I had dropped the kids off at Nick’s nice and early before getting ready for the date. I simply nodded at Sloane as I left, wondering why she was there, even on a Tuesday. It was easier to handle seeing her when I knew I would be going out myself, instead of going home to catch up on laundry and eat ice cream, not necessarily in that order.
It’s like a knife in my heart every time I see her smug face when I pick the kids up at Nick’s. “We had the most wonderful time,” she purred to me one Sunday. “We went to the movies and out for yogurt—no ice cream when they’re with me. For dinner we went to the most amazing new sushi place.” I so wanted to smack her. She fed my kids sushi. I don’t know what pissed me off more—that she fed them raw fish or that they liked it, but would barely touch anything more exotic than roast chicken with me. She’s so vindictive, she probably engineered it so that her ex has Ashley whenever Nick has our kids—so she can be at the hotel with him and rub it in my face when I pick them up. But, I decided as I drove away that I just don’t give a fuck about Sloane. This new mantra is really coming in handy.
I really can’t see Sloane and Nick lasting anyway, but if they do and she becomes my kids’ stepmom, I don’t know what I will do. I’m assuming that Emma never figured out that Sloane sent her the video and just thinks it’s a coincidence, because she seems awfully chummy with her. They’ve gone shopping together and out for lunch. I know this because Sloane likes to rub it in my face, not because Emma tells me—Emma tells me nothing. I do know that Emma has been sporting new clothes—way more expensive than I could ever afford—and unless Nick has a bank account that I don’t know about (which after the affair, wouldn’t even surprise me), Sloane is springing for my daughter’s spiffed up wardrobe. And, while I should feel grateful, I’ve just been angry and resentful. But no more; now I remind myself that I just don’t give a fuck. If Emma’s happy with her new clothes, I should be happy too. Let Sloane spend her money (or more likely Jake’s money) on my kid. I’m sure she gets plenty from him.
I know one mom from Happy Time who gets $1,000 a month from her ex just for herself—clothing, shoes, facials, highlights. Plus, he pays for everything for the kids. She came over to me at school pick-up one day before I switched Sam out and said, “I just heard about you and Nick. I’m sorry to hear it, but you can really take him for what he’s worth. I’m living better now than I ever did when we were married.” Then she told me about her “stipend.” “It’s for pain and suffering,” she explained. “I’m almost glad he took up with that whore.”
I was horrified, and promised myself I would never be like that, but now I kind of wish I could be like that. Not that Nick even has that kind of money, not on his salesman salary. Kitchen supplies are not exactly high ticket items, like cars or houses. Even commission on those fancy stoves and ranges didn’t amount to enough for us to live extravagantly, and I’m sure that hasn’t changed. Perhaps he would borrow the money from Sloane (who I’m sure gets it from Jake), to keep me and our kids in fancy duds.
Poor Jake—she tossed him out when he gained about seventy pounds. I saw him right before they got divorced and he looked like someone had inflated him. I’m sure it was the stress of living with Sloane. I’m also sure she would deny up and down that this was the reason she left him. She would say something like, “We just fell out of love.” But I heard that she complained that she kept herself in shape; why couldn’t he? I thought nothing of it at the time of course, except that she was incredibly shallow. I remember I told Nick that even if he gained a hundred pounds, I wouldn’t leave him.
Nick just laughed and said, “No need to worry, I’d never let myself go like that.” Perhaps that’s why Sloane picked him—she knew that he would never let himself go.
I don’t know why, but I’m convinced that Sloane instigated the affair. I really don’t have any knowledge of how it started, but I imagine that they ran into each other regularly at the gym (I do know that much; that they met at the gym) and Sloane set her sights on him. She probably massaged his ego, telling him how amazing he looked and what great shape he’s in. He probably felt taken for granted at home, and the attention was intoxicating, especially from someone well known like Sloane. It didn’t hurt, I’m sure, that Sloane has a spectacular body (even if it is a little scrawny—aside from her fake boobs, of course) and I’m, well, I’m all right, but certainly not spectacular. But then I tell myself, at least every part of me is real. Plus, my boobs are my best feature and I didn’t even have to pay for them.
This is what I’m thinking about as I search for those jeweled flats. How even if I’m not quite as tight everywhere as I was when I was with Ben, somehow my boobs have escaped gravity. In fact, they’re even better than they were when I was with Ben, because I’ve gone up a cup size or two since having kids. I was a B the last time he had his hands on me. He always used to say that anything more than a handful is a waste, but I’m sure he’d be fine with my “more than a handful” boobs now.
Plus, I remind myself, he saw the video. He actually saw me naked and still wants to see me. I’m suddenly convinced that I’ve always been way harder on myself than anyone else—including Ben—would ever be. A wave of confidence that everything will be okay washes over me. It’s a shocking feeling. I’m not used to it. I’ve had a love / hate relationship with my body for so many years, at least since I became a mom. Maybe everyone seeing me naked actually accomplished something. My body was out there for the world to see and I didn’t die of shame.
After I finally find those jeweled flats, hiding under a pashmina that I never wear, I carefully blow dry and iron my hair—my whole head, not just my bangs—and apply eyeliner and the eye shadow and the mascara I bought. I even swipe on some lip gloss and bronzer, and survey myself one more time in the hallway mirror. Not bad at all, I think and I’m almost giddy relishing this new self-confidence. I throw on a soft, pale gray cardigan and step out into my driveway to flashing cameras.
“Why so dressed up and pretty?” a paparazzo yells. “Do you have a date?” another shouts. “Is there a new man in your life?” I ignore them and climb into my van, wondering when my fifteen minutes of fame will be up. It’s more like a half an hour at this point, and I really think people would be bored with me already. I figured waving and looking happy at the park might have accomplished something—making them realize I’m boring—but, I guess not. I still for the life of me cannot figure out why they care about me—why my life is even interesting. The fact that my wearing make-up is newsworthy to them is both astounding and quite sad.
Of course, they follow me to the train station. I call Ben’s cell phone to give him a warning that he’ll be photographed if I meet him and to ask if he can take a cab to the restaurant, but he doesn’t answer. I can’t just leave him wondering where I am, so I emerge from my car to more flashes and wait for him at the bottom of the escalator, just like my little movie fantasy. Only, in my fantasy there aren’t a gazillion pigeons wandering about and circling overhead as there are in reality. And in my fantasy, one of those pigeons certainly didn’t open fire on the top of my head, covering my freshly blown out ‘do with pigeon poop. But alas, reality isn’t fantasy, and that is exactly what happens, just as Ben is descending. So, instead of rushing into his arms, I’m jumping around, yelling, “Eww, eww, a bird just crapped on my head!” while I search through my enormous purse for the baby wipes I always have on hand.
Of course, the paparazzi are recording the humiliation, and I’m sure it will be a lead off story—Pigeons Pummel Suburban Sex Goddess As She Has Tryst With New Man. Ben steps off the escalator, laughing at me. He leans over to hug me hello and I back away, saying, “You don’t want to come near me! I’m covered in pigeon poop.”
“I don’t care. It’s been twenty-two long years—I’m not going to let a little poop stop me.” With that, he wraps his arms around me as the paparazzi jockey into position, snapping away. He kisses me on the cheek and tilts his head toward the paparazzi, “Are they always with yo
u? I guess I’ll be famous now, too.”
“You know, I always thought you’d be the famous one. With all the talent scouts looking at you, I was sure you’d get signed after we broke up.”
“Almost happened,” he says, “But honestly, after we broke up I just wasn’t motivated anymore. I quit the band after a year, but we can talk more about my post-break up despair at dinner. Speaking of dinner, I Googled restaurants around here and found a nice Italian one about ten or fifteen minutes from here. Does that sound good? I remember that you always loved Italian food.”
“I do still love Italian, but I really think I need a shower,” I say sheepishly. “Would you mind going back to my house, so I can quickly hose off? The kids are staying at Nick’s tonight, so I have time. We can go out as soon as I’m done. Are you starving? I could whip you up a snack, if you want.”
Ben smiles disarmingly and says, “I’m fine, though it’s tempting. I remember what a great cook you were, even in college. And, of course I don’t mind going to your house. I’d love to see where you live now. You always had the best taste.”
“Well, now my house looks like Toys ‘R’ Us threw up in it. And all the furniture is from Ikea, picked for sturdiness and the ability to hide stains. I cleaned the bathroom and the kitchen, but the living room is a disaster. Sam, my little guy, was playing with puzzles before we left. He likes to mix up about 5 of them and then do them from one pile. It’s actually pretty amazing, but really messy. My older boys were playing Xbox and left the controllers on the floor.”
Ben puts his hands on my shoulders and says quietly, “Stop. It’s really okay. I don’t care what your house looks like. I’m just so happy to see you.”
I turn around to see the paparazzi pack up and go. I guess they figure we’re not going to start making out and they already took as many pictures as they needed. I take one more swipe at my head with a baby wipe and lead Ben to my minivan. I’ve tried to clean it, but the crushed goldfish crackers, bits of popcorn and juice box spills were too much for me. I pray Ben doesn’t look in the back or notice that odd smell that I haven’t been able to locate. I sprayed Bath and Body Works fragrance mist all over the car, hoping to cover the smell, but when we get in, it’s clear that it simply smells like a mix of Warm Vanilla Sugar layered over old sandwich rotting under a seat. I try to employ my new mantra, but I really do care what Ben thinks.
If he notices, though, he’s polite enough not to say anything to me. He just says, “I want to hear all about what you’ve been doing, Max. Um, besides making sex videos.”
I smack him lightly on the shoulder. It feels so good to be joking with him—it reminds me of how easy everything was between us. I always thought it was because we were kids, but maybe it was because we were us. We just got each other. The laughter was easy, but I guess so were the tears. But, the drama queen, fight-picking me is long gone, so who knows. Maybe the years that have passed will act like a sieve, straining out all the bad stuff and leaving only the good. Suddenly I realize that I was so lost in my reverie I missed my turn and need to go around the block. “I’m sorry,” I say nervously. “I just wasn’t paying attention. So embarrassing.”
“You don’t need to be embarrassed for missing a turn, Max. Remember, I spent three years driving around with you—before GPS. I thought your lack of any sense of direction was one of the most charming things about you. Really.”
I can’t help but smile. Nick hated that I got lost all the time. He bought me one of the first GPS models to come out and attached a note that simply said, “Use this. Please.” I guess the fact that he could be so infuriated by something so hardwired into my personality—the inability to find my bearings, whether in a mall, a strange town or even my own town—should have tipped me off that perhaps he didn’t love me as much as I hoped or thought. Perhaps it was a marriage based on circumstances—an unexpected pregnancy—more than anything.
Once we’re facing in the right direction, I say to Ben, “Thanks for not making me feel bad. Nick would’ve snapped at me if I missed a turn.”
“Sounds like Nick didn’t deserve you,” he says softly.
He’s absolutely right—Nick didn’t deserve me. That’s why I don’t feel the least bit guilty that the moment we get in the front door Ben has me up against a wall, hand in my hair, kissing me passionately, bird poop be damned. I push all of the puzzle pieces out of the way as we land on the carpet (thankfully we make it past the tile entryway), still kissing. For a moment, I worry about getting pigeon poop on the carpet, but I reason that I must have wiped most of it away and honestly, I couldn’t care less—I can spray it after.
Ben slides my cardigan off and kisses my shoulder so softly I shiver. I’m extremely grateful I wore a tank top, especially when he moves to my neck and makes his way down to my cleavage. Just as a moan escapes my lips, he stops for a moment and just stares at me, those amazing hazel eyes taking me in. “What?” I whisper.
“I just can’t believe that I’m getting a chance to fix something I’ve regretted for so long.” His voice cracks a bit as he says this.
“No,” I counter. “You don’t have to regret anything. I should have trusted you and not snooped. I was wrong. Unfortunately, it taught me not to snoop at all—even when I should have. Maybe I would have known about Nick’s affair sooner, but that has nothing to do with you. You didn’t deserve my snooping.” I kiss him, and I understand now what all those romance novels describing “loins on fire” are talking about.
Ben kisses me back for a moment, and then pulls away. “Actually, you kind of did have a right to snoop.”
I shoot up. “What are you talking about?” I ask my heart racing. “Were you cheating on me?”
“No, I never cheated on you, I swear. But it was a girl’s phone number, a girl from my business class, not a guy. You know, I cursed that scrap of paper every day. I never called her after we broke up—I swear. Nothing ever happened. It was so stupid of me to throw away the best thing I would ever have, because I got scared.
“I was starting to panic about how serious we were when I met her. We sat next to each other in class, and she always flirted with me. She asked me to study a few times—in her room—and she made it clear she didn’t really want to study. I kept saying no, but then I thought—maybe I should just do it.”
I know I should be saying something, but I just can’t get any words formed. My stomach is quickly moving toward my knees and I feel like I might be sick. I don’t know if Ben notices or not. He just continues, “You and I were talking about marriage and kids, but you were the only girl I ever slept with. I told myself that it would be good for our relationship if I was with one other girl before we got engaged. I was planning to propose right after graduation. I had even gone ring shopping with my mom already. I figured that way I wouldn’t be wondering if I was missing out on anything—I’d know you were the best. This girl was hot, but she wasn’t nearly as smart or funny as you. She didn’t make me melt like you did, but I didn’t want her to. I knew I wouldn’t fall for her. I knew it would just be physical and I’d get it over with. All my friends were teasing me for being an ‘old married man’—I had to show them and myself that I wasn’t. It was stupid, but then again, most 22-year-olds are. I’m so sorry.”
I want to understand, I really do. I want to forgive him, waving it away as a kid being a kid. But I just can’t. All I know is that for years—literally years—I beat myself up over not trusting Ben enough, over my own weak character. I beat myself up over being mired in something that happened when I was a mere child and letting it overshadow my relationship. Knowing now that I was right to trust my intuition that night, knowing that I should have trusted my intuition all the years following and not tamped it down simply infuriates me. There’s no other way to describe it. I pull my cardigan back on, stand up and quietly say, “Please leave.”
Only, Ben responds, “No.”
“What do you mean ‘No’? This is my house and I’m asking you to leave.”
>
“Well, for one thing, I don’t have a car. For another, there’s no way in hell that I’m leaving you again. Sure, you were the one who walked out the door all those years ago, but I asked you to and I shouldn’t have. Come on, Maxie, we’re grown-ups now. I should’ve told you the truth that night, but I panicked. I didn’t want you to know what a slime I was, and I knew if you found out, you’d break up with me, so I broke up with you. You can’t hold something that happened over twenty-two years ago against me. I was a stupid kid. Please.”
His hands are on my shoulders, steering me to face him. I can’t—I look at the floor. If I look into his eyes, I might just give in. If Nick’s cheating on me wasn’t still such a raw wound, I probably would’ve brushed Ben’s behavior all those years ago off as just his being a stupid kid. I would have realized that we’re adults and shouldn’t be held accountable for the things we did in college. But Nick’s cheating is still a raw wound, and I just can’t forgive Ben right now. Because of that night so long ago, I shooed away any suspicions that Nick might have been cheating as just my own insecure nature. Because of Ben’s lie a lifetime ago, I was blindsided and probably the laughingstock of East Hollow. I was that old cliché—the last to know.
“I’m sorry, Ben, but I just can’t do this now—not after everything that’s happened with Nick. I doubted my own gut instincts for years because of you. I know you were just a stupid college kid, but that breakup affected every relationship I had after us. I never asked too many questions, I never doubted things that perhaps I should have doubted. I never believed in my own ability to figure out if someone was lying.” Ben tries to pull me into his arms.
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