The Other Other Woman (5 page)

I could just picture him kicked back in his chair, his eyes twinkling as he laughed, telling me with way too much detail EXACTLY what he was wearing–from the black houndstooth deconstructed jacket (I think my boy watched a little too much Project Runway)–right down to his black Armani boxer briefs from Nordstrom.

Often, after our normal conversation, he’d tell me he was running out for lunch or a meeting but would call me later. And then we would hang up. Ten seconds later, he would call me right back just to hear me giggle. This was a very fun game, and he made me giggle constantly. The office manager was always walking by my office, “What the hell are you smiling about now? Why are you so happy? You’re up to something.”

I cherished every conversation with him. His voice just made me swoon, yet he was like talking to your best girlfriend. He would tell me how crazy he was about me, how witty I was, that he couldn’t find anything about me that wasn’t absolutely perfect. He told me that I was one of the only women he had ever met that could keep up with him intellectually, because he was obviously a super genius. You know, I don’t think he was kidding; he really thought that. But more importantly, what really resonated with me was that he said I made him feel alive again after being unhappy for so long. Because I felt exactly the same way about him.

I was becoming more and more desperate to see him again with every passing day. “I miss you. I can’t wait see you, to kiss you, to throw my arms around you. My God will you hurry up and come up here?!” I would plead with him. “I can’t stand being away from you like this, it’s driving me crazy! Do I need to call this client for you?!”

The very idea of kissing him monopolized my thoughts most days. I found myself getting so distracted at work, if I didn’t see him soon I was probably going to get fired.

The six hour distance between us became an ongoing joke that whenever he would leave the office I would say, “Oh you must be on your way up here. Finally!”

He would always answer the same, “Yep, see you in six hours!” Sometimes he would text just to mess with me,
Going out to grab lunch and head to Raleigh, see you in 6 hours!
If I told him I missed him, I’d get,
Well, in that case I’m leaving now! See you in 6 hours…

I’ve never been very good at expressing my emotions to anyone, at least not the touchy-feely ones, appearing vulnerable was a sign of weakness to me. But he made it so easy for me to let my guard down. I trusted him implicitly, which was ironic given the circumstances that we now found ourselves in. He was so warm and comforting, and incredibly caring. He became like my hot cup of coffee; my mornings just weren’t right until I could talk to Matt.

But while I felt like we could talk about absolutely anything, I stopped just short of actually telling him everything. We had discussed our childhoods and families a couple of times, but I was afraid to tell him too much about mine because I didn’t want to appear to be broken or like I had too much baggage. I was pretty broken though, or at least I always thought I was. Since I didn’t know exactly where we were heading, I saw no need to bring up the crazy right out of the gate.

****

My mother divorced my father when I was two. Obviously, I don’t remember everything. I remember that my brother and I saw him on weekends, and I remember him being a loving, attentive dad, at least until I started having opinions of my own. Then he suddenly became cold and critical. He took particular issue with my weight, which was odd, since I was a pretty normal-sized kid. I remember him entertaining women half his age over at his house while wearing nothing but his burgundy fashion briefs. You don’t forget a thing like that. He gave me sips of “wikski” as I called it, probably hoping it would make me go to sleep faster (I still can’t drink it). He would blast “The Moody Blues” through speakers mounted on the walls in every single room. I remember it being too loud for me to sleep. As I got older, I saw him less and less. He either picked me up hours later than expected or just canceled altogether.

When I was seven, my mother moved the three of us down to North Carolina and from then I only saw my father over the summers and Christmas breaks. My brother eventually moved back to Maine to live with him, but my father didn’t want me. My mother started dating a man down here, and he moved in with us. He worked at home doing something in insurance. He molested me for the next four years; he was my first kiss.

Over the years, I seem to have blocked out a lot of it. But I know that he never raped me, and I’m thankful for that. I know that he touched my prepubescent boobs a lot, as I’ve spent the last 22 years or so of my life keeping them from being touched by men. I couldn’t even explain why, but having my nipples touched made me physically angry.

My husband knew what had happened to me. He wasn’t a boob man anyway, so he was pretty understanding about it, although I’m sure he found it a little odd that I usually left my bra on during sex. It’s not like they couldn’t be grazed at all, but any sort of pinching or twisting feeling would immediately cause me to want to hurt someone badly. In fact, I remember being in a bar when I was in my young 20’s and some jackass frat boy thought he was clever and reached around to grab one. I instantly whipped around and punched him in the face. Sorry, involuntary reflexes. Because of this, when I had my children, even breastfeeding was excruciating, but I was determined I wasn’t going to let the past take over my life.

Even French kissing could get a little too weird for me sometimes. I didn’t mind it once in a while in the right setting, but I was not a kissy person and not very affectionate in general. No, I didn’t want to cuddle. No, I didn’t want to spoon with you. And may God have mercy on your soul if you breathed in my face at night. I just needed my own personal space. In my opinion, PDA (public displays of affection) should be punishable by death. I must have been a real hoot at parties. But as long as you didn’t upset my delicate sensibilities by trying to surprise hug me, kiss me, or squeeze my nips, it was all good.

Over the next few weeks Matt and I talked and texted all day long. He gave me his personal email address and I made up a secret account for him under an old nickname of mine, Zoopie, so we could email each other what we didn’t want passing through the work email filters. I changed his name on my phone to Brooke in case I got a surprise text after hours.

That first happened on a Friday night. I ran upstairs and hid in the bathroom so I could read and respond back to his
Hey babe, I missed my flight so I’m stuck at the airport
text. He was on his way down to Miami where he owned several rental properties in and around South Beach, and was working on getting a lot of new business. Once he was down there, he sent me pictures of some fancy company party he was attending, then every room in his favorite condo, as well as the incredible view from the balcony. It was a gorgeous place, very modern decor. It was up on the 15th floor, oceanfront. From his bedroom, it looked like the building was practically floating on the water. He told me I could come down and use it anytime, that he always let his friends borrow it, and it was no problem at all. I thought,
Oh yeah, I would love to use it. But with whom?

The weekday calls and texts were soon followed by weekend ones. We would compare schedules and sneak out of the house or time errands such that we could talk to each other from parking lots, even if just for ten minutes. When he was traveling he would call me from airports and send me sweet texts to let me know that he landed safely. I loved how important we were to each other and that we wanted to keep tabs on each other all the time. Or at least he wanted me to keep tabs on him because he was always letting me know where he was going.

Eventually, though, the guilt became too much for me. I started to realize that this shady business couldn’t go on. I was well aware that what we were doing was wrong; there was no possible way to justify it. I just couldn’t stop. I could feel myself falling for him, hard. He was all I could think about all day, every day. Everything was so shiny and new and exciting and he was brilliant and handsome and funny and sweet and everything I had ever wanted. But he was married and so was I. We talked about our marriages often, how miserable we were, how trapped we felt. He was a very successful businessman and had a lot to lose–not only emotionally, but financially, in a divorce.

He felt like Sandra hadn’t loved him and had taken him for granted for years. He was a paycheck and a lifestyle for her. He had always done all of the cooking, upkeep, and decision making around the house even though she stayed at home. She wasn’t interested in any of his hobbies. She complained about headaches every time he tried to get her to enjoy some wine with him. She didn’t care to meet his cyclist friends or work out with him at all, and she had only been down to Miami once or twice.

According to him, she just wanted to hang out with her snooty friends and couldn’t be bothered with him, physically or otherwise. She was painfully thin in his opinion–tall, blonde and lanky at 5’9 and about 120 pounds (I was jealous!). He said he much preferred a few curves (good answer!). I had met women like her before. “Beltline wives” we called them. I imagined what a rich old shrew she must be, driving some oversized, overpriced vehicle around, enjoying the spoils of her husband’s job while she relaxed at the country club; sipping mimosas and playing bridge in her Lilly Pulitzer cropped pants. She had probably never worked a day in her life. Let me guess, hooked him into marriage right out of college, right?

“I’ve been with the same woman for 25 years, Mal. That’s so long. I barely even notice her anymore.” His wife hadn’t been interested in sex for years. This was fine by him because he wasn’t attracted to her anymore anyway. I certainly wasn’t about to ask, but it sounded like they still tried to go through the motions once in a while. But according to him, it was always the same; missionary position, no passion, no variety, no enthusiasm. He never got oral sex unless he begged for it and he couldn’t remember the last time he even bothered. He claimed that now, whenever she changed her clothes, he just looked away or left the room; there was just nothing there. It seemed so wrong to be discussing this with him.

“You know it’s bad when I’m telling her I have a headache so she leaves me alone. She’s been trying harder lately, but I don’t know. It’s just so fake. I don’t believe it’s sincere. I think maybe I just scared her. I may not have told you this, but I tried to leave her last year. We got in a huge fight and I’ve told her for so long that the only reason I’ve stayed is because of my oldest son, Mitchell. I just love that kid, he’s got this awesome personality–he’s just like me. We hang out all the time, but he has a great relationship with his mom. I know if it comes down to it, all of the kids, but especially him, they would never forgive me.”

“Matt, I’m sure they wouldn’t want you to stay together if it made you both that miserable,” I reassured him. “They are adults, they would understand. It almost seems unfair to her to stay if you feel that indifferent toward her, doesn’t it?”

“Well, I guess, but I’ve tried to leave. We’ve had that conversation a number of times. I’ve told her, ‘Here, I’ll set you up, you can have the house and everything in it, and I’ll give you $10,000 a month for expenses.’ I don’t care, I can always make more money and buy new furniture, I own other places where I can stay… but she insists she doesn’t want that. Says she wants to try to get back to the way we used to be. But I think she just wants her life to stay the same… and I mean, I’m not THAT bad of a guy and she says she loves me. But I’ve already talked to an attorney. I’ve got this total shark of an attorney downtown. I just haven’t been able to pull the trigger yet. I like having a big family and I don’t know if I can do that to my kids.”

Being quite a bit older than me, his three kids were grown, ranging in age from 18-22. His older son had just graduated from Clemson and came back to live at home while completing a teaching internship. The middle child, his daughter Anna, was away completing her sophomore year at Florida State. The youngest was Ivan, the boy he adopted from Ukraine. He remained at home, trying to avoid both school and work and making a general nuisance of himself.

I personally had a husband with a sketchy employment history at best and two little kids. I was already doing everything myself, so that was no issue. If I had to make every decision, pay every bill, decide every move that anyone in the house could make right down to the cats and the dust mites, then why not do it on my own terms and not have the added hassle of stroking a depressed male ego? But I wasn’t sure I could take their dad away from them; he wasn’t a bad guy. I really missed out on having a dad. But I also missed out on having any positive male influence altogether.

I decided I just couldn’t stay with a man I didn’t love anymore. I’m not sure I ever did, at least not the way people deserve to be loved. I loved him as a friend but not a husband. I convinced myself that I was doing him a favor somehow–setting him free so he could find someone who truly loved and respected him. I never treated him like I had very much respect for him because I didn’t. He was a third child to me, just another responsibility. Despite years of pleading with him to find a better job or at least take some of the mental burden off of me, we were in the same place, if not worse, year after year.

I knew in my heart that I was going to sleep with Matt, eventually. I probably knew the moment he asked me for my number. My attraction to him was like a freight train barreling out of control, unstoppable. So one night, after picking a particularly bad fight, I decided to end my marriage. Not for Matt, exactly, because it would have happened sooner or later, but he was the catalyst. He had given me the one major thing I was lacking before, confidence that everything would be okay. I’ve always been a very honest person, and the sneaking around for phone calls and hiding such intense feelings for someone else (even though we hadn’t even kissed at that point) just didn’t work for me.