I thought I was missing out and needed to sow my wild oats, convinced that without a double-digit body count, I'm not a real man. I chased the thrill and attention I got from other women. But now I realize that, by giving in to my baser desires, I weaken the only real connection I have. These shallow, meaningless encounters only tarnish the special experiences I share with my wife.
What if I've harmed my relationship with her? I haven't actually talked to her in months because of my shame.
But she always replies to my texts, saying that she loves me. Doesn't she?
I grab my phone to check the text thread, only to realize it's gone. I hadn't paid much attention to it in a while, anyway. I'd hear the alert, see it was from Melly, and never even read it.
Now that I think back, were her messages always the same? Is that what the PR team was trying to drill through my thick head in the meetings we had?
I scramble to open the screenshot I took—the one I sent Coach and the PR team to prove I'd kept in touch with her.
As I open the photo, I realize, in horror, that the exact same text from Mellieis repeated, almost as if it were automated, too. After her last text in September about the final payment to close up the pool, her replies become rote, arriving at the same time each morning, immediately after my preprogrammed message to her.
Me:Morning, Melly. Love you.
Melly:Morning, J. You too!
My gut clinches.
She's been sending automatic responses since late September, three months.
That jabbing pain in my chest feels even deeper. It hurts to think she didn't even send me a real text. It doesn't say, “I love you.” It just says, “You too.”
Then the irony hits me.Istarted this with automated texts, keeping her at a distance while convincing myself I was staying connected, and now I'm hurt that she matched my energy.
If there's one thing I've always been sure of, it's been Melly's love. Our love. It's been my true north, my anchor, and suddenly, I feel rudderless, adrift.
She's my stay-at-home wife, even though I never make it there anymore. For the past several months, we've been like strangers, really; it's just a place to store my things—my clothes, my car, my toys… and, well, my wife.
Since we agreed to the open marriage, I haven't seen or spoken to Melly except for these texts. I can't really say it's her fault, though. I tend to ignore her when she calls because of my current activities. I'm always busy with hockey and partying.
I don't bother calling her back or returning her messages. The guilt is so heavy to begin with, but I stifle it with alcohol and girls. Still, it seems to rear its ugly head anyway, the moment I get a clear thought, like this morning.
I track her by her phone, though, so I know she doesn't go anywhere. She stays right there at home. I guess DoorDash or grocery deliveries are her go-to right now.
Everything shifts, and things become clearer as I finally open my eyes and remove my head from my arse. I feel myself staring down a figurative tether, the soulmate bond that connects Melly and me, but she's no longer there.
This thing I've been doing… I can't even admit to myself what this cluster is. But it's time to face it. I shouldn't have ever crossed that line with Mandy! Melly didn't want this. And it doesn't feel right, not anymore, not at all, not like I thought it would. In reality, I feel heartsick… no, homesick. I should be with my wife at Christmas. Melly! What the actual heck am I doing?
I know Gord, Melly's dad, texted me telling me to stay away from Melly at Christmas, but I shouldn't have let that sway me. Honestly, I'm not sure I could've faced her anyway. Still, I felt more relief than I had any right to when Gord ordered me not to show up. Now, I realize I neededto fight for her, reach out, and make things right so I could be with her at Christmas.
I look at Mandy, the blonde on the right, and the brunette on my left, both sleeping nude beside me, and the whiskey I drank last night threatens to come up. I hastily claw my way from under them. Their whining about being disturbed sounds like nails on a chalkboard. Nothing feels right this morning, I think as I barely make it to the toilet in time to throw up.
What was I thinking? How could I have thought that this was a good idea?
I sit my naked butt on the cold tiles and shiver. Draping my head and arms over the bowl, I break out in a clammy sweat. Bile rises again in my throat as a bad feeling sinks in the pit of my stomach.
This wasn't my best idea.
I stand unsteadily, grab one of the hotel robes hanging on the back of the bathroom door, and put it on. Walking toward the balcony, I pick up the pack of cigarettes on the table and light one. Blowing out the smoke, I open the balcony door and walk out. The icy breeze smells of snow.
I think about Amelia and wonder how I'm going to fix this. Though she's never said a word since the day of ourfight when she begrudgingly agreed to an open marriage, I know I did damage. I can see that now.
Leaning with my hands on the banister, I take another deep drag of the cigarette as the door opens behind me. When I turn, I see Mandy walk out wearing nothing but her smile. The brunette follows, also naked. They both saunter up and start tugging at me, slipping the robe from my shoulders.
I put my hands up, one on the shoulder of each girl, and push them back.
“Ladies! I need you to stop.” My voice comes out harsher than I expected, but I don't apologize. I can't do this. Not anymore.
