If Only For One Night

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  “I promise, I will make it up to you.”

  Another thing he always said. And he did make it up to me — with all kinds of gifts. I had a closet full of designer bags and shoes and fragrances.

  “Okay,” I said, though I didn’t move.

  My arms were still folded, even as Preston studied me. “Okay?” he repeated as if my word surprised him.

  I shrugged.

  “I love you,” he said as he reached for my hand.

  It was with reluctance that I moved toward him, then took his hand.

  “I love you,” he repeated, and then he squeezed my hand as if that would seal his words.

  “I know you do,” I said what I knew to be true. “I love you, too.”

  He tugged at my hand and I leaned over to receive his kiss before he released me. When I stepped away from the bed, he snuggled into his pillow. By the time I made my way to my closet, I was sure that I’d heard his first snore.

  I blinked and blinked and blinked because no matter what, I was not going to cry. I’d shed too many tears already, not ever really sure what I was crying about. Why should I be crying when my husband gave me everything: a custom-built, five-thousand square foot home with all the amenities I wanted, a double sized closet with all the fashions and accoutrements that I desired. Truly, there was nothing that I longed for that I didn’t already have.

  Except for the attention of my husband.

  Inside my closet, I slipped out of the lingerie, leaving it right on the floor when I stepped out of it. Then, I slid the T-shirt that I’d slept in last night over my head. By the time I returned to our bed, Preston was deep into his sleep.

  I rolled my eyes, but then, I thought, this could be worse. My husband could be somewhere with a mistress. At least I didn’t have to compete with that. No, my husband’s paramour was Wake Forest Investments, the investment firm he’d started just four years ago.

  The business was an instant blessing for him, and an instant curse for me.

  I sat up in the bed, but I was certainly not sleepy. It was barely nine-thirty and I didn’t have to be up at five. Picking up my phone, I turned it back on and right away, a Words with Friends notification chimed.

  Your play.

  Really? TruBlu had come back that quickly?

  Then, I opened the app, and my mouth opened wide. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whispered. “One hundred and forty points?”

  I thought I was doing something with my one hundred and twelve. He’d never scored like this before. What was he doing — using one of those cheating sites?

  I leaned into the pillows, determined that I was going to come up with something that would shut Mr. TruBlu down. But before I could begin moving my tiles, an alert blinked to let me know I had a new message. I clicked on the notification app.

  You like that? Your move.

  I laughed, then covered my mouth as I glanced over at Preston. But it seemed like he couldn’t hear me above the sounds that he made.

  TruBlu had never messaged me before, so this was cool.

  Snuggling back, I sent this man my own message:

  Oh, it's on, now.

  Dots appeared on my screen, indicating that TruBlu was responding:

  I'm not from Missouri, but show me!

  There was no way my smile could have spread wider. I didn’t get it, though. It was just a couple of little messages. So why did I have that butterfly feeling?

  Snuggling back even deeper into the pillows, I began to type:

  I can show u….

  CHAPTER 2

  Blu Logan

  There were three reasons why I couldn’t jump up and give myself a high-five the way I wanted to over those one-hundred-and-forty points I just scored. First, I was already in bed, second, I was lying butt-naked in the dark, and third…

  “Ugh! Will you get off that game?”

  And reason number three: I was in my bed, butt-naked…next to my wife.

  “Please,” Monica whined.

  The end of my lips turned down just a little, but I wasn’t going to let Monica steal my joy. Because Lord knows, she wasn’t the one who’d given it to me. All of this joy that filled me right now was because of DivineDiva. Damn, she was a challenge.

  “That light is too much.”

  And then, there was the woman next to me who didn’t challenge me at all. Although, Monica had once — six years ago.

  I turned my attention back to the game, so wanting to stay in this place. It wasn’t often that I got a chance to one-up DivineDiva. Two weeks, and I hadn’t beaten her once. But this move right here, it had been calculated, it had been strategic, and there wasn’t anything that she could do.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Monica said.

  Monica was that thief in the night. Because all of my joy — stolen! “How is the light from my phone bothering you?”

  She pushed herself up in the bed, and leaned back on her elbows. The light from the television was what made the room so bright and I easily saw her glare.

  She said, “You have a six-plus. That thing is dang-near the size of an iPad. And I’m trying to sleep.” Then, she sat up and adjusted the pink hair roller that was falling into her face.

  I sighed, remembering the days when she would have never worn those things to bed. Remembering the days when she told me that she wanted to be sexy twenty-four-seven just for me.

  It was those memories that made me snap, "You're always trying to sleep, Monica. Five o'clock in the morning, you're sleep. Five o'clock in the evening, you're sleep."

  “You know I can't help it.” She folded her arms and her bottom lip trembled. “You know what I’m suffering from. You know how it’s affected me.”

  This was where I was supposed to have empathy. Maybe pull Monica into my arms, give her a hug, assure her that everything was going to be okay. But even though I wanted to, sometimes I couldn’t. Because I felt like I didn’t have any more understanding inside of me.

  It had started years ago, right after our daughter, Raven, had been born. As soon as I brought Monica and Raven home, I’d noticed the change in my wife: she was moody, had trouble sleeping, couldn’t eat. In the beginning, we’d just thought she was just suffering from baby blues because she hadn’t gone through that with our son who was ten when Raven was born. But after a few weeks, she’d been diagnosed with postpartum depression.

  Of course, I wanted my wife to have the best care and her ob-gyn was on it. Her doctor gave her medication, taught her relaxation methods, and suggested a support group. Well, Monica never attended a single meeting and only took about two deep breaths to relax herself. But the medication — Monica rode that one for as long as the doctor gave her prescriptions.

  When Raven was a year old, Monica's gynecologist had referred her to a psychologist…and even though she’d been seeing Dr. Nichols ever since, it felt like we were in the same place.

  “I don’t care what you say,” she broke through my memories of when this all began. “I’m still suffering from PPD.”

  She’d become so familiar with the term that she only spoke of it through its acronym. But postpartum depression wasn’t her problem at all.

  “Raven is six, so it’s not postpartum depression,” I said, refusing to call such a serious disorder by a nickname. “You're suffering from a lot of things, but that’s not one of them."

  Her glare became harsher. "Whatever,” she said, snatching the covers away from me. She turned her back and snuggled deep under the duvet.

  I shook my head. Maybe I should have tried one of my old approaches. But then the chime of my phone turned my attention away from my wife.

  A message:

  I can show u better than I can tell u.

  Okay, so why did that make me smile?

  My response: That's what most ppl who lose say.

  Then, I waited. The seconds ticked by, time passing so slowly. But the digital numbers on my cell only changed from 9:32 to 9:33 before DivineDiva responded:

&n
bsp; Payback isn't going to be pretty.

  I couldn’t get my fingers to move fast enough.

  Bring it.

  I paused. Because I was just talking about the game, wasn’t I? I’d been playing this chick for the past two weeks. That was it. And tonight was the first time that I’d ever messaged…well, that I’d ever messaged her. I mean, I did chat with women, though I kept it friendly and not too flirty.

  But this connection with DivineDiva…it was instant and it felt real.

  Maybe it was just the game. I spent hours playing Words With Friends; it was the half-analytical, half-creative break that I needed from the hours I spent pushing numbers over at PricewaterhouseCoopers. I mean, I loved my job and I was well on my way to being a partner. But this…this game relaxed me. And now, I had someone who really challenged me.

  I stared at my screen, waiting for another response and feeling that joy rise back up in me, until I heard, “So, the game. Off please.”

  “Go to sleep,” I said to the thief.

  In another language those three words must have translated into four new ones: sit up and argue.

  Because that was what Monica did. She sprang up, leaned forward, and spat, “Why are you so nasty to me?”

  I wondered if she saw the irony in her question. She was the one with spittle flying from her mouth. That was when I knew for sure she hadn’t taken her meds and I would have to call Dr. Nichols in the morning.

  I inhaled, then exhaled calm. “How am I being nasty to you when all I said was go to sleep?”

  “It’s the way you said it. And it’s the way you kept your phone on even when I told you that I couldn’t sleep with the light.”

  “But the TV is on, Monica.” My inhale hadn’t helped because now, my voice was raised. “You have the TV on every night. You fall asleep with the TV and that light — from a forty-two-inch TV — that light should bother you.”

  “It’s not the same. It’s the light from your phone and the tapping on the screen that’s so distracting.”

  She said that like it made sense and that was it for me. “Fine.” I threw back the covers and swung my feet onto the floor. Traipsing across the floor wearing nothing but the skin I’d been born in, I tried not to stomp, but I was pissed. It was like at every turn, Monica wanted to fight. I didn’t want that, I didn’t need that. I’d had six years of it and wasn’t sure how many more years were in me.

  I grabbed my robe from the hook on the bathroom door and wrapped myself inside the Turkish Terry before I stepped back in the bedroom. I moved to the bed, only to retrieve my phone. Monica was still sitting up, her eyes following my moves, but I made sure not to make eye contact with her.

  “Oh, now you’re going to ignore me?”

  I grabbed my phone.

  “You’re going to just walk away like I did something wrong?”

  I walked toward the door.

  “Why do you have such an attitude?”

  I was about five feet away from freedom, so why did I turn around? Why did I have to respond? “I don’t have an attitude, I just don’t want to fight.”

  “This isn’t a fight, it’s a discussion.”

  “I’m not fighting, I’m not discussing, I’m just leaving.”

  I turned, took five steps, and she yelled out five words, “Do you want a divorce?”

  I stopped so suddenly, I almost toppled over. This time, I spun around slowly. “Where is that coming from? Did I say I wanted a divorce?”

  There were tears in her voice when she said, “Well the way you act, I can't tell. You’re always acting like I’ve done something to you. You’re always charging out of here. You’re always….”

  “I’m always?” I had tried to hold back, but we were ending the day the same way it had started. With a fight. “Do you hear yourself? I’m always doing something to you? You know what I’m always doing, Monica? I’m always walking on eggshells because I don’t want to set you off.”

  Tears trailed down her cheeks. “I cannot help the way I feel.”

  It was the way she said it that made me soften. Made me remember that my wife really did have an illness. I took slow steps back to the bed. I didn’t know why I was doing this. Talking to Monica never ended well. But I’d left her this morning, standing in the kitchen crying. Because I had to get Raven to her school bus and then I had to get to work.

  I didn’t have that excuse tonight. And really, I did want to help Monica because I believed in our vows. I just prayed that one day, we could get back to the ‘for better’ part because we were drowning in all of this for worse.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, I reached for her hand, but she kept her arms folded. “Monica, have you taken your meds?” I prayed that my calmness would calm her. “What is Doctor Nichols saying?” This was a question that I asked her often.

  “That quack?”

  That was the answer that Monica always gave me even though Dr. Nichols was far from being a quack. And Monica knew it. That was why I challenged her. “Well, if she’s a quack, why do you keep going to her?”

  Everything on Monica tightened, she pinched her lips, pressed her arms closer to her chest, and squinted. But she didn’t answer.

  So, I answered for her, “If you don’t like her, you don’t have to go to her anymore. We can try…you can try… maybe to work on it without the medication.”

  I’d done enough research to know that while medication definitely helped some people, for others, it sent them on a destructive emotional roller coaster. That was my fear for my wife and after six years, I wanted for us to try something different. Maybe a life without meds.

  With the back of her hand, she wiped away a tear. “You always say that, but I need those drugs. You don’t know what it’s like for me.”

  “You’re right, I don’t. But I wonder what would happen if you tried to work at it a little harder.” I glanced around the room that had become my wife’s stockade. She hardly left this space and it showed. Her nightstand was covered with empty packages and tossed aside wrappers that once held cookies and cakes and chips. They were piled high next to a line-up of empty soda cans. She even had a loaf of bread pushed behind her lamp. “I really think if you were to try, you'd see positive results. Sometimes leave this room for more than just your doctor’s appointment, leave this house and hang out with the kids. They miss you, I miss you. All I’m saying is try.”

  “Oh, what are you? A doctor now?”

  I felt my impatience rising, rising, rising. Monica wanted to fight. But I swallowed my agitation and said, “Of course I’m not a doctor. I’m just trying to….”

  “You’re just trying to do what you always do. You’re trying to say that there is nothing wrong with me.”

  “No, I’m not saying that,” I popped off, my impatience bursting out of me. “Clearly there’s something wrong. You’re on depression meds. You don’t go to work anymore. You stay home all day and eat bonbons and Oreos and potato chips.” I slowed down. This would not end well. I needed to be the bigger person. So, I calmly said, “There is something wrong, I just wonder if we should try a different approach.”

  Now, her top lip quivered like her bottom one. “I’m doing the best I can, but you always….”

  “I always go to work, I always come home, I always pay the bills, I always take care of the kids….”

  “But you don’t support me. You never do.”

  It was her ‘always’ and her ‘never’ that made me just hold up my hands. “You know what? We don’t need to talk about this right now.”

  I turned toward the door, moving the way I should have kept doing a couple of minutes before.

  “See! That’s what I’m talking about. You always….”

  I was out of the room before she berated me about something else that I always did.

  But I guess my silence was too much for her, a soda can followed me into the hallway. I turned around and paused. She’d actually thrown an empty can of Sprite at me. Yeah, I needed to call Dr. Nic
hols in the morning. Even though she never discussed Monica’s illness with me, I told her when I had concerns.

  I picked up the can, then turned toward Raven’s room. My hope was that our daughter was asleep and hadn’t heard a thing. That was something that always worried me — our children being drawn into this dysfunction that I was still trying to call a marriage. I’d never wanted Raven and our sixteen-year-old, Tanner, to hear what I called arguments and Monica called discussions.

  It was an impossible feat, though. Because I never knew when Monica would go off.

  Inside Raven’s room, I picked up the blanket she’d kicked off the bed, and covered her again, knowing that it would be back on the floor in minutes. For a moment, I stood over our daughter. Whenever I looked at our children, I remembered they were the gifts that Monica had given to me. So I had to try, I had to remember the sacrifice she’d made so that we could have a family.

  That was why I had to find a way to be patient.

  “But it’s been six years of this,” I whispered before I tiptoed out of her room. For a moment, I paused outside of Tanner’s room, but I wasn’t worried about our son hearing a thing — he never took his Beats off his head.

  I trotted down the stairs and didn’t even bother to turn on the lights. I just settled on the leather sofa in our family room, a space that had become far too familiar for my slumber. But tonight, I didn’t feel any kind of anger toward Monica. I wasn’t restless at all.

  Tapping the home button on my phone to awaken my screen, the first thing I did was check to see if DivineDiva had made her move. She hadn't. But, she had sent a message:

  You're really good at this.

  “Yeah,” I whispered as I swiped her profile picture. I had looked at her photo before, two weeks ago when we’d first started playing. But now I studied her like she was an amoeba underneath a microscope. It was amazing how everyone had two eyes, a nose and a mouth, but sometimes God put the features together in the right proportion, so perfectly, that all you could do was stare. DivineDiva was one of those perfectly proportional women. From her light brown eyes, to her not-too-narrow, not-too-wide nose, and then, those lips that looked like they were made for kissing….