She's our cornerstone, mine and the boys.
She's the first stone placed when building a house, setting the position for the rest of the structure. She bears the weight and adds crucial support. It's usually unseen, but without it, everything would crumble to the ground.
A cornerstone isn't optional. It's not decorative.
It's necessary.
Wendy isn't just my wife. She's not just my home. She's the reason I've been able to stand up straight at all.
Wendy is my cornerstone.
A flash of red catches my eye, and I turn toward it, seeing Wendy on the dance floor. Her head is tossed back, curls bouncing around her shoulders. She’s laughing as she dances next to Taylor, and the aforementioned blonde that Trace was talking about.
Wendy looks…wow.
She's dressed in a tight black tank top, showing off a healthy amount of cleavage that's got my heart racing. Tight jeans showing off her long, shapely legs, black heeled boots on her feet making her tower over the crowd. Her perfect face looks as if it’s glowing, even in the low light.
Her gorgeous smile spreads as Taylor says something in her ear, and she moves fluidly as she doesn’t stop dancing. My chest tightens as I watch her, as do my jeans.
She's always had that effect on me, and I'm glad the SSRI hasn't dulled it because she's the only one it matters for.
My wife. My Wendy.
"Fucking Christ,look at her—" I then glare at Trace and block his view. "Actually, no—youkeep your eyes to yourself."
"Please, my eyes are for blondie," Trace says, his blue eyes trailing over the short blonde woman with them. I'm not sure how Wendy met her, maybe through the boys' school or her work. "Once you sort your shit out with Wendy, can you get me an introduction?"
I turn back to the bar, putting my head in my hands and adjusting my hat.
"Fuck, I don't even know where to start with that."
Restoring my marriage, while Wendy has shown me more trust lately, I'm still lost on how to approach that, especially since I feel that I have no right to.
She fought so hard for us already, and I can't help but wince every time I think of my wife sitting alone in that couple's therapist's office, waiting for me.
The image makes me too sad to think about.
"Couple's therapy?" Trace suggests.
I grit my teeth, angry at myself again.
"We already tried that. I fucked it up. I didn't show."
"People fuck up. People get second chances."
"Do I deserve a second chance?"
"I don't know. That's up to her to decide," Trace shrugs. "But you won't know until you ask."
My eyes find Wendy again, dancing with her friends, looking so free and beautiful, and I know I'd crawl through glass for a second chance.
I will do it right this time.
That means doing the right, unselfish thing. That means leaving her be and letting her have her fun.
Not letting her see me and worry if someone is wrong with the kids who are peacefully sleeping, safe in my parents' house.
I don't go over and interrupt her night. I drop a five on the bar and Trace tells me that he'll make sure they get to their cars safely—winking at me that he'll especially look out for the blonde.
