A Different Kind of Forever - By Dee Ernst Page 0,99
these past few months.”
I think at that moment I forgot all about being a big person. The entire un-noticed-blip-that-I-should-have-seen theory went out the window. “You’re right. Apparently, for these past few months, one of us has been unfaithful.”
“Well, yes, but before that, things were, ah, you know…” He looked at me hopefully. Like I was actually going to let him off the hook.
“Before that you and I spent a week in Aruba where we had monkey sex for six days in a row. Before that we talked about your coming with me to San Francisco this summer. We’ve been planning your sister’s surprise fiftieth birthday party, which, I believe, is still scheduled for three weeks from next Saturday.” I could feel the blood rising, and I fought the urge to scream. Had he actually thought I should admit mistakes? Was he crazy??? “Two months ago you bought me a diamond necklace for our twentieth wedding anniversary.” I took a few deep breaths. “So tell me. When, in the past few months, was I supposed to figure out that things were, ah…you know?”
Brain shook his head sadly. “I’m going to take these out to the car.” He picked up some suitcases and went out the front door. I sat down on our hall bench, gripping my knees with my sweaty palms. My eyes came to rest on our wonderfully quaint umbrella stand, an antique made to look like an elephant’s foot, and I thought briefly about running him through with my Monet umbrella from the New York Metropolitan Museum Store. I probably couldn’t kill him with an umbrella, unless he agreed to lie down while I repeatedly stabbed him in the eye with it. My eyes moved to the cute bulldog door-stop. Also antique. Cast iron. Weighed a frigging ton. Capable of inflicting severe, possibly fatal damage. It was so heavy, one good swing would probably do it. It was so heavy, however, I probably couldn’t lift it high enough to hit him anywhere but on the foot.
He came back in to get the rest of his suitcases. My suitcases, actually. Could I call the police and report missing luggage? Would they actually arrest him for it? Now, there was a plan. What foreign woman, probably fishing for a green card or something similar, would want to associate with a convicted tote-bag felon? Why should I go to jail for murder when I could just as easily send him to jail for petty theft?
“I’m going now,” Brian said. I had been so lost in the vision of my apparently soon-to-be-ex-husband in an orange jumpsuit that I didn’t hear him come back in. He was looking down at me, actually smiling. “I’ll be back around dinner. I’ll talk to the girls.”
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To Dominique’s,” he said easily. “She has a condo in Hoboken, so I’ll be close to work. And the girls, of course. I’ll have my lawyer call your lawyer.”
“I don’t have a lawyer,” I whined.
“You’ll find somebody competent. Ask around. I’m not worried, Mona. I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Brian patted me on the head. Really. Can you believe it? Then he walked out the door.
I was so angry. Really outraged that he could so serenely walk out and leave behind a life and children and a dog and a cat. And I felt betrayed. I mean, there were vows taken. Love. Honor. Cherish. Till death. I wasn’t dead yet.
I was also highly insulted that a person such as myself, attractive, intelligent, successful, respected in the community, great mother and one hell of a cook, could be so easily be replaced by a woman who was merely blond, foreign, and who may or not have blown the president.
What I did not feel, and I only realized it long afterward, was broken-hearted.
Better Off Without Him
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I wrote this book a number of years ago. It did not get published, but it did get me a great agent, Lynn Seligman. It was also read by a number of friends and co-workers, whose kind words took the sting out of all those rejection letters. So I’d like to thank them all, the Tabor Ladies and the great folks at Barnes and Noble, who cheered me on when I really needed it.
I’d also like to thank Carole Williams for her good eye and generous spirit.
This is a work of fiction, so, I’m sorry, but there is no real Michael. However, I was inspired by Dan Futterman, Jon Bon Jovi, and Elijah Wood. I have never met any of these fine gentlemen, but if any one of them would care to get in touch with me for any discussion of Michael’s character, please. Email me. Any time. Really.
And, as always, comments from my readers make my day.