I write my little heart out. I make it so that Connor is telling this whole sordid tale to Presley, totally spilling his guts to her. I describe how Connor puts on airs of machismo, sleeping around with random women to make himself feel better ever since Melinda destroyed their marriage. I take great pains to describe her in his voice. I say they met in college. That she was beautiful, popular, president of her sorority. I give her some backstory; I imagine her as a debutante from the South whose Daddy owned a restaurant that went under, and when her family lost all of their money, she didn’t want to go back home. Like, ever. So, when she graduated from college, she moved in with Connor and let him take care of her.
It’s amazing how my creative juices can flow once I get into a character. I’m not sure why, but I begin to flesh her out, paint some goodness so my readers will understand what he saw in her in the first place. I make her get a job. She helps young Connor pay for small things, like groceries and the Internet bill. Connor pays for their studio apartment in Queens, and while he acknowledges that she would like to help out more, he genuinely enjoys taking care of her. It makes him feel strong. Manly. After a while, things begin to shift. Connor gets a hefty promotion—he’s a senior analyst now—and Melinda gets laid off from her entry-level marketing job. He makesbigbucks, like almost $500,000 a year. But he doesn’t tell Melinda, because she wants them to upgrade to a place in the city and he wants to save as much money as possible before doing that.
Because he wants to marry her.
Meanwhile, Melinda can’t find a new job. She takes a job as a hostess and a telemarketer, and these don’t stick. Until.Until.She gets a job at a massage parlor. Answering phones. Booking appointments.
Here it comes. Let the other shoe drop.
The massage parlor is a fairly shady establishment where men come and pay lots of money to have their needs satisfied. Connor finds out (later on, in marriage counseling) that Melinda has been paid lots of cash to engage in some girl-on-girl action for clients there. The men can look but not touch—only the girls involved can touch Melinda. Connor, meanwhile, is working crazy hours, banking big money, getting ready to propose. He is thirty years old by this point. He buys a gorgeous three-bedroom apartment in Manhattan and brings her there to show it to her, completely empty. And he proposes, right there in the middle of what will become their future living room. She says yes, of course, and decides to quit working at the massage place, now that all her dreams are coming true.
Especially when she finds out how much money he has.
They get married in an elaborate affair at Gotham Hall in New York City—a place typically reserved for celebrity weddings. Melinda is more than happy to spend Connor’s hard-earned money on whatever tickles her fancy: designer clothes, bags, haircuts, shoes, you name it. They’re rich! Gone are the days of her attempting to help support their household with her paltry paychecks.
Then, for Connor’s thirty-first birthday, he comes home and finds his lingerie-clad wife in bed with another woman. “Surprise!” she says, when Connor gets home. “Happy birthday, sweetheart! I got you a threesome!”
At first, he likes it, because he is aman, after all. But once it’s over, he asks where the girl came from, and Melinda says she’s an old work friend.
The following week, he catches them in bed again. They invite him to join them, but Connor gets the feeling they are patronizing him. He tells Melinda he is no longer comfortable with this, and she starts an argument about it. The result? She stops having sex with him altogether.
Months later, he comes home from work in the middle of the daybecause he isn’t feeling well. He walks in on Melinda and this girl having sex in his bed. And that is the official beginning of the end.
Connor explains that the reason he is looking to buy Presley’s apartment now is because he’s looking to purchase it forMelinda. It’s a settlement—to get her out of his hair and make sure she’s taken care of well enough for her to leave him alone.
Presley understands now why Connor had been so brazen with her.
Hmm. Now what? I envision a heavy sex scene coming on, and my fingers are starting to cramp up.
I check the time. It’s almost noon. I haven’t stopped at all. My silenced phone offers me all kinds of information: I missed a call from my mother, along with two texts from Melly checking in to say hi, and I have a swollen inbox that needs to be addressed.
Now is as good a time as any to take a break. Plus, I have a Tupperware full of Mrs. A’s leftovers with my name on it.
TO:Grace Landing ([email protected])
FROM:Colin Yarmouth ([email protected])
RE:Last night
Hi,
I hope you’re being productive so far today. My morning has been a disaster, lol. (More on that some other time.)
I can totally drive into Brooklyn to get you. I don’t need you taking the train for hours each way to come to my neck of the woods. Besides, I barely ever get to use my car anymore. All I ever do is move it from one side of the street to the other, so I don’t violate alternate side of the street parking rules.
Anyway, how is Saturday for you? We could meet upin the late afternoon, grab dinner, and then see where the night takes us?
C.
TO:Colin Yarmouth ([email protected])
FROM:Grace Landing ([email protected])
RE:Last night
Saturday sounds great! I would be happy to go a few more rounds with you about the driving, but you seem like you have your mind made up.
This morning was productive, from a page-count perspective. I like replacing Connor as the narrator. He’s definitely way more likeable. I was wondering if you would be willing to read the pages I wrote, to tell me what you think. If you have time, of course. I know you’re super busy over there waiting for people to die. (Totally kidding!!) Let me know!
