What a bitch, I think.
Don’t let her ruin you.
Theo bounces into the kitchen, all smiles. “Mommy,” he cheers. “Can we go to the park today?”
I’d promised him we’d go first thing in the morning — he’s been wanting to play with his new toy trucks, and that’s the only spot where sand can be found around here.
I look up from my phone. “Sure,” I tell him. “Just let me get dressed first. Did you and Emma brush your teeth yet?!”
He scowls and turns on his heel.
I’m sorry but I gotta go. I’m taking my kids to the park.
—
Okay. Have fun! :) Cheers!
* * *
He’s my little secret. I decided to not talk about him to my friends anymore, because I know they don’t approve. And I certainly don’t talk about him to John.
We DM every day, and video chat when John is not around. I know what I’m doing is wrong, but I can’t help myself. I’m not sure why I’m acting like this. Perhaps I’m lonely. Maybe I’m going through a midlife crisis. The fact that I’m hiding him from John makes me realize that I’m up to no good. But I always justify my actions. I tell myself that we’re just talking, about life, about art — it’s all very innocent.
We talk about anything and everything. We smile and laugh often. He’s a pretty funny guy — he makes me laugh at the silliest things. I enjoy video chatting with him because he makes the funniest faces, and he does a rather impressive impression of Al Pacino inThe Godfather. I’m not as funny as he is, but I manage to make him laugh without even trying. He likes to make fun of my SpongeBob SquarePants pajama pants, and the way I’m always twirling a lock of my long hair.
Though I’m not the only one with quirks. He has the habit of scratching at his three-day stubble or raking a hand through his hair when he talks about serious stuff, or when I ask him a personal question. I can tell he’s not the sharing type, but for some reason, he shares with me.
I learn so much about him. He’s a year younger than me, and he was raised in Novi, Michigan, by a single mother, like I was, so we have that in common. He also has a sister he cares for a lot. He fell in love with Clara (who is from Copenhagen) when he was backpacking after college, and he followed his heart to Denmark. He’s been there ever since.
I know he loves yogurt because he’s always eating it when we video chat. I, on the other hand, hate the stuff. He loves modern folk music, stuff I’m not too familiar with; The Lumineers, Ray Lamontagne, Of Monsters and Men, Ryan Adams. I love when he plays me some of the songs; the music is so intense and soulful, and the artists’ voices are so beautiful. We listen to the music quietly together. We usually don’t look at each other, occasionally stealing a look or sharing a soft smile.
He makes fun of my music choices; mostly pop; Beyoncé, Meghan Trainor, Rihanna, Katy Perry, and pretty much anything top 40s. The closest thing to folk music that I listen to is Ed Sheeran.
More and more, I’m listening to his favorite artists and downloading songs from iTunes. I listen to them over and over again, and think about him. I doubt he’s downloading any Katy Perry songs.
Yet for all I learn about him, it seems I can’t know enough — I want to know it all. When he tells me he’s a Scorpio, I Google astrological signs. I’ve never been much into astrology, but I want to know if Scorpios get along with Cancers (that’s my sign). Apparently, we do — we’re both intense and passionate.
He tells me he’s six foot one, and I swoon inside. I could tell he was tall from the YouTube video. He tells me he’s recently tipped the scales over one hundred and seventy-five pounds and would like to lose a few. I tell him I’m five foot five, but don’t volunteer my weight — no way in hell.
He shows me around his loft, and it’s so cool and unique. I feel kind of boring when I show him the various rooms of my classy suburban home. It’s tastefully decorated but nowhere as interesting as his space. Our worlds and our lives are so very different.
He knows almost everything about me. He knows I collect elephants (I have forty-seven), and that I love bananas and chocolate. He knows I’m an avid reader, and thatGrey’s AnatomyandScandalare my favorite shows.
Funny enough, it seems that with every new day, we talk less and less and less about our art, the thing that brought us together in the first place. He occasionally shows me his finished pieces, and I show him my works-in-progress, because it seems like I never finish anything lately. He keeps saying that he wants to send me something, something small. I give him my mailing address with no reservations whatsoever. He warns me not to expect anything too soon, that it’ll take him a while.
And every day, he’s always the perfect gentleman, he never crosses the line. He loves to tease and be playful, even flirt a little sometimes, but he’s always good. And sometimes, I find myself wishing he weren’t quite so good. In my fantasies, he’s so, so bad. The problem isn’t so much what we talk about, the problem is how he makes me feel. He makes me smile at nothing, he makes me nervous, he makes me want to confess my innermost secrets and desires, and he makes my heart flutter and my pulse race. When I chat with him, I lose sense of time and my surroundings. I melt completely into him, and I don’t want to come up for air.
And when I’m not chatting with him, I fantasize about him, and constantly check my phone. I go through the motions of my daily life; cooking, grocery shopping, laundry, errands, school functions, and the list goes on. But all the while, my mind is full of Eli. Every hour of every day.
I’m certainly not in denial — I know I’ve gone crazy. I’m crazy for someone who is not my husband, and I realize how very wrong that is.
* * *
John and I don’t fight often, but when we do, it’s usually pretty intense. And I must admit, it generally happens around the end of the month — when aunt Flo visits. I get so emotional when I have PMS, it seems I suddenly grow a backbone. The rest of the month, I’m pretty easy going and take the good with the bad. Life is not perfect, I tell myself. So my husband is a workaholic, so my daughter is a little pig-headed, so the idiots on the road don’t know how to drive. But come the end of the month, I honk the horn, I scold Emma, and I tell off John.
We’re both in bed. The kids are already sleeping, and we try to take advantage of this time to talk. Unfortunately, we don’t talk often anymore.
“Another conference,” I scoff. “Jesus, I can’t remember you ever being so busy, even when you were a New York Times Bestseller—”
