The Other Other Woman (54 page)
Read The Other Other Woman Online
Authors: Mallory Lockhart
So, whenever she gets her period or otherwise flies off the handle, you go out and immediately find some other woman, who is also not your wife, to screw. Got it. I should have said that. Why didn’t I say that? I couldn’t even mention anything about the other women because I only knew about them from Brooke.
But you obviously love her enough to take her with you. And you were with her when you started pursuing me. I felt it when you went to Ukraine that very first time after you slept with me, and in October, when you called it off because you told me you were going back to your wife. Instead you were making plans to move her down to Florida with you. You told me you had had the same crap for 25 years, had a wife that didn’t love you, had never felt this way before, etc. No mention of a girlfriend, though.
No response.
Chapter Twenty
I was due for a performance review at work. I had to admit, I was a little worried. Overall I felt like I did a good job, but we had been understaffed and slammed for months. I was definitely behind on certain projects, but so was everyone else. Still, I was afraid they would say I was too distracted or that I needed to get it together emotionally, and that was definitely true.
Miranda called me into her office to go over my review. She was a sweetheart of a person and a good friend to me. She was somewhat soft-spoken but had a friendly demeanor in general, so when she discussed anything serious, you could see her launch into a different personality altogether. It was as if she was trying to be very professional and appear not to be showing any favoritism or personal feelings for you on her report. I was relieved to find that my review was fine.
“As you can see, I gave you Satisfactory or better down all of the categories on this page. And the same thing down here. You are also really good at letting us know how to make our processes more efficient so I noted that in this category here…” as she moved her hand down the paper.
“Okay, good.”
“Also,” she continued down the page, pointing to some writing in red pen, “Here in the Areas of Improvement, I really didn’t put too much because overall you are doing great. So I just put, ‘Try not to fuck any more brokers.’ And I guess that’s it. You should get your 2% on your next check.”
“OH MY GOD. NO YOU DID NOT!!”
She glanced up at me and we both started shaking with laughter. Obviously, she had faked that page. I realized then just how lucky I was to work for the women that I did.
With my review over and the addition of more staff members, my work stress lightened considerably, but I was still just a mess emotionally. As the weeks went by I threw myself into therapy, starting with weekly sessions. I knew I had to get over him, I had no choice. Luckily, I adored my therapist. She was exactly as I expected her to be. Funny, personable, and totally non-judgmental. I told her that the reason I was there was because I had incredible urges to blow. his. shit. up. She seemed riveted by my story, and of course I had to tell it through my sniffling and sobbing. But she even kept me an extra half hour that first time, just so she could hear more. She said she could definitely help me curb those urges to hurt him. She also agreed that since we still worked together, it would only hurt me in the long run.
Whenever I talked to Jules or Brooke by this point, I just felt like a complete idiot. Weak. Pathetic. Desperate. Several weeks had passed and I felt like they had to be thinking, why can’t she just get over this Limp Dick Douche already? But Stephanie made me feel a lot less crazy. She explained it was not that unusual for me to still feel this way: angry, obsessive, and upset all the time, given that I had been completely unfulfilled in a marriage for so long. He came along at just the right time and gave me everything I was missing, just to ruthlessly take it all away. Plus, I likely had some leftover issues from childhood that caused me to seek out acceptance from older men since I never really got it from my own father.
As I transitioned into every other week, we discussed trying to rid Matt from my life completely. She was happy to hear that he was moving soon and that I would have no real reason to contact him for business or otherwise. I fought her on this tooth and nail, however. I didn’t understand why we couldn’t at least be friendly over the phone or email. It was clear we were never getting back together, so why did it have to be so final, so absolute? She encouraged me to delete his texts, pictures, contact information, etc. off my phone. I flat out refused. She knew she couldn’t force me to do it. She simply suggested that keeping them around did nothing for me except keep me attached to him somehow, in some small way. I know now that she was right, but I still wouldn’t do it. I couldn’t. I still had pictures of old boyfriends and my ex-husband lying around. What was the big deal?
“They didn’t completely shatter your heart and your self-confidence,” she said.
“Oh… that.”
Brooke finally got a new job close to my office. I’m not sure which of us was more excited, honestly. Just before she had the actual offer on the table Matt was lecturing her that it seemed like she had “checked out” of her job. She sure did. I think he was surprised when she finally told him that she was leaving him, as if he had given her any other option. I was thrilled that she was going to be living with me for a while as she got settled locally, since her kids still had to finish out their school year in Atlanta. More importantly, she would no longer be working under Matt in any capacity.
I’m sure he had much bigger problems to worry about than losing Brooke. Like how he was going to hide his girlfriend in the same town as his wife. It appeared he was going to put her up in one of his smaller South Beach places until her Atlanta condo sold. It became increasingly clear to me that he had no intention of leaving Sandra. I wondered how he convinced Katya to join him down there anyway. Did he finally just say, “Look, we can be together but I’m never leaving my wife… How about if I buy you another condo to soften the blow?” I guess she didn’t mind being sloppy seconds, or thirds, or fourths, after all. Maybe he made up everything he told me and Katya about his wife all along, how they were always arguing and on the verge of splitting up. I bet the poor woman had no idea there was ever any marital issue at all.
Time seemed to pass in slow motion. I still felt like I would never, ever get over him or the hurt that he had caused me. Weeks went by and turned into months. I still felt every bit as cut open as if it had happened yesterday. There was no further contact between us at all anymore. He moved as expected and therefore I was no longer supervising his branch. Back in March or April, during a particularly weak moment, I texted him to tell him that I missed his friendship. He in turn told me that my friendship had meant more to him than I would ever know. I couldn’t help but notice that he used past tense.
It often occurred to me that despite how much I still missed him, and how badly I felt about the entire situation, how lucky I was to have the friends that I did. In an ideal world, he would have turned out to be the exact person who I fell in love with: a warm and compassionate man–an otherwise honest man–who just found himself stuck in an unhappy marriage. He just happened to meet someone at the wrong time, someone who completely turned him upside down and made him reconsider his entire path. He did that to me, so it wasn’t so hard for me to imagine. But in real life, he was the just the opposite. He was a vulture waiting to pick apart his next defenseless victim. My friends were patient enough to let me see that on my own. They continued picking up my pieces long after I saw his true colors, but still couldn’t manage to tear myself away. They were the friends who made me laugh when all I wanted to do was cry. They made fun of his age, his dramatic storytelling, his impotence. I mean, come on, you can’t go around acting like a gigolo when your shit don’t work. He became a massive joke to us all. I felt bad laughing at his expense, but it made me feel less stupid, sometimes. Even my therapy sessions became one-hour comedy shows as I always started off with, “Oh, you aren’t going to believe this one…” But that’s the thing about women. We can be catty and petty, but we rally together against a common enemy. And no woman likes a man taking advantage of her friend through lies and deception.
Having friends all over the country also has its benefits. Especially one clear Friday morning in Miami, the late September sun already burning hot over the entire city. A lovely dark-haired woman in Gucci sunglasses drives up Collins Avenue, parking her car in front of a beautiful condominium building. She enters the building and presses the button for the 15th floor. When the doors open, she carefully exits the elevator, taking a peek in both directions to make sure no one else is around. She calmly walks down the long winding corridor to number 1513. On the floor, she gently places a large manila envelope with “Sandra Wynne” written in small letters across the front in black magic marker. The inside contains a crisp paperback of
The Other Other Woman
, an autographed copy that a friend had mailed to her earlier in the week, when it was practically hot off the presses. She gives the doorbell a light tap, immediately turning on her heel and disappearing quickly back down the hall. She hears the faint sound of a door opening behind her as she jumps back onto the elevator for the slow ride back down 15 floors. She exits off the elevator into the lobby and makes her way out of the building with a satisfied smile. Once safely back in her car, she sends a quick text.
It’s done. Think she got it.
She did? Did you see her?!
I heard the door open so it must have been her. He’s at work, right? I’m heading down to Katya’s now to deliver the other one.
Thank you so much, Liza, you have no idea how much this means to me.
It was my pleasure, Mal.
Anger Resolved.
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