I stand on the corner of his street, shielded by lush trees and thick brush. I know if he finds me, he’ll be irate, probably question my sanity. But he’s to blame for my depression, my obsession.
How could he disappear like this? Use me? Did he fuck me in the shower, lick my pussy on the counter just because he could? Because he saw the weakness painted in my eyes, the love I have in my heart?
How very cruel that he won’t even be so decent as to return my calls like I’m nothing but a prostitute he discarded. Maybe Brooks is doing this because of the magic we shared. Maybe it scared the fuck out of him, and he couldn’t handle it. He just needs to know he can trust himself with me. I know not everyone would agree with the things I’ve done, but I’ve always had Brooks and his best interest in mind. I’ve always done everything for us and not merely for me. And I won’t sit idly by while he pushes space between us that’s so great we break apart from the unified person we became.
No, I won’t let him abandon me. I’m under enough stress with that psycho stalking me. The car appeared on the surveillance video during our time at the beach. No stopping, just a slow creep past the house before driving away.
I stretch my legs. Smile awkwardly at a passing jogger, and pretend I, too, am jogging. I’m convincing enough, in my spandex and trainers. And that’s what I’ll tell Brooks, too. I’ll play it cool. I approach his gate hesitantly. Quickly punch in the code. It opens smoothly, silently with ease, the parting of the iron strangely sending eerie chills over my body.
I shake it off, do a little jog dance up the porch. Voices flow through the house—Brooks’s and a … woman’s. My heart sputters wildly, but I talk myself through my daytime nightmare. It’s just his mom or Isabel or maybe his fucking cleaning lady, who hopefully isn’t wearing a cute little black-and-white French outfit.
But there are no other cars here…
Peeking through the windows next to the door, I don’t see anyone, but I still hear those voices. The female sounds young, and regrettably sounds pretty. You know, attractive people have certain qualities to their voices. They carry with confidence and a light vein of arrogance running through. My head shakes. Gosh, I have a great imagination, don’t I? I should write a book. There’s no way Brooks could have sex with me, make love to me like he did, and then be in here with some other woman.
No. Fucking. Way.
My fist pauses before it meets the wood of his door. I won’t knock, I’ll just go in. He won’t mind, because he has feelings, and feelings mean you can do things like that.
I try the knob. The door opens with a slight creak, so I pause, but then it disappears as I push it the rest of the way. My head pokes through the space, my eyes circling but not finding anyone. I contemplate calling his name, but no … this will be a great surprise! He surprised me, so that must mean he’ll like one himself.
I step into the foyer. Quietly close the door. Carefully, I walk farther into the house. Cautiously round the corner into the living room, and spot something that instantly makes my knees grow weak.
Oh fuck.
A pile of clothes. Women’s clothes. Crumpled on the floor, next to the couch. I rush to them, my head darting around, still not finding anyone, the voices having faded in volume. I examine the pile. Almost vomit at the pair of panties I find in them. Oh my God, they’re fucking. He’s fucking. I was wrong about him, I was.
My head spins, the room morphing into an amusement park ride as I try to stand up and steady myself. I grip the arm of the couch. Try to breathe.
This can’t be. This just can’t be. My face grows hot as I determine Eliza fucking ruined him. Behind every player is a woman who broke his heart. Imagine how hard it is for a man, all steely strong with their lack of permission to show emotions. They fall in love, and express that love only to have the woman reach into their chest, yank out their heart, and crush it to bits. Then, boom—no heart left that they can love with.
And dammit, it’s happened to Brooks, hasn’t it? That’s the reason for this. I’ve misjudged everything. His resistance wasn’t out of growing feelings. It was out of his inability to.
“Emily?”
I spin around, my eyes frantic as they land on him. He’s naked, dick shielded only by a towel. She comes out behind him. She—the homewrecker he’s fucking, the slut he just fucked. She peeks her head around at me, and there’s something familiar about her. She sees it in me, too. Holy shit, she sees something in me, too!
“Emily, what are you doing here?” He steps forward. Grabs my arms, his eyes furious and violent.
I can’t speak. No words will come out. The breath in me is gone.
“Who’s this?” she asks. She. The slut.
“Excuse me?” I muster, nearly gasping. “Who am I? Who are you?” And I do want to know. Not only because I want to know who he’s fucking, but also because I know her. I fucking know her, but I don’t know how.
She comes out from behind him, her boring brown hair wet, her tits too small. “Do I know you...” Her eyes are peering, examining.
My heart feels as if it’s about to burst. This can’t happen right now. How could this woman, whom I can’t even place, figure out my secret when he couldn’t? “Only because you’re having sex with my boyfriend,” I spit.
Her head flies back. “Your boyfriend? Brooks, what is going on? I didn’t know you were seeing anyone else. What the fuck?”
Seeing anyone else. Seeing. Anyone. Else. My worst fear is confirmed. Brooks is a cheater. He fucked her in the shower, didn’t he? We had something, and he ruined it, threw it away. Instead of picking up his broken heart and stuffing it back into his chest, letting himself love, he left it on the ground. He’s not the Brooks I thought. Not at all.
He turns to her, holding his hands up in a show of impatience. “Kate, please.”
“Kate?” The name leaves my tongue quietly. Kate. Kate, Kate, Kate. Think, think, think, think. I stare into her eyes. It is the Kate, only with darker hair. The Kate he lost his virginity to. The Kate he used to love, just like me. The Kate he betrayed me for then, the Kate he’s betraying me for now.
My stomach rumbles. I’m going to vomit. “I … I have to go.” I break free of his arms. Run toward the door.
“Emily, wait!” he shouts.
I look back at him once I reach the gate. He stands there, his face one of anguish as he loses his fucking fuck buddy.
I’m on my fifth drink, the burn a welcome sensation in a body that feels so dead. I’m a zombie, merely existing. The bartender sticks a lemon wedge on my glass, and I swivel away from him in my chair.
I’ve never cried so much in my life, never felt so hurt—not even when I thought Brooks was done with me after that kiss. Not even when my parents died—well, Ivy’s parents. This has all been for nothing, all of it, because a cheater doesn’t deserve all the hard work I’ve put in. I didn’t go through all this for someone who would be perfectly okay with fucking someone else, and then letting me give him a blowjob right after.
No. No, I’d rather be lonely, would rather have sex with my blow-up doll.
A tear slides down my face as I swirl the ice in my glass. I just wanted the fairytale—just wanted true love. I thought it existed, but I guess I was wrong.
“Are you okay?”
My eyes flick up to see the man two seats to the left of me. I was practically staring at him, looking right through him. He is tall and lean, wearing a gray button-up with the sleeves rolled. His eyes are kind, but they remind me of Brooks’s, because they’re blue, so I look away from them.
“I’m fine.” I say it politely, but firmly enough that I hope he’ll leave me alone. I swivel back toward the bartender. Stir my drink.
“You don’t look fine. Guy trouble?”
I cross my legs before smiling thinly. “Isn’t that why every woman ends up alone crying in a bar?”
Peripherally, I see him smile. Is he amused with my pain? Sicko.
“Let me know if you’d like to vent.”
“No, thank you.”
He shrugs. “Could help.”
I say nothing.
“What’s your name?”
I roll my eyes. He’s not going to stop, is he? “Emily.” I fold my arms on the wooden bar, a big, sweaty man to my right hitting me with his elbow as he laughs so loudly at his friend that I think my ears might burst.
The man in gray motions to the stool next to him. He seems nice. If anything, he’s persistent. I sigh, and scoot over to it. Slide my purse and drink down. He holds his hand out for me to shake. I hate shaking hands. People are gross. But he looks clean, so I shake it like a woman—briefly and lightly.
“Nice to meet you, Emily.”
“And you are?”
“To my friends, I’m Ron. To you? You can call me Mr. Ronderful.”
I laugh. Nearly choke on my drink. “Mr. What?”
“You heard me.”
“I guess I did. That’s quite the interesting moniker.”
He smiles. “They call me that for a reason, you know.”
“Who’s they?”
He ignores my question. “So, tell me what’s bothering you.”
I note the bracelet on his wrist—brown leather—and the ring on his finger, but not a wedding ring—a class ring.
He holds up his hand. “West Point.”
I nod, then clear my throat.
“So?”
I shake my head. “Oh, you know. Nothing other than finding out the man of my dreams wasn’t who I thought. I caught him with another woman today—a woman I knew a long time ago.”
“Ouch.” He motions to the bartender for another round. “It’s on me.”
“Yeah. Ouch.” I don’t want to tell this stranger anything. Don’t want to expose myself for him to scrutinize, but I find it impossible to stop talking once I’ve started. I tell him everything, every last detail aside from the surgery and the double life and manipulation. I give him the good parts, because that’s what matters.
And he is patient. He listens closely, never interrupting, never mocking me or questioning my morals. I find myself smiling, even laughing, and most importantly, feeling completely at ease. Patrons come and go, and the hours zip by until we are the last ones. I’ve learned so much about him. He’s in construction management, has twin boys, a free lifetime membership to Match.com, and has an affinity for visiting massage parlors. I’m intrigued by him—his zest for life and his ability to see the good in everything.
I feel like I’m being romanced by a stranger. Manipulated like I manipulated Brooks. Of course, I don’t love this man, this guy I’ve known less than a day. But I’m endeared to him, fascinated with him. He gets me, doesn’t he? He knows my struggles. And throughout the entire night, one thing resonates above everything else—the fact that Brooks has never once tried to call me after I ran from his house, my heart shattered into pieces. I haven’t gotten even so much as a text.
“I’d say you dodged a bullet.”“You know what, Ron, maybe you’re right.” I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the mock therapy session, but I’m feeling better. In the wake of devastation, I’m not dead.
“You mean, Mr. Ronderful.”
I smile, our eyes connecting. I want to feel better. I want to do awesomely, not just okay. I want to forget Brooks and everything he has ever meant to me. I want to erase his mouth, forget his cock, lose the love that I’ve steadily watered over the years.
Without thinking, I am on Mr. Ronderful’s lips, but I pull back, unsure if this is the right thing.
“Wow,” he says, a smile tugging a corner of his mouth.
My cheeks heat, and I blush before I wipe my lips. “I’m sorry … I don’t … I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Do it again.”
Maybe it is the right thing. Maybe two people meeting in a bar, getting a little buzz, and then making out is the most natural thing in the world. Maybe him coming home with me would be even better. He can bang the sadness out of me, screw the love from my body, choke the words of adoration I have for Brooks from my throat.
“Come home with me,” I whisper.
Instantly, I regret the invitation. It isn’t that Mr. Ronderful isn’t great, but I know I’m fucked up. I could wake up tomorrow and wish I could take it back. I’m impulsive by nature, and mix in some alcohol lately, and I’m a fucking train wreck. I’ve all but ceased taking my medication, have totally abandoned my mental health in that regard.
Still, the way he slides his hands over my thighs, the arousal in his eyes … it’s enough to allow me to destroy myself.
We Uber to the house and stumble into my room. I lock Lucy out of it. Command her to shut up. His hand pushes me onto the bed. He unbuttons his faded jeans, and kicks off his shoes. He climbs on top of me, and I want to be sick. Nothing is wrong with him, but I’m feeling the pangs of remorse already. But regardless of whether I want this, Brooks needs this. He needs to be hurt, needs to feel something. And how can he not hurt? How could this not bother him, me fucking another man? Even though he’s done the same to me, men can never handle having it done to them. Women roam gardens of double standards.
Ronderful kisses my neck, slides my shirt above my breasts, trails his tongue down my belly.
Yes, Brooks deserves this. Every thorn of pain I can wedge into him, he deserves. I will my thoughts of him away, train my brain to focus on what’s happening. The tug of my pants. The slipping on of a condom. The tongue between my legs.
I allow myself to come in his mouth. He is talented, skilled from all the Match bitches he’s banged. I pull him up, and roll him over. I remove my shirt and take off my bra, allowing my breasts to bounce and move as I straddle him.
“Shit, you’re hot.”
His eyes aren’t kind anymore. They’re hungry, horny. He needs this, too. His cock stands for me. Begs me to fuck it. I lower myself, riding him with an intensity I never have while he rubs my clit. His hands guide me, pulling on my ass as he thrusts his hips upward. I allow the pressure to build, not caring whether I come too soon. This is strictly for me, all me. My therapy. My medication. My destruction of the love I have left for a man who doesn’t love me back.
I grind on him, and crumple, my body riding a wave as Mr. Ronderful plays with my tits. He jerks, his dick pulsating inside me, the slight vibration thrilling.
I crash on top of him, our mouths pressing together in a mess of satisfaction. Then, I free him. Watch him walk to the bathroom to discard the condom. I roll on my back, tuck my hands behind my head, and sleep.
The bed is empty, the sun peeking into the sky. My head hurts. I reach up to touch it, wincing at the sharp pain that radiates through it, followed by a dull throb.
What’s his name? It’s Ron, but … something else.
Oh, yeah. “Mr. Ronderful?” I feel stupid saying it, like I was duped into some role-playing shit, but I know I wasn’t duped into anything. I did it all myself.
A note on the table next to the door.
You were great. Good luck with everything. You know where to find me.
My heart sinks into my stomach.
God, what have I done?
I’m tainted. Fucked by another after the cock of my lover. All because of a misunderstanding with Brooks. And it is a misunderstanding. It has to be. Why are women like this? Why am I like this? I could have given Brooks a minute—could have allowed him to explain. Maybe he lied. Maybe he was already seeing Kate. Maybe he was only trying to figure out how to tell her he didn’t love her anymore.
My eyes widen as I remember … Kate recognized me. She didn’t look like she knew, but she recognized me somehow.
I can’t let her be the end of us. Brooks made a mistake. Whether he lied about seeing someone from the start, or whether he was confused by the intensity of our love and needed a distraction, he made a mistake.
I won’t let her get in the way. I won’t let her ruin us.