Chapter 4

I wasn’t interested in hearing Barb’s smug self-congratulations about the house or Cecilia, but I didn’t feel like avoiding the house, so I reluctantly went home. Fortunately, she wasn’t home from her afternoon with Brad, so I changed and went to the gym instead of sticking around.

There was a lot of congratulations from the staff and a few of the guys who’d been there to see the carnage. I found out that Hastings was still in the hospital, but was assured that he wasn’t in any danger, just that he’d had a couple of broken bones from punches. I nodded and shrugged off the requests to know what had me so fired up.

“I was mostly terrified that if I let up, he’d kill me,” I lied. “The guy was the size of a truck.” That got some laughs and they let me go to work out in peace.

I lost myself in the simple routine of the gym and went home to dinner much later than I’d planned. By the time I walked in the door, it was nearly 8PM and Barb was watching TV in the living room.

“Well?” she asked expectantly when I appeared at the top of the stairs.

I looked at her blankly. “I looked at the house,” I told her. “I didn’t see anything wrong with it. It’s pretty much identical to the house here upstairs and there’s plenty of room for a gym in the basement. The price is a little huge though. You think you can negotiate a break on the price?”

“I’ll put in an offer for $275,000 tomorrow,” she said lightly. “That’s not what I meant though. How did you like Cecilia?”

I grunted. “She seems nice enough,” I said noncommittally. “She said the place was well cared for by the previous owners. She told me they were lawyers, so they might be tough negotiators. I didn’t talk money with her. I figured that I’d leave that to you since you’re much more knowledgeable about it than I am.”

She made an exasperated sound. “Did you fuck?” she asked like she was trying to remain patient with me.

I thought about denying it or giving her a bullshit answer, but instead, I looked over at her and nodded before going into the kitchen, looking for something to eat. Barb had picked up a pizza on the way home and the box was stuffed in the refrigerator. I pulled it out and opened it. It was Hawaiian. I fucking hate pineapple. She came into the kitchen while I was opening it up and I shook my head at it before closing the box and stuffing it back in the fridge irritably. We’d been together forever and she knew I hated pineapple. I took it as symbolic of the state of our marriage. The motto on our marriage should read ‘quisque pro se’ in Latin. ‘Every man for himself’ was an appropriate sentiment.

“Not in the mood for pizza?” she asked.

“Barb, we’ve been together for how many years now?” I said sourly. “How is it that you DON’T know how much I HATE pineapple after all this time?”

“Just pick it off,” she said as if I was being unreasonable.

Instead of answering, I went to the cupboards and looked for something worth eating. I settled on microwaving a bowl of soup while she stood there, waiting for me to talk to her about Cecilia. I wasn’t playing along.

“Well?!” she finally prompted me. “How was it?!”

“You want the details of my afternoon with Cecilia?” I asked her skeptically. “How was YOUR afternoon?” I asked pointedly.

“I’m just asking how things went,” she said defensively. “If you don’t want to talk about it, just say so.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I told her, taking my bowl of soup out of the microwave to stir it and decide whether it’s warm enough or needed more time.

“You HAVE to talk about it, John!” she argued immediately, like she hadn’t just finished telling me that she’d respect my desire for privacy. “What was it like? Was it awkward? You weren’t disappointed, were you? Everything went okay?”

I closed my eyes and breathed through my nose, counted to ten, imagined myself in my happy place and all the other bullshit techniques to ease off stress. I put my bowl back in the microwave and set the timer for another minute. Then I went to the fridge to get myself something to drink to go along with my soup and set the table for myself, ignoring her insistence that I pour my heart out to her.

She watched me work and clicked her tongue. “Come on, John,” she said testily. “You’re gonna give me the silent treatment now? Grow up!”

“What do you WANT, Barb? You want me to tell you it was awful and I never want to do that again? You want me to tell you it was the best sex I’ve had in months? You want to hear how many times we did it? Or what we talked about afterwards?” I snapped at her angrily. “I SAID I didn’t want to talk about it. You’ve been ignoring everything I’ve said lately though, so I suppose I should expect that NOTHING I say makes any difference. I told you I didn’t want this, told you I wasn’t interested in a house or a mistress or any of this bullshit you’ve been pushing on me, but you never stop. I tell you ‘no’ and you inform me that I have to do it anyway. I tell you I don’t want it and you tell me that you want it FOR me. It doesn’t matter what I say. So just tell me what I NEED to feel about this so we can skip the part where you pretend I have a say! WAS the sex good, Barb? DID I enjoy myself? AM I going to see her again? DO I love the house? Seriously, tell me! If I told you I hated the house and the sex and Cecilia and you for pushing it all on me, you’d just ignore it and push forward, telling me it was for my own good and that I’d love it all if I’d only grow up and give it a chance, so just tell me where I’m supposed to fucking stand to make your world complete.”

I stood there, staring at her with my soup spoon crumpled into a twisted wreck in my clenched fist. I’d been ranting at her like a madman. I was enraged and embarrassed and ashamed. No matter what I said and did, she ended up with her own way and it pissed me off. I was embarrassed that she knew every detail of every move I made and ashamed that she’d finally pushed me to betray my marriage like she had. I wasn’t prepared to talk to her about that and she wasn’t about to respect me enough to give me the space to process what was going on in my head.

The look on her face was priceless. If I wasn’t so ready to murder her and brave the consequences, I’d snap a picture to preserve that look. She was shocked to her core that I’d talk to her like that. “John,” she started in an unsteady whisper. “I ... Why didn’t you tell me that...”

“Why didn’t I tell you that I despise the way you keep pushing me and Cecilia together? Why didn’t I tell you I had no interest in a house? I fucking DID! You don’t listen. You got your way. What difference does it make now?! You treat me like a pawn and push me around. You have your lover and you get to keep him secret, but you want to know exactly WHO I’m with and apparently WHAT we’re doing. You want us to text you when our next meeting is so you’re in the loop? Or are you just gonna put a GPS tracker on us so you know when we’re at the same location?”

“John, I never wanted you to feel like you didn’t have a choice,” she told me.

“You bring Cecilia up so often that it’s the thing you talk to me about most,” I told her disgustedly. “Sure, I have a choice. I can say no every two fucking days for the rest of my life. It’s the same thing with the house. You’re obsessed with giving me a place to go and a person to fuck once I get there. I didn’t want either and I told you that repeatedly.” I tossed the ruined spoon in the trash and picked up my can of soda from the table. “That’s how things go around here. You give me a choice and then refuse to respect it when I make one. So let’s talk about it, since that’s what you want and I HAVE to do it! Yeah! I fucked Cecilia. It WAS the best sex I’ve had in months. We cleaned up, talked, fucked a second time and decided we were gonna keep doing it. She told me that you made her aware what the limits were. I told her to ignore what you told her. You’re in love with someone else. You’re so far out of fucking line, telling her to keep things from getting emotional, that I can’t even think of an analogy to match it. How do I feel about this whole thing? Filthy. When I found out you’d cheated on me, I was horrified, devastated. Today you succeeded in making me do the same thing and I hate it and I hate myself for it. I don’t blame Cecilia. I don’t even really blame you. I could have refused, but now I feel guilty and dirty and ashamed of myself. Not because I cheated on you. This was your idea and you did everything you fucking could to make it inevitable for all involved. I feel awful because I betrayed my marriage. Maybe that was what you were aiming for, wanting me to feel tarnished so you’d feel we were equal. I’d have preferred the knife. Thanks for respecting me enough to give me the time and space to work through it without pressuring me. Means a lot to me. Really.”

I walked out of the room and left her standing there in shock as I pelted down the stairs and put my shoes on. She was still standing there when I slammed the door behind me. I got in my car and started it, putting my soda in the cup holder and buckling my seat belt before backing out of the driveway and getting out of there. I drove aimlessly, wanting to cool down. I had tomorrow booked off from work in case I’d needed time to recover from the fight, so I didn’t have anywhere I needed to be or anyone that I needed to report to. I drove out to the Santa Monica pier and walked down to drink my soda while I stared at the Pacific. The sun was just setting and it was a marvelous view. I watched it and drank from the sweating can while I thought about my marriage or, more accurately, what was left of it.

I shivered and knew I’d have to go home eventually. I was still in my workout clothes from the gym. I was feeling the chill as night fell and the sky darkened. I didn’t have my wallet or my phone or any plan other than try to get hold of my temper and calm down. I was SO angry all the time now. I hated it. Now she’d made me cross that line and I hated that too. Did I hate her? I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t think so. I’d heard or read somewhere that the opposite of love wasn’t hate, but indifference and that seemed like a truer statement of where my head was. She could provoke me to anger, but that was situational. Mostly, I’d given up on caring about her antics.

“Fuck, my life’s a mess,” I muttered to myself. Fortunately there was no one close enough to overhear. I put my head down and took stock of my options. I could survive in my car for the night and then go back to the house tomorrow after she went to work, but there was always the chance that she’d take the day off and wait for me. There was also the possibility that she’d report me missing. That would be like her.

I crumpled up the can and tossed it in the recycling bin near the trash before taking the walk back to my car. Two months ago I had a perfect life. I loved my wife, I liked my job, I enjoyed fighting in the cage, I had everything I wanted. Now I hated my life. I was barely married, my job hadn’t changed, but my attitude was shifting somewhat. Even my last fight wasn’t enjoyable. I fought out of fear and rage. I’d seen Brad’s face across the cage when the bell rang and the animal in me took over. I hated my shitty Nissan, my dead marriage, my suburban home, my office job and my sham of a life. About the only thing that had happened lately that didn’t make me feel loathing was the time I spent with Cecilia. Was there a future there or just a bandage for the wounds in every other corner of my life? I guess time would tell.

I sighed and got back in my car, pulling out of the parking lot and driving around a little more until I had to admit that I was tired and wanted to go home and sleep. I was thinking about whether to go to the trouble to make up the guest room or take the couch again. We’d converted two of the bedrooms to home offices and had the downstairs bedroom set up for the rare occasions that we had guests. My parents had retired to Phoenix and didn’t like to travel. They liked the heat there. Barb’s parents lived in Oakland and her younger sister, Jane, was studying business at the University of Chicago. Jane was the one that used the guest room most often when she wanted to visit LA, but this year, she hadn’t. I wasn’t sure if Barb had told her that the house wasn’t a fun place to hang out or if Jane had picked up a boyfriend and had different priorities now, but she’d stayed away.

I sighed and wondered if I could sneak in long enough to pack a bag and get a hotel room for the night. I decided that she’d probably be waiting for me with a declaration that we needed to talk and a half-baked intention to bring me around to her way of thinking.

I turned the car toward home, wanting to go ANYWHERE else at the moment. When I got home, I sat in the car for a few minutes, dreading this next confrontation. It was after 11. My last decent meal was the light lunch we’d had at noon and I was regretting having left behind the soup. I finally got out of the car and went into the house. I took off my shoes and went upstairs. She was waiting on the sofa and she’d been crying.