The Wife of Reilly

by Jennifer Coburn

  Department stores and movie sets were the backdrop of my life. Jennifer had finally made her indelible mark on my psyche.

  Matt looked at me as if he were drinking me through a straw. “I’m thinking I was a pretty dumb kid to let you go,” he said.

  Here’s the real story: Matt and I planned to spend the summer after graduation in Europe before I went to Wharton and he moved to Los Angeles to attend USC film school. Ever since my sophomore year, my mother promised a trip to Europe would be my gift. One minor caveat. “Unless my stocks take a dive,” she warned. Sure enough, mom’s investments — along with the rest of the country’s — plunged and she was unable to finance the trip.

  “Go without me,” I assured Matt. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for you.” And the bastard did.

  When Matt returned, I was spending the summer with my mother and her husband, getting ready to leave for business school. I called him a few times at home, but after hearing his mother tell me three times, “Okay, honey, I’ll let him know you called again,” it became clear that I was being dumped.

  “Sweetheart, I don’t want to seem rude, but he’s never going to call you back. This is his way of breaking up with you,” his mother’s voice clearly communicated. Her words took a message, but her tone apologized and handed me a tissue.

  Now we were on the cusp of middle age, sitting on the stadium lawn with our legs tangled around each other’s. Matt picked at the fraying denim above the knee of his jeans as we talked. I wondered if those jeans knew how lucky they were.

  “Do you ever wish things had gone differently between us?” I asked.

  I wish you would follow the goddamn script! shouted the director who lived in my head. It’s really very simple. Read the words that come after SEXY COOL CHICK:.

  “Malone, I wish everything had gone differently for us,” Matt resigned.

  What did that mean? Is he saying that nothing was good with me, or that he didn’t like the way things ended?

  “I know exactly what you mean,” I mimicked his tone. “So, did you ever get married?” I asked him.

  “Nah,” Matt answered. “Guess I just never found the right one.”

  When Matt smiled, I wondered whether he was thinking that I was the right one. Or maybe it was just me desperately hoping that was what he was thinking.

  “You want a hot dog?” Matt asked.

  Definitely just me hoping.

  “Sure, I love hot dogs,” I piped.

  Settle down on the hot dogs. No one gets this excited about snack food.

  I decided it would be a good time to take a break from the vegetarianism. And what better way to ease back into the world of meat than with rolled, um, what the hell is in a hot dog anyway? We walked to the empty concession stand, and Matt ordered two hot dogs for us. He leaned in toward me to tell me a secret. As his hand brushed the hair away from my ear, I think my scalp may have actually had an orgasm.

  His ice cream and beer breath delivered the following words: “Malone, if I could do things over, I’d’ve stayed with you that summer,” Matt said. “Europe sucked without you.”

  Sweat. Panic. Exhilaration. Nausea. Euphoria.

  Yeah, well the past is the past, I contemplated saying.

  Oh well, it all worked out for the best, I rehearsed.

  Before I could respond, Matt asked if I wanted mustard on my hot dog.

  “No thanks.”

  He squinted and smiled. “It’s so good to see you again. Relish?”

  “Absolutely.”

  We closed the restaurant that night. Then we closed a piano bar where a young music student played songs from The Big Chill as geezers like us happily crooned along. Since the movie is about Michigan alumni, one of the unofficial admissions requirements is that every incoming freshman must be able to sing at least two songs from The Big Chill.

  As Matt and I walked back to my hotel room, he said there was something he still owed me from years ago. “What’s that?” I asked, hoping to hell it was some sort of physical contact.

  “This,” he said, mischievously pushing me into a doorway of the Chemistry Building and unbuttoning my pants. He tore my underwear with his teeth and began to rip them off my body, gripping my hips with his hands. This was the first time I’d been with a guy when the first kiss was on my stomach. Definitely different. Definitely unreal. Definitely worth remembering, so I closed my eyes and began frenetically taking mental notes, urging parts of my body to savor each sensation so I could later recall the experience.

  “You’ve never forgiven me for ruining your briefs that night, have you?” I teased.

  “No I haven’t,” he smiled clutching a torn strip of my red panties in his teeth like a matador holds a rose. “And tonight is my revenge,” he said, flinging the silk scrap over his shoulder.

  Whoever said revenge was sweet knew what she was talking about.

  I have never had sex like this before, not even with him. I felt physical sensation everywhere, including my elbows. The feeling of his unshaven face scratching my breast, and the cold night air that instantly snapped onto his residual saliva, was the height of erotic pleasure. I think I may have momentarily fainted at the feeling of his flat palms against the bare small of my back.

  The leaves crunched beneath our running feet and we exhaled clouds of cold night air as we hurried back to my room at the Campus Inn. The elevator ride was painfully long despite a wonderful and urgent seven-flight kiss. When he grabbed a fistful of my hair, I knew, most definitely, that I was there. Like some sort of erotic existential affirmation. I stopped myself from thanking him only because it would seem too needy. Something about a woman weeping with gratitude as she’s about to get pounded into a hotel headboard seemed just a smidge pathetic, even to me.

  I woke up to a sword of light peeking through a crack in the curtain. For a moment I’d forgotten where I was until the familiar arm draped over my stomach led a trail to Matt’s sleeping face. Though I had no regrets about my night with Matt, I immediately regretted the circumstances. I can usually contain my tears, and decided that I would need to for fear Matt would wake up and press for answers I was not ready to give him. My eyes remained dry and my breathing completely normal, but as I lay beside Matt watching him sleep, I sobbed. Partly because I felt horrible that I was simultaneously lying to the two men I loved most. Partly because I was just plain exhausted. But mostly because I thought that the following morning, this would all be over. I assumed I’d wake up next to Reilly Monday morning and life would go back to normal. A moth in the darkness without a flicker of light anywhere.

  “Hey, Malone,” an adorably sleepy voice interrupted. “What’s on the agenda for you today?”

  I’m being dismissed.

  “I’m just going to pick up some t-shirts and hang out on campus for a few hours,” I said casually. “What about you? Anything exciting planned?”

  He stretched his body, yawned and smiled. “Nothing I can’t blow off to hang with you.”

  “Okay,” I said too quickly.

  “You know what I’m in the mood for right now?”

  Me?!

  He reached his arm around my waist and pulled me closer toward him. “You. A shower. Then a sandwich at Zingerman’s. Let me see if I remember. Pat and Dick’s Honeymooner. Number 27. Extra honey mustard, right?”

  I was blown away. Fourteen years and he still remembered my sandwich.

  “Yeah, hey, good call.” I turned away so he wouldn’t see me smile.

  Matt and I stopped at Ulrich’s, the campus bookstore, and bought Michigan t‑shirts and sweatshirts. I picked up a pair of boxer shorts and held them up. “See, I could have just bought you these and we would’ve been even,” I teased.

  He smiled and raised his eyebrows. Then he looked at his watch.

  “Not on your life,” I laughed. “It’s broad daylight.”

  “Like that’s ever stopped you before,” he said.

  I smiled, a bit embarrassed. Matt was referring
to the time we drove to his house while his parents were out of town for the weekend. We had sex about a dozen times in a twenty-four-hour period. Twice in his bed. Once in his parents’ bed. Twice in their shower. Once in the kitchen. Once on the staircase directly under a framed painting of Jesus with a twisted palm beneath it. Three times in the family room. Once more in his bed. Then on the drive back to Ann Arbor, we pulled over in the middle of the afternoon and had hair-pulling drunken sailor sex on the periphery of a cow farm.

  Fourteen years later, we were together again, holding hands as we crossed the street of our old campus. Matt looked at the arch of the West Engineering Building. “I was done for the night we kissed here. Remember that, Malone?”

  Smooth and calm, Malone. You can do this.

  “Oh yeah,” I faked recalling. “I do remember that.”

  Good girl.

  “Malone. Prudence,” he stopped. “This is gonna sound weird, but this weekend, it was like, you know, the best.”

  Go on.

  “I’m not usually into fate, but running into you this weekend, I don’t think it was a mistake, you know? I let you go once and this weekend was a wake-up call, like, look you dumb fuck, here’s a second chance, don’t drop the ball, man. You know what I’m saying?”

  “God, yes” escaped.

  He put his hands straight into his pockets, which made his shoulders rise toward his ears, creating an impish little-boy look. I must take mental photographs for my hot sex scrapbook.

  “I guess what I’m trying to say is this.” He paused. “Malone, the first time our timing was off, you know? We were young, we were both headed to different coasts, but I loved you, and” — he paused to gauge my reaction to his proclamation — “and, I guess what I’m really trying to get at here is, I still love you and I don’t want things to end between us here.”

  You don’t? If you think we had bad timing the first go-around, you have no idea what we’re up against now.

  Matt got down on his knee right there on the sidewalk, and smiled at me tentatively, not his usual cocky grin. “Prudence Malone, will you marry me?”

  Mmmmmmmarry you? Did you just say you want me to marry you?

  “Okay,” slipped out. “Yes, yes Matt, I will marry you,” I smiled.

  Just as soon as I figure out what to do with my not-so-dead husband Reilly.

  Chapter 6

  Cindy was supposed to leave early Sunday afternoon, so I was surprised to find her waiting for me in Evie’s hotel room. It was clear the moment I walked in that I was in trouble. Cindy tapped a small pad of paper on the glass-top desk where she was sitting. Would she take notes? Issue a citation?

  Evie was in the soft chair, but did not look one bit casual. It was an intervention.

  “Get in the car,” Cindy commanded.

  I laughed. “What are you talking about?”

  “Get. In. The. Car,” she said. “We’re both taking you to the airport.”

  Why am I frightened that we’re not going to the airport at all?

  “Okay, but do you mind if I ask what this is all about?”

  Gee, I wonder, half-wit.

  “Look, I’m not one to piss around, so why don’t we get right to it,” Cindy said, while Evie held my arm and led me to the car. I was being taken down to the station. Shit, why couldn’t I enjoy the first two hours of my engagement? “You slept with Matt last night, didn’t you?”

  “Why are you asking me this?” I stalled, knowing this would not be the time to suggest a celebratory round of drinks. “That’s kind of a, wow, I don’t know. Why do you want to know?”

  Driving down Washtenaw, we left Ann Arbor under a tunnel of autumn leaves and hit the stark freeway. “I ask because I want to know. Did you sleep with Matt Reynolds?” I said nothing. “Okay, that’s clearly a yes. Why then did you sleep with Matt Reynolds?”

  “Come on, Cindy,” I begged. “It’s not like he’s a strange guy I hooked up with at a bar. It’s Matt.”

  Evie was softer in her direct examination, but still she too was pissed at me. Why were they angry at me? They each seemed personally betrayed by my fling-turned-engagement. And they only knew half the story. “What about Reilly?” Evie nodded in the rear-view mirror. “Did you ever consider that this would kill him?”

  “You guys, you don’t understand. This is Matt. Matt Reynolds. I love him. I. Love. Him. Not only do I love him, I love the sound of saying ‘I love him.’ That’s how much I love him.” I rested my head on the front passenger seat. “I really love this guy.” I thought my friends would come around on that. Who couldn’t understand losing one’s head for love?

  “Okay, but you’re married,” Cindy said to the road. “If it’s such true love then go home, divorce Reilly, then sleep with Matt.”

  “Come on, Cindy, that’s unrealistic. You’re in the heat of the moment and you stop and say, ‘Let’s put this on hold for a few months’?”

  “Yes!”

  I was incredulous. “Come on, Evie, surely you’re with me on this one.”

  “There is such a thing as self-control, Prudence,” she replied.

  Maybe this is why your life is numbingly dull, I didn’t say aloud.

  “I mean, how would you feel if Reilly cheated on you?” Evie continued. The truth dropped on me like a ten-pound bag of sand. I wouldn’t care.

  * * *

  Where Evie and Cindy left off, Guilt took over. Hey Slut, she announced from the seat next to me on the plane. You didn’t think I could stay away for long, did you? Okay, where shall I start? Cindy had obviously given her the yellow pad of paper from the hotel. Not only did you cheat on your husband, you promised to marry another guy who, incidentally, you lied to and told you were a widow. What kind of a shallow twit are you? Is this the way to treat people? Reilly is a good man and you killed him. This takes the cake for the most selfish thing you’ve ever done in your life, except of course for the “Closed for Business” sign you hung on your uterus.

  But I love Matt, Passion defended. This is my one true love. How can I go on living with Reilly when I know I’m in love with someone else? And what’s more, Matt loves me too. We can finally have a chance at happiness. I have one shot at happiness, why shouldn’t I take it? It’s not like Reilly and I have children.

  No, it’s not, is it? Guilt asked smugly. And whose idea was that? Who cut off all possibilities that Reilly will ever have children, cruel double entendre completely intended?

  Reilly is a good man. He deserves a wife who loves him. That is not me. I am really doing him a favor. This was a duet played by Passion and my Inner Male. I should have gotten out years ago, but it’s not too late for Reilly to find someone new if I let him go now.

  I hate to bring this up during your time of euphoria, Prudence, but where exactly has Matt been for the last fourteen years? Common Sense asked. He got rid of you like gum on the bottom of his shoe and now suddenly he wants to marry you? Where is your loyalty? Where is your commitment? Where is your head?!

  People change, Passion explained. Let Matt be who he is today. Forgive him for yesterday and enjoy a happy life together.

  * * *

  It became too busy in my head so I decided to call Matt’s home in Los Angeles from the plane. I knew he wouldn’t be home, but I was dying to hear what kind of outgoing message was on his voice mail.

  “Hey, it’s Matt. I’m out right now. You know what to do,” his machine announced. God, this man is hot. You know what to do. But I didn’t. I had no idea what to do. What exactly does a woman with a fiancé and an un-dead husband on opposite ends of the country do?

  “Hi. It’s me. Malone,” I shouted into the phone. “I just wanted to say hi, so, um hi.”

  My status as sexiest woman he’s ever known is in a precarious state right now.

  “Call me when you get home, okay?”

  * * *

  “Corporate Redemption” shouted the headline of Time. The cover shot was of Paul Lofton, the tire manufacturer who donated $75 mi
llion to a scholarship fund in Malaysia last month after his father died and left the company to him. That in and of itself was newsworthy, but the new heir of the black rubber empire said the donation was not charity, but rather redemption for years of exploitation of the good people of Malaysia. You’d think at that point his board of directors would call an emergency session where they subsequently stripped the flesh off his body and grilled it for a weekend barbecue. You’d think the company’s lawyers would go ape shit at the prospect of being sued by everyone from Malaysian workers to stockholders. Actually, the attorneys did go berserk, but with no good reason because no one ever filed a claim. No, instead of being branded a hillbilly Jesus freak, fired by his board and sued by everyone, Paul Lofton became a corporate folk hero. He’s called Johnny Tireseed. I remember the quote from the Wall Street Journal story. “We d’unt do nothing illegal, but we still w’unt right. Today’s the redeemin’.” I saw him interviewed on Larry King a week earlier. “A mistake d’unt gotta be a mistake if you put back what you took. The Lord sees it that way, anyhow,” he said.

  Lofton was a dullard but he earned great public admiration for his straightforward honesty. I had to admit, he did seem sweet. Perhaps in his simplicity, Lofton figured out what public relations experts have struggled with for years: how to look like a hero after years of wrongdoing. If only it were that easy with Reilly. All I’d have to do was find Reilly a new wife to replace me once I left. Marital redemption. Maybe I could be on the cover of Time, I laughed, and closed my eyes. Thirty seconds later, Operation Wife of Reilly was conceived.

  * * *

  When I arrived home Sunday night, Reilly was already in bed. I tiptoed into the bedroom hoping not to wake him.

  “Welcome home, Prudence,” he whispered.

  “You’re still awake?” I asked, leaning across the bed to kiss him.

  “How was Ann Arbor? I saw the highlights on television and it looked like a hell of a game,” Reilly noted.

  You don’t know the half of it.

  “It was a lot of fun,” I dismissed.