise you everything. My love. The moon. The Stars. Our happy ever after."

  We're both crying. My insides ache. Buried hurt for the last twenty years is surfacing. All the pain and sadness and the wondering why. I need this. I need this closure, and then I can never see him again. I will sleep like a baby. No more nightmares of the past. Air will smell better. The sun will shine brighter, even on cloudy days. Food will taste better, and life, in general, will be better. I can finally look him in the eyes and tell him the pain he put me through…and then walk away like he never existed.

  "You want to hear something that is so messed up?" His eyes are red, and inside I feel his soul hurting. I don't know why. "Do you remember that day, the last time you used the word try?" He says nothing but continues looking at me with red, watery eyes. "I was having a happy day…and happy days were hard. Because, it meant holding my breath, living on hope. And it would always come crashing down. Bad days had no surprises—no waiting for the floor to drop." I take a sip of coffee and hold the cup close to my chest. "It was after your office Christmas party…the moment in your car." His eyes lighten a little with the thought. "That night we came home, and you told me that you really want to try and how you had messed up so much. I held my breath. I wanted to believe you. On a whim, you took us to Florida for vacation. As much as I tried to enjoy…us, I was holding onto hope. You took us to the ocean—the beach. You picked up our daughter…" My lungs ache with pain, and it's a struggle to get my words out. "You set her on your shoulders and walked on the shore. I sat back and just watched with happy-saddens. You must have been pretending to fly because you held out your arms, and she did the same. Your white shirt was blowing in the ocean breeze, and Monica's sun-kissed, baby blonde hair tossed around her little shoulders. I watched this tableau of love and wished I could have it for real. I wished…I wished you could have seen how beautiful you were with her on your shoulders. Because maybe then…you would really want it. Want us."

  He jumps from the chair and holds me in his arm. The coffee spills on us both but has cooled. "I love you, Jill. I want you. I want us. I wish I could go back and do everything right this time."

  "And what would right be, Michael?"

  "Give you a wedding. Surprise you with an engagement ring. Watch you walk down the aisle to me. Be there when our baby girl was born. Just…love you." He takes the cup from between us and sets in on the table and returns holding both of my hands. "I'm not the same man, Jill. I want to walk with you in the summer. Make a snowman with the first snow of winter. Sit by the fire on cold nights. Sleep on the beach with you."

  "I don't think I can do that, Michael. Because I don't think those things exist. Life's not a book. You taught me that. I had to learn to live on faith. Not hope. I can't take that chance."

  He holds me. We both cry, and I'm becoming numb. Do I have anything left? Is this it? Am I empty? Empty of Michael?

  He holds my face in his hands and kisses my forehead, my cheeks and then my lips. Do I feel him? Or once I empty it all, do I fade away? What's next? "I need to go, Michael. Please, take me home."

  Pressing his forehead on mine, his eyes search with such longing in them. "I'll do whatever you want. Just don't shut me out completing. Please." I don't answer, because I don't know how. I just stare into his sad gaze.

  He walks back inside, his shoulders holding the weight of the world. I've never seen a sadder exit as he looks back one last time before disappearing inside. I walk back to the kitchen and gather my purse and phone and wait in his car.

  I don't look at him when he gets in and turn my head, looking out the side window. But that doesn't stop him holding my hand. And…I don't stop him. Am I testing myself…to see if I still feel?

  "I remember that day. Monica was wearing a little red dress with polka dots. She said, "Lets fly, Daddy. Let's fly." I turn and look at him. He's staring straight ahead. "She wanted to fly with the seagulls because she thought they were angels. She wanted to fly to heaven and see the angels." I watch a tear run down his cheek and feel an ache of guilt. He did remember.

  He starts the car, and we continue holding hands until we reach my house. He hasn't let go. And, I'm not sure I want him to. There are more questions I want to ask. And so, I do something stupid. "Would you like to come in—so we could talk some more?"

  "Thank you," he says and kisses my hand before letting go.

  We head inside, and I make another pot of coffee. It is a beautiful morning, and maybe we should spend the day at the lake. Maybe. Or perhaps it's my guilt thinking for me.

  I pour the coffees and suggest sitting out on the back patio where the sun is rising on the horizon. Nothing's really been said, and I think he's waiting for me to start.

  "Michael, did you ever marry…again?"

  "Almost."

  Maybe this was the person who died. The one with the pot roast. I don't want to ask, but I need to know if it was him who wanted to marry. "The woman I found you with?"

  "No, Jill," he quickly says. "It wasn't her. It…was woman I worked with from Boeing. We traveled together and shared the same projects. I thought it was time. Time, I should…commit."

  I get up and begin to leave when he stops me. "It's none of my business. I don't need to hear it." He grabs my arms, and I pull away hard, knocking myself unbalanced.

  "Please, I would like for you to know."

  "Know what, Michael? How you wanted to marry another woman? No, I don't need to know. I've always known that you never wanted to marry me."

  "I couldn't marry her. Because she wasn't you. All I did was compare her to you. And in the end, she couldn't take it anymore. I failed again."

  "Why? Why would you do that, Michael?"

  "Because I would wake up and she…she would still be in bed."

  "Stop it! I don't care to know."

  "I missed the smell of breakfast being made. I missed the smell of your fresh shampooed hair, how it would fall on me with your morning kisses and the little notes written on the fridge. I missed the smell of the fabric softener you used or the way you would tell me how handsome I looked right before I walked out the door. I missed seeing Monica held on your hip as you cooked dinner or did your homework. I missed the way you served my plate and
would tell me the stove was hot, not to touch it. The way you made every season special with its own décor and celebrated each one. The smell of cucumbers in the summer. The smell of cinnamon in the fall. And Christmas. You made Christmas so magical."

  There's hesitation, and I don't know what to say. Because he never acknowledged any of those things. He just appeared, frustrated and unhappy.

  "She was none of those things. And when I would bring them up why she didn't do those things, it would end with a fight about you. She'd tell me she was above being a mousy little wife. And that would make me angry, and I would defend you. Eventually, I found her stalking you on Monica's Facebook. She then saw the beautiful, loving wife I left and wanted to know why. When I told her because I made the biggest mistake of my life…she left, and I never saw her again. Because you taught me what a wife is and does. What love is."

  Though the tears, I make a cynical laugh. "Well, that makes two of us, Michael. I was also almost married again. But you taught me what it's like to have a husband—and I couldn't make that mistake again. And… it's a shame because he was a wonderful man. He's now married to someone else and very happy. And once again, I lost…because of you. You have left me with a bad taste in my mouth and a fractured heart. Not broke; I won't give you that much credit. My heart only beats for one now. Myself. It's too risky to take on more. I can't be that person you remember. Because I thought that's why you left us."

  Then

  As I sat and cried, I thought of my mother and how she cared for my father, even when he was selfish and self-consumed. My father would apologize in his own way, and life would go on as usual. At times, I would overhear my father tell his friends that he'd be nothing without her. And at times, he would confess this to her: Is this how it worked? Was it my responsibility to take the brunt of things and focus on his happiness? And someday, Michael would say he couldn't live without me.