Desperation of Love

by Alice Montalvo-Tribue

  I sighed. “I’m thirty nine. My birthday’s in two weeks. I’ve been divorced for four years and I have two teenaged daughters.”

  I didn’t hear him say anything else. I turned to my left and saw that he was halfway across the deck.

  I took another swig of my beer and shook my head. I knew I wasn’t helping myself by pushing every potential suitor away, but I couldn’t help it. I still couldn’t believe that I was actually single.

  My life had been picture perfect years ago—fourteen year marriage to a man who I thought loved me, pretty Pittsburgh neighborhood in the suburbs, amazing career that was almost on the brink of being legendary—but then one day it was over. Just like that. The priceless picture couldn’t be put back together; it couldn’t be saved.

  It was tattered, forever ruined, and I was the one who emerged with the most cuts …

  I sent Sandra a text and made a break for the parking lot, turning down numerous offers to dance on my way out.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” Sandra climbed inside the truck and shut the door. “We’ve only been here twenty minutes! Don’t you at least want to stay for the New Year’s countdown?”

  “No.”

  “Why? What’s wrong? I saw the guy you were talking to in there! He was good-looking!”

  “Look Sands, I’m not twenty anymore. I can’t keep coming to these things expecting to meet the love of my life. I met mine already, remember?” My voice cracked. “It didn’t work out …”

  I leaned back in my seat and forced a lump down my throat.

  The thought of losing my husband to my best friend still hurt to think about. The divorce was long over, but the pain still woke me up some nights, still dragged me out of my sleep and hit me over my heart like a twenty pound sledgehammer.

  “You’re thinking about Ryan and Amanda, huh?” She handed me a Kleenex. “You have to stop beating yourself up about it. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I was so blind to it!” I began to cry. “I let her in my house! I trusted her with my kids! I trusted them both with everything!”

  “I’m so sorry, Claire …”

  My marriage to Ryan Hayes was a fairytale—at least it was to me. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t entirely perfect, but we had far more amazing days than good days, more good days than average days, and hardly any bad days.

  Ryan was everything I ever wanted in a man. He was attentive and caring, thoughtful and compassionate, and he always remembered the little things that made me happy: Hot coffee on the rainy days I spent typing away in our home office, a warm blanket when I fell asleep in front of the fireplace, and endless chocolate chip cookies and candy bars whenever it was my time of the month.

  Every time he came home from work, he brought me a single red rose and kissed me like his life depended on it. He treated me to the country club’s spa once a month while he volunteered to watch our daughters for the day. He even surprised me sometimes by beating me home and cooking dinner for all of us.

  He was my rock. My soul. My everything.

  I honestly thought our love would transcend time, that I was one of the lucky ones who would be able to truly uphold the “til death do us part” mantra.

  Yet, somewhere between the thirteenth and fourteenth year of our marriage, Ryan began to change.

  He started coming home later and later. He didn’t leave his cell phone out like he normally did; he was extremely protective of it and often took calls in another room. He was more elusive—vague, and anytime I said that I needed to run to the store, he would jump up and volunteer to do it for me.

  At first, I figured that the late nights had something to do with his new promotion to partner at the law firm; that his recent clingy-ness to his cellphone was just him wanting to be alert should he receive an emergency client call. I couldn’t figure out why he was volunteering to do every single grocery run since he’d always loathed any type of shopping, but I took advantage of not having to do it myself.

  I chalked everything up to him wanting to be a “super-husband,” and used my extra free time to hang out with my best friend since high school, Amanda.

  Amanda’s vivacious personality could force the most sullen person to smile. Her voluminous auburn hair and naturally toned body could rival most teenagers, and her love for literature was as immense as mine.

  At age thirty five, she and her husband Barry were still attempting to have their first baby. They’d attempted everything short of hiring a surrogate, but they hadn’t lost hope.

  With each in-vitro fertilization treatment, I would bring her a new baby purchase—booties, bibs, collectible teddy bears, and assure her that the doctors were wrong, that she could and would bring a child into the world.

  So, when she called me one afternoon with news that she was finally pregnant, I cancelled my family BBQ and relocated our celebration to her and Barry’s home.

  Six months later, Barry called me while I was leaving work. He was talking so fast that I could only make out every other word.

  “Barry?” I tried to sound calm. “I can’t … I can’t understand you … Are you crying? Is something wrong with Amanda? Is she okay? Did something happen with the baby?”

  “The baby,” he said, and then he was quiet for a while. “The baby … The baby’s not mine. It’s not mine …”

  “What? Barry, you’re being ridiculous. You two have been trying to have a baby in every way possible for years. You’re just nervous because he’s almost here. You’re going to be a great father and—”

  “I was going back and forth to Texas in May … We might’ve had sex once during that month. Maybe.”

  I stilled. I remembered that.

  Amanda had been complaining about how little he was at home due to his job. He’d been demoted and his company was making him do all the grunt work, denying his request to attend out-of-state meetings via video chat.

  I remembered her crying about how alone she felt, how she didn’t think Barry was as serious about having a natural born baby as she was because he’d started talking about adoption.

  Still, I refused to believe that Amanda’s baby wasn’t his. Who else could it have belonged to?

  “Barry, I think you’re being paranoid … That one time could’ve been the time you know? I think you should call and discuss this with her. I don’t think I’m the right—”

  “It’s not mine.” He groaned. “Meet me at the Marriott around the corner from your job. I know you two are supposedly great friends, but I need to show you something.”

  “Okay …” I hung up and called Ryan.

  “Hey baby,” he whispered. “I’m in a meeting. What’s going on?”

  “I need you to pick the girls up from dance practice today.”

  “Okay, not a problem. Is something wrong?”

  “No, I—” I was about to tell him that Barry had called me crying about Amanda, but there was a strange voice in the back of my head telling me not to. “I need to run a few errands and I won’t be able to pick them up on time. That’s all.”

  “Okay babe. See you at dinner.”

  When I made it to the Marriot’s lobby, I saw Barry hurling pennies into the wishing well, cursing at any one who dared to stare at him.

  His eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and he reeked of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol.

  I tapped him on the shoulder and he turned around in a rage. But then his eyes softened and he hugged me tightly. “Thank God you’re here … Come with me.”

  He motioned for me to follow him inside the hotel’s upscale lounge and ordered a bottle of the most expensive champagne on the menu. Sighing several times, he shook his head over and over.

  “I’ve never really liked wine, Claire.” He filled his glass until it slightly overflowed. “It was always Amanda’s thing. I always thought it tasted like horse shit. The more expensive it is, the worse it tastes.”

  He’s losing it … I knew I should’ve called Amanda on my way over here … I’ll go call her in the restroom �
�

  “Barry, I’m going to run to the—”

  “She insisted on having this very brand at our wedding. Did you know that?”

  I shook my head.

  He took a large gulp and exhaled. “Yep. 1975 Chateau Trotanoy—it’s a Bordeaux … And it’s still as disgusting as it was on the day I married her.”

  “Barry …”

  “That’s why I find it quite fitting to drink now, especially since I’ll be filing for a divorce in the morning.”

  WHAT!

  “I don’t feel comfortable with you telling me this.” I stood up. “You need to go home and talk to—”

  “My wife? My philandering, lying, ‘doesn’t-give-a-shit-about-me’ wife? I don’t think so.” He pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and slid it to me. “I hired someone weeks ago to follow her, to find out where the fuck she was spending all her extra time.”

  I sat down and opened the envelope, flipping through the pictures: Amanda was shopping at a few boutiques, hanging out with me, and attending first time mommy classes.

  I stopped flipping and put the stack down. “Okay. I need you to listen to me. I really don’t think—”

  “I didn’t believe it was true either. I mean, my guy would always come back with the same photos week after week. She was at home, at your house, out shopping. Pretty typical stuff on the surface and I almost called him off the job. I thought I was being paranoid. But then one day at dinner I happened to ask her about you. I said, ‘So, how has Claire liked being a freelance marketing director? Is it better than working for an ad agency?’ She said you hadn’t worked at home for years, that you’d been working sixty hour weeks at Cole and Hillman downtown. So I asked myself: If Claire isn’t at home during the day, who is Amanda going there to see? It can’t be Claire’s daughters. They’re in school. So …”

  It took me several minutes to absorb what he was trying to imply, several more to even wrap my head around such a ridiculous assertion.

  “No.” I shook my head. “No … There’s no way. There’s a perfectly good explanation if …” I picked up the packet of photos and flipped through them again.

  They were all circumstantial: Amanda’s car parked outside my house—she loved my neighborhood’s walking course and often left her car in my driveway to do one of her “thought-walks.” There were pictures of her walking along the Hot Metal Bridge in the rain, sitting alone on a bench—probably crying about Barry not being at home again. But then there were pictures of Ryan, my Ryan, sitting next to her on that bench. Kissing her on that bench.

  There were pictures of their cars parked outside the Hilton in Greentree—the next town over, pictures of them walking through the city park hand in hand, pictures of them having sex from the open windows of my bedroom.

  The date on this bedroom photo is yesterday …

  Barry lifted a photo from my hands. “I went to that Hilton myself … I followed them there in a cab. I waited thirty minutes before going inside and pretended to be her brother who happened to get lost on the way. I walked over to the front desk clerk and said, ‘My sister is always bragging about how nice this place is, how often she uses it for a getaway. You must see her a lot huh?’ You want to know what that clerk said to me?”

  “No.” Tears fell down my face.

  He took another gulp of his wine. “I’ll tell you anyway. He said, in the most annoyingly excited salesman voice, ‘Oh yeah … She’s been coming here off and on for over a year. She tips every time she comes and she just loves our room service menu.’ For over a year, right under my goddamn nose …”

  His face reddened and he shook his head. “I wanted to go up there and confront them, but I knew I would’ve killed them—both of them. I can’t pretend that I don’t know anymore, Claire. I can’t pretend to be happy about a baby that’s not mine, and when I got this last set of pictures today, I made up my mind … I’ve hired a lawyer and I’m telling her it’s over tonight. I just thought I would let you know the real reason why before she lied to you like she lied to me.” He banged his fist on the table.

  I looked through the photos once more, hoping that my eyes were playing tricks on me, that it wasn’t really my best friend and my husband in the shots—praying that I was in some type of sick nightmare.

  But the images never changed. It was true.

  “Cheers to faithful spouses.” Barry poured another glass of wine and practically forced me to drink it.

  That wine was disgusting, but not as disgusting as the following weeks would be …

  “It’s okay, Claire.” Sandra motioned for me to switch seats with her. “Let’s go home.”

  The sleepless nights are what get to me the most. In the daylight, hours there’s no time to think; the hustle and bustle of the day serves as a bandage to cover up the gaping hole in my existence. Always knowing that there’s something missing but not being able to figure out why or how to fix it. I toss and turn and, though my body is exhausted and begging for sleep, my brain is on a schedule all its own. Running a mile a minute, thinking about lost love, loneliness and the fear of never feeling adored. Or worse yet, feeling like you are adored only to find out that you’re wrong. In the silence of the night, there is nothing left to do but to give in to the pain, the emptiness that comes from knowing that the idea of what you once thought was love was nothing more than an optical illusion. Smoke and mirrors clouding your mind and judgment until it fades and you find that everything you once believed in was a lie. A moment of pure clarity that alters the course of your life forever and shatters your heart. It’s a memory that plays again and again in my mind, night after night, keeping me awake until finally my body wins the battle and I fall into a restless slumber.

  Why is it that I can’t get it together today? From the moment I opened my eyes this morning, over an hour late because I forgot to set my alarm clock last night, nothing has gone right. I should have just pulled the covers over my head and called in sick. If waking up late wasn’t bad enough, I managed to get a flat tire on my way to work (thank goodness my dad was free to save me from that drama), spilled coffee on my blazer after showing up almost two hours late, and now I’m stuck on a line waiting to get into the only bookstore in town that has the latest vampire series in stock. It’s the only thing my niece, Gemma, wants for her birthday this year and if I show up to dinner without it she’s going to be so disappointed. I can’t imagine why there is such a line to get inside. I pull my cell phone out of my purse to check the time. Six forty-seven, plenty of time to get to dinner by seven thirty if I can maneuver my way through this line. I look over my shoulder to a group of three girls standing behind me. They look around the same age as I am but they’re dressed more like they’re hitting the hottest club in town tonight searching for single guys.

  Girl number one has her long, chocolate hair curled and teased to perfection, her black chandelier earrings look like they weigh a ton and she is wearing a black corset top that pushes up her bust just enough to expose the maximum amount of cleavage possible. Her midriff is barely covered and she’s rocking some super skin tight jeans which look almost painfully painted on. Her red spiked heels are so insanely high, I’m surprised she can even walk in them.

  Girl number two, with her almost black, curly hair is wearing a strapless, grey sequined top which she has paired with countless bangle bracelets and a black, ultra mini skirt that is so short if she bends down she will surely have a wardrobe malfunction. Her black stiletto heels finish off her look making her legs look a mile long.

  Girl number three has mahogany hair cut into a stylish bob. Of the three of them, she’s wearing the most makeup, which looks almost caked on. In fact, I’m almost positive that she is wearing fake eyelashes because no one’s eyelashes can be that long. Her nude-colored top blends into her skin perfectly, her jean shorts leave little to the imagination and her nude-colored wedges give her optimum height.

  Looking around the crowd of people, I realize that I look out of place. My long
, brown hair is up in a ponytail. I have barely any makeup on with the exception of some bronzer, mascara, and a nude lip-gloss. I lost my blazer to a coffee mishap hours ago and my green, button down shirt, black trousers and black ballet flats are about as exciting as a cavity. I consider myself to be pretty tall at 5’7” but these girls tower over me thanks to their heels. Seriously? What’s up with the outfits, I wonder to myself? I turn around completely to face the girls and address the group in general.

  “Excuse me? Can you tell me why there’s such a long line to get in to the store?” They look at each other and then stare at me, mouths wide open, as if they can’t believe the words that have just come out of my mouth.

  Girl number three finally speaks. “Are you kidding? This line is for an autograph signing with Victor Garza!!!” She ended in a high-pitched scream as she bounced up and down in excitement.

  I try not to roll my eyes at how ridiculous she looks. “Uh, I’m sorry but who is Victor Garza?”

  I hear a collective intake of breath as Girl number one shakes her head at me in shock. “You’ve been on this line for almost forty minutes and you don’t even know who you’re waiting to meet? Victor Garza is like the hottest Latin singer in the world!” They all nod in agreement. Girl number two chimes in. “We’re all waiting for him to sign a copy of his new book.” I scan the crowd and finally notice that just about everyone in line is holding a book.

  I turn back to the party girls and thank them for the information. I decide to get off of the line, and go to the front of the store to see if I can just go in and buy my book without having to wait. I spot a security guard as I reach the doors.

  “Excuse me, I just need to run in and buy a book. Please tell me I don’t have to wait on this line,” I say as I give him my best pouty face look.

  “You can enter to my left to go into the main store, just make sure to stay away from the line for the autograph signing.”

  Relief floods over me as I smile at him. “Okay, I will. Thank you!” He gives me a barely noticeable head nod and I make my way into the store. The main floor is practically empty, just a few customers flipping through books and a few employees manning the cash registers. To the far right of the store by the escalators, I can see where the line of mostly girls starts for the autograph signing. Why is a singer signing books anyway? Don’t they usually do album signings? As I look over the wall to where the escalator goes down to the lower level, I can see a handful of big, burly men which I can only assume is additional security hired to keep the crowd under control. Beyond the men, I spot an empty table with stacks of books, markers, and a few bottled waters. I guess the man of the hour hasn’t arrived yet. What was his name again? Something Garza? It doesn’t matter. The quicker I find the book I need, the quicker I can get out of here and to dinner. I decide to make a quick pit stop to the ladies room, since I have just spent the better part of an hour standing outside in the chill of the night. The weather in New Jersey is starting to warm after a brutal winter, and an unusually rainy spring. It’s mid May and the summer is drawing nearer but even though the days are getting warmer, the nights tend to still be a little bit on the cooler side, especially this close to the ocean. I live less than 2 miles from the beach and as much as I love living by the shore, the weather can certainly be unpredictable.