MICHELLE
It's official. After years of confusion, I understand what all the fuss is about. If that was an orgasm, then I think it's safe to say I've never had one before. I collapse forward, draping my head over David's shoulder.
"I'm sorry," I murmur, embarrassment surging forward to cover up the ecstasy.
He brushes hair back from my face, straining for eye contact. "For what?"
I bury my head deeper into his shoulder. "For losing control like that."
David laughs and shakes his head, guiding me into an upright position so he can make eye contact. "Oh, darlin'. You can feel free to lose control with me any time you want. Over and over again." He grins. "In fact, it is now my personal mission to make sure you spend less and less time in control." He threads his fingers into my hair and pulls my face to his, kissing me deeply. When he breaks the kiss, I stand carefully, gasping as he slides out of me.
I pull my dress over my head and carry my bra and panties with me into the bathroom while David gets dressed and disposes of the condom in the trashcan in the kitchen. I have no idea what to expect when I leave the bathroom. Was this a bootie call? Will he meet me with a vague excuse and a promise to call me later or will he stay with me for a little longer? I desperately hope he chooses the second option. I'm not ready for him to leave.
When I come back around the corner, David is leaning on the kitchen counter with a big smile on his face. "I took the liberty of pouring us some more wine," he says. His gaze travels across my body and smile plays at the corners of his lips. "You are so fucking beautiful." He says it like he means it and I'm embarrassed to admit how good it makes me feel.
* * *
My alarm goes off bright and early the next morning and I bound out of bed, happy as a lark. David didn't leave until well after two and I went to bed expecting to be miserable this morning, but I'm so energized I might as well be Cinderella—waking up with a song in her heart as birds and mice flit around her. Claire and I laugh our way through the morning as I get us ready for the marathon dress rehearsal that will consume our Sunday.
The next several hours are a whirlwind of kids freaking out about going on stage, teenage drama, costume emergencies, and so many texts from David. So. Many. Texts. If it wasn't for the constant stream of sweet messages coming to me through my phone, this day would be awful. But every time some new problem erupts, I get a text from David that keeps me laughing. Or swooning. Or feeling so sexy that I can't wait to get naked with him again.
That's right. Me. The self-proclaimed hater of sex is busy daydreaming about having more sex.
"Who do you keep texting?" my mom asks towards the end of the day.
I bite my lower lip. "No one."
Mom shakes her head. "I refuse to believe that's no one. I haven't seen you giggle like this since… well…ever."
I could keep insisting that David is no one special, but I'm a terrible liar and my mom can read me like a book. "I met someone," I say, grinning like an idiot.
Mom's eyes light up. "Misha! What's his name?"
"David."
"Ohh. That's a good name. Is he handsome?"
I nod, unable to keep from smiling when my phone chimes. I look down to read the text while my mom shakes her head and walks away.
Mr. Wonderful: When can I see you again?
Me: When do you want to see me again?
Mr. Wonderful: About four hours ago.
I laugh and begin a response as a student comes around the corner.
"Ms. Michelle? One of the little kids is having trouble with her hair and is freaking out and crying and stuff, and now her mascara is starting to run down her face." She looks disgusted. "I tried to tell her she was making a mess of herself, but that only made her cry harder."
"Okay. You go ahead and calm her down and I'll be there in a minute." The girl dashes away and I slip my phone into my purse before pulling open the heavy door that leads from the backstage area to the dressing rooms. I round the corner and run right into Russell.
"'Chelle," he says, breathing a poisonous brew of Crown Royal and vomit into my face.
I flinch back. "What are you—"
Russell grabs my wrist and yanks me down the hall. I squawk and stumble along after him before he pushes me into a large supply closet and bars the door with his body. "I know you're fucking him." His voice echoes down the long hallway behind him.
"What?"
"That guy. David." Russell spits his name at me.
"This is stupid. Let me out." I try to push past him, but he presses an arm against the door jamb, blocking my way even more.
"I know where he lives, too," Russell says as if that has any bearing whatsoever.
"Well, that means you know more about him than I do because I haven't been to his house." At least not in years. "Besides, none of this matters," I hiss. "We're divorced, remember?"
"It matters," he slurs. "If that douche comes around my daughter, it matters. I'm her father."
Defiance burbles up from my belly. Where does he get off, thinking he can come here, to my work, and treat me like this? What if someone walks by? Would a parent feel comfortable with me as a role model after seeing me trapped in a broom closet by my overly inebriated ex-husband? "Then you should have acted like it mattered when you had the chance."
Russell's eyes go wide and his face goes red and he staggers toward me. I back up, my heart hammering its way up my throat as I reach for something, anything to put between us.
"Hey. Excuse me?" A man's voice from the hallway. "What's going on in here?" A large man stops outside, though I can't make out who it is because Russell's big head is blocking my view.
Russell whirls and loses his footing, stumbling and steadying himself with a hand on the door. "Jus' had somethin' I had to say to her."
The man, a father of one of my oldest students, looks past my ex-husband and meets my eyes. I watch him recognize my terror before he turns his focus back to Russell. "And there are much better ways to do it than this. You let her out of the closet now or I'll call the police."
Russell laughs and mutters something unintelligible before he turns and staggers out of the theater. I thank the father, embarrassment twisting my insides into knots, and race off to find Claire before Russell does. When I do, I scoop her up and hug her tight.
"Did you see me dance, Momma?" asks my little Bear.
No. I didn't. Because her father had me pushed in a closet in the hallway for God knows why.
"You were fabulous," I say because I don't need to have seen her to know it's true, even as I fight back tears at having missed her. I keep her backstage with me the rest of the night under the pretense of letting her see the other dancers perform. Every couple minutes, I pick up my phone with the intention of texting David and explaining what happened. Each time I pick it up, I put it right back down again. In fact, after reading a few of his wonderful texts and not knowing quite how to respond, I put my phone in my purse for the rest of the evening. David is too good to have this kind of crazy in his life.