“And yet.” He said it definitively. As if nothing else mattered.
But it did. “So my life before—”
“Didn’t matter,” Brian pronounced. “Doesn’t matter. I’m glad to hear anything you want to tell me, but I don’t want you to tell me anything out of guilt or out of a misguided belief that you have to fess up and do some sort of penance before I can accept you.” He put his arm up around her shoulder and drew her closer. “I accept you, I love you, no matter what.”
“Even if I married you as a sort of buoy for my soul?”
He laughed, then winced, as he was still in some pain. “I would have taken you under whatever circumstances I could get you. But I’m not stupid, Abigail. I know we have a great marriage. So I don’t care how it began.”
He was right. They did have a great marriage. Even in the beginning, it had been a good marriage. It wasn’t as if she’d made some huge sacrifice to be with him in order to save herself. Granted, she hadn’t married for love, but she also hadn’t married while plugging her nose and swallowing her distaste.
Brian was cute, smart, kind, and he loved her. It had been easy to marry him.
And it had been easy to fall in love with him.
Which was why she had to make sure he knew the whole truth now. So she told him about Damon, about meeting him in Las Vegas, where he tried to blackmail her, telling her she owed him money, and how she had had to join a phone sex operator business—she didn’t say whose—in order to pay him off.
When she was finished, Brian was—she almost couldn’t believe it—laughing.
She wasn’t sure what to make of his laughter, so she refrained from joining in.
“That’s incredible,” Brian said. “Really great.” He splayed his arms, then drew her in again. “My hat’s off to you. Not many people would have the nerve to do that.”
“You think so?” She was so encouraged by his words, she almost couldn’t believe it. “Really?”
He laughed again, really sincerely. “Yes. Come on, Abbey, you know I’m not one to get pious over things.”
“Well, no, not when they involve something other than your wife.”
“I love my wife,” he said sharply. “Make no mistake. I’m not so stupid that I could live with someone for eleven years and not know who they are.” He looked so deeply into her eyes, she felt like he could see her spleen. “I know who you are,” he said, in a commanding voice. “I should have said something a long time ago. If this mess is anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”
“No, Brian.” It just wasn’t true. “No.”
“You know what?” he asked. “I don’t care whose fault it is. I’m married to the most beautiful, wonderful woman in the world, and I’m happy with her.” He eyed her. “Are you happy with me?”
She considered a moment, before answering with the same words she would have said automatically. “Yes. Happier than I ever dreamed I could be.”
“Then forget the past. Forget the business with dying on the operating table. You know, in my business we like to preach that that is significant, but the scientific truth is that it’s only a trick of the mind. So forget it. You weren’t dead. You came back. You have no idea what it’s like to really die.” He cupped her face in her hands and spoke emphatically. “But I’m positive that when you eventually do, around the age of a hundred and twenty, I hope, you’ll see all the lights, loved ones, and pets you want to. Though honestly, I’m not even sure that’s how it goes. It’s hard to take the word of a living person on what it’s like to die.”
“So it doesn’t matter to you that I lived that way, that I hung out with Damon, and that I ended up having to do phone sex to pay Damon off for a debt?” She was challenging him, putting things in the worst possible light so he’d have almost no choice but to dump her.
Almost no choice.
“No.” Brian looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head for the second time. “No, it really doesn’t. I can’t get worked up over that.” He cocked his head and lowered his chin. “I’m not interrupting some big, significant confession, am I? You’ve told me the worst? There aren’t a bunch of bodies buried in our basement?”
She laughed finally. “No, I’ve told you the worst. No skeletons in the crevices of our house anymore. Unless they’re yours.”
“Mine? But you know I’m practically a saint.” There was humor in his eyes, and in his voice, despite the fact that both were marred from the accident.
She clung to the joke, not the bruises. “Not if I blackmail you about some of the things you’ve told me tonight.”
“See? There’s the resourceful woman I’ve come to know and love.”
They spent the next hour sitting there on that bed, joking and laughing and talking about things that neither ever thought the other would understand. At the end of it, Abbey felt as light as a cloud, floating over the conversation without one worry to weigh her down.
Finally—finally—the weight was lifted.
Until Brian, toward the end of the evening, made one final request.
“I’m thinking,” he said, “that maybe you should stop the phone sex business now.”
“Well, I’d already figured that. It’s not exactly something I thought you’d approve of.”
“It’s not that I don’t approve.” He gave a sly smile. “The truth is, I just want you all to myself.”
Chapter
22
Loreen had just gotten Jacob to sleep on Thursday night, after about twenty unnecessary post-bedtime stall tactics, ranging from “one little glass of water” to “I can’t find my LEGO Darth Vader.” She was sitting on the sofa, watching some depressing recap of the days’ events on MSNBC, when there was a light knock at the door.
She looked at the clock. It was 10:15. Ever cautious, she grabbed the portable phone from between the sofa cushions—she already had 911 programmed in, just in case—and went to the front door to look through the peephole.
It was Robert.
She opened the door with a sigh of relief. “What, your cell phone doesn’t work? You could have warned me you were coming—you scared me to death.”
“I tried to call. The phone’s off the hook.”
She looked at it. Sure enough, the TALK button was lit. She must have sat on it. “Come on in,” she said, tossing the phone aside. “Can I get you something?”
“No, thanks. Actually, I have something for you.” He held up a cardboard tube, like the kind he (and Mike Brady, she happened to know) used to store and carry plans around.
“Did you get a new contract?” She sat down on the sofa and watched him as he came and sat down next to her.
“Well, it’s a new project, but it’s not a new contract. I just hope the client likes it.”
“So you want me to look it over first?”
“Exactly.” He brushed some magazines aside on the coffee table and took some large sheets of paper out of the tube. “Now, here’s the main house.” He spread the paper out.
Loreen looked. Then did a double take, assessing the rooms. “Hey, that’s this house.”
He gave a quick nod, his face growing a little pink in the cheeks. “It is for now. But I was thinking maybe we could expand this closet—” He pointed to a linen closet that never contained more than a bottle of Tylenol and a small pile of washcloths she didn’t know what else to do with. “—and bump it out to make a proper office for you.” He laid a transparent sheet over it, as she’d seen him do a thousand times before, but this time it was her house. “You always said the one in the basement was too cold and dark.”
“It is.” She hated going down there. “I love this, but—”
“Good, because . . . I had another idea, as well.” He carefully pulled another transparent sheet from the tube and laid it over the existing plans.
This one showed the back of the bedroom pulled out, with the addition of a three-sided fireplace—Loreen had always wanted one—and a sitting room.
“It’s fantasti
c,” she breathed. “My dream house, but . . . why? I can’t afford this, and I can’t let you help. Unless . . .” Her voice trailed off. She dared not say what she was thinking: that it would all be worth it, in fact it would all be perfect, if he’d just come back home.
So when he said it, she wasn’t prepared.
“Funny you should mention that, because I was thinking that maybe if there was someone else living here with you, they could, you know, kick in on the bills. Maybe someone who already has an interest in you and Jacob?”
She was hopeful, but not certain. “Do you know someone like that?”
“I have someone in mind.”
“Is he just looking for a place to stay for a while or, maybe, a family for a lifetime?”
“The family.” He nodded. “Absolutely. Forever.”
Loreen pressed her lips together. “You’re talking about you, right? Moving here? I don’t want any misunderstandings.”
He moved closer and reached for her hand. “Yes, I’m talking about me. Moving here. Being a family with you and Jacob again. I love you.” He was looking tearful now.
“I love you, too,” she said, feeling her eyes burn.
“I just can’t walk away from you.” He looked uncertain for a moment. “Unless you want me to. I—” He faltered. “Loreen, I don’t want to push myself on you. I just want to be with you again.”
She wanted to believe it. She wanted to dive straight in and believe every word without question. But she was old enough, experienced senough, and just plan cynical enough to ask questions first. “Are you sure you’re not going to change your mind later? I’m still me, you know.”
“I thank God for that. You are all that I want.”
“I want this to be true,” she said, a lame attempt to stop herself from crying Yes! at the top of her lungs.
“You know me,” Robert said simply. “I think you know you can believe in me.”
She did. “I do.” She swallowed over the lump in her throat. Nothing was going to dislodge it except a good, hard cry. So she said, “I do,” again, and gave in to the emotion of finally, finally coming home.
That was it; Sandra was finished dating. And when Tiffany, Loreen, and Abbey got a load of this night, they couldn’t possibly tell her to keep trying.
She’d take up a hobby, maybe sewing or crocheting or something. Get a bunch more cats. She’d be like Mrs. Exstorm, the weird old lady on the corner of Candlelight Lane and Old Coach Road, when she and Tiffany were growing up. Everyone was afraid of Mrs. Exstorm. There were stories that she was a witch who grabbed children and ate them for dinner, and that her cats were her familiars, who crept out to peer in the windows of the children late at night, scoping out victims.
The parents had said no, she was just a lonely old woman whose health wasn’t what it used to be. Sandra and Tiffany’s mom swore it was because of the millions of cats in the house. It wasn’t a healthy atmosphere for any of them.
“It’s hard to breathe with all that cat hair and dander flying around,” Sandra’s mom had said. “It’s a wonder any of them are still alive.”
So Sandra would be sure to keep her cat acquisition to no more than five or six.
Kids would still talk, parents would still pity, but at least she wouldn’t die of cat hair asphyxiation.
She’d made this decision after a particularly humiliating night in which she went to Galaxy Zed to meet Kenny, aka Pullmyfinger on Match.com. Yes, she realized she was now scraping the bottom of the barrel if she was willing to give a shot to a guy with a handle like Pullmyfinger, but when she’d first read it, she hadn’t realized what it said. She thought it was just another nonsense screen name.
But it wasn’t a deal killer in any event—he seemed nice, he didn’t smoke, and he shared a few interests with Sandra.
It was worth a shot, as the girls had kept telling her.
But as it turned out, it had not been worth it. She’d gone into the restaurant, a bit nervously, and stopped at the hostess. “Hi, I’m Sandra Vanderslice and I’m supposed to be meeting a Kenny . . . something”—she was embarrassed that she didn’t know his last name—“here. Has anyone come in asking for me?”
“Um, not exactly,” the hostess said, “but that guy’s been sitting there alone for a while.” She pointed at a nice-looking, if ordinary, man who was sitting alone, looking around uncertainly.
“Thanks.” Sandra approached him with similar uncertainty. “Excuse me,” she said. “Are you—?”
“Yes, yes, I am.” He’d looked relieved. “I thought you weren’t going to show. Or that you had, and you’d left because you didn’t like the way I looked.” He’d laughed at that horrible possibility.
How they made it through twenty minutes of pleasant conversation without ever actually addressing each other by name, Sandra couldn’t later say. At the time she’d thought he was a really nice guy and, while maybe not her dream man, certainly someone she could see dating for a while. In any event, it gave her hope that not everyone out there was a wacko.
That’s what she’d thought at the time.
Later, of course, all she could think about was that startling moment when he’d looked at her and asked, “So let’s get down to it. How long have you been into pony play?”
“Pony play?” Had she heard him right? “You mean, like betting on horses?”
He’d frowned. “I’m sorry . . . betting?” He’d smiled, and it was a nice smile. “I don’t get it, is that a euphemism? I’m . . sort of new to all this.”
Now she was really confused, and embarrassed because this didn’t seem like that complicated a conversation. Was there something in his profile that she’d missed? Or something in her profile that made it sound like she was into horseback riding or something? “Look, I’m really sorry, but I’m lost. What do you mean by pony play?”
He drew back like she’d slapped him. “Wait a minute, aren’t you Flicka from Ponyplayers-dot-com?”
“Flicka?”
“Manny?” A woman with long, wavy auburn hair came rushing over to the table. “Are you Manny?”
“Yes.”
Sandra looked at him. “You’re not Kenny?”
“Who’s Kenny?” Flicka asked. Then she held out her hand to Sandra. “Sorry, forgot my manners. I’m Flicka.”
“Sandra,” Sandra said in a voice that sounded like she wasn’t even sure of her own name. This was starting to sound like “who’s on first.”
“Sandra?” Manny asked. “I thought you were Flicka.”
“Well.” Sandra gestured haplessly. “That’s Flicka.”
“Yeah, I’m Flicka.”
“Apparently we got our signals crossed,” Sandra said, pinpointing at least the tip of the obvious iceberg.
Flicka looked from Sandra to Manny. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing anyone. Not that I mind or anything, but does she have a stud?”
“A stud?” Sandra repeated.
Manny had begun to look distinctly uncomfortable. “Wait a minute.” He held up both hands. “I think this is a misunderstanding. Are you here to meet an Internet date?” he asked Sandra.
“Yes. Kenny. Pullmyfinger?” Even as she said it, she was realizing that Kenny had nothing to do with this. “From Match-dot-com?”
Manny nodded. “I’m here to meet Flicka from Ponyplayers-dot-com. That’s who I thought you were. Obviously you thought I was this Kenny guy from Match-dot-com.”
“And you’re not?” She didn’t know why she said it. Clearly he was not.
“No.” He shook his head and looked at her like she was stupid.
Indeed, she was beginning to feel stupid. “So all this time, I was thinking you were Kenny, and you were thinking—”
“You were Flicka.” He pointed a finger gun at her and clicked his tongue against his teeth as he pulled the trigger.
“But I’m Flicka.” Flicka looked confused now. “Are you or are you not Man o’War?”
Manny’s face colored, and he cleared his th
roat. “Er, let’s go to our table, okay?” He put his hand on the small of Flicka’s back to usher her the hell away from Sandra and gave a single nod. “It was nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy your date.”
“Thanks. Sorry.” Sandra watched him go, feeling utterly humiliated.
She looked at her watch. If Kenny was coming, he was either twenty minutes late or standing in the vestibule thinking she was.
The hostess tapped her as she passed. “Um, are you Sandra?”
Sandra turned to face her. “Yes.” It was the same hostess she’d told her name to twenty minutes ago.
“Yeah, some guy came by? And I told him where you were sitting? And he asked me to tell you he had an emergency and wasn’t going to be able to make it tonight after all.” She nodded and looked painfully sympathetic.
Everyone knew what that meant.
“Oh. Okay, well, thanks for the message.”
And Sandra had left, dejected. Quite apart from the whole bizarre experience with Flicka and Manny, her real date had come in, taken one look at her, and bolted, leaving the dim-witted hostess to break the news to her.
And that was it.
No more dating.
And no more contentions from friends that she should keep dating.
The next evening she told Tiffany, Loreen, and Abbey the story in Tiffany’s gleaming kitchen, a place that made it seem like Nothing Bad Ever Happened.
“Ew, I don’t know what’s worse.” Loreen shuddered. “The fact that this jackass ditched you or the fact that you almost went out with a pony player.”
“What the hell is a pony player?” Tiffany asked.
“I don’t know!” Sandra was still baffled by this apparent secret code between her nondate and his date. “Maybe it’s some subculture of people that everyone on earth knows about except me and you.”
“Everyone who watches Real Sex on HBO.” Loreen took a sip of coffee. “Honestly, I’m surprised you never had a pony player call. I had one last week.” She set the coffee mug down. “Creeped me out.”
That did it. Sandra’s curiosity was piqued. “Okay, I’m out of the loop. I’m a bad phone sex operator, and a worse date. I don’t watch HBO. What is it?”
Secrets of a Shoe Addict Page 24