Here's to the lawyer who spends his nights working on another man's wife. The fork stopped halfway to my mouth when Monica said it. Just like that, over Tuesday night Meatloaf, my wife of 18 years dropped the bomb that would change everything. I've been having fantasies about you, me, and Trent together, she said, cutting her meat with surgical precision. Actually, I invited him over tonight to discuss it.
The doorbell rang. Perfect. It's terrible timing. I'm Jack Morrison, 43 years old, former Golden Gloves boxer turned insurance adjuster. I've seen enough car wrecks and house fires to know when something's about to explode.
The smug smile spreading across Monica's face told me I was sitting in the blast zone. That must be him now, she said, dabbing her lips with the cloth napkin I'd ironed that morning because apparently I iron napkins now. Our daughter Lily didn't even look up from her phone. 17 years old and already an expert at pretending her family wasn't completely messed up. Smart kid.
"You invited him here?" I asked, my voice steady despite the rage building in my chest like steam in a pressure cooker. "To our house to discuss your fantasies." Monica's green eyes sparkled with something that wasn't love. Hadn't been love for a long time, I realized. Don't be so dramatic, Jack. We're all adults here.
The doorbell rang again, longer this time, insistent. I stood up slowly, my chair scraping against the hardwood floor I'd refinished myself three summers ago. Back when I thought this marriage was worth saving. Back when I thought Monica appreciated the blood, sweat, and tears I'd poured into making this house a home. If he walks through that door, I said quietly.
I'm going to confront him. Monica laughed. Actually laughed. Oh, Jack, you're so possessive. It's 2023, not 1953.
People explore their romantic side now. Mom, gross," Lily muttered, finally looking up from her phone. "Can I eat at Sarah's?" "Finish your dinner, sweetheart," Monica said sweetly. "Then to me." "Are you going to answer the door, or should I?" I walked to the front door, my hands clenched into fists. Through the frosted glass, I could see Trent's outline.
Tall, lean, probably wearing one of those expensive suits Monica was always complimenting. Trent Blackwood, junior partner at Morrison and Associates. Yeah, same last name as me, but no relation. Just another cosmic joke in the crap show my life had become. I yanked the door open.
"Hey, Jack." Trent flashed his million-dollar smile, the one that probably melted panties in courtrooms across Maine. Monica invited me for dinner. Hope you don't mind. He was holding a bottle of wine. A nice bottle.
Probably cost more than I made in a day adjusting claims for fender benders and kitchen fires. Actually, I do mind, I said. His smile faltered. "Oh, well, maybe we could." I grabbed him by his silk tie and yanked him into the garage, slamming the door behind us. The automatic garage door was closed, giving us privacy.
My old boxing heavy bag hung in the corner next to the workbench where I'd built Lily's first bicycle. "Let me explain something to you, Trent," I said, backing him against my workbench. Tools rattled. "I don't care how many billable hours you've logged with my wife. I don't care about her fantasies.
But if you think you're walking into my house to discuss messing with my wife over pot roast, you're dumber than you look. I picked up a crowbar from the workbench, not to use it, just to make a point. And trust me, I continued, you look pretty foolish right now. Trent's face had gone pale. Jackman, I think there's been a misunderstanding.
The only misunderstanding is Monica thinking I'd sit there like a cuck while she planned a threesome at the dinner table. I tapped the crowbar against my palm. So, here's what's going to happen. You're going to take your fancy wine and your fancy suit and get the heck off my property. If I see you here again, you'll leave in a wheelchair.
We clear? The garage door to the house opened. Monica stood there, hands on her hips, looking more annoyed than concerned. Jack, what are you doing? Taking out the trash, I said, not taking my eyes off Trent.
Trent straightened his tie, trying to salvage some dignity. Maybe we should talk about this another time, Monica. There won't be another time, I said. Monica's laugh was sharp and cold. You're being ridiculous, Jack.
Trent is a colleague, a friend. Friends don't usually discuss intimate fantasies over family dinner, I replied. Trent edged toward the main garage door. I hit the button and it rumbled open. Our neighbor Barb was getting her mail across the street.
She waved, then noticed the tension and quickly looked away. This isn't over, Monica said as Trent hurried to his BMW. I watched him drive away, tires squealing slightly. Amateur. In my boxing days, I'd learned that the real fight starts after the first punch is thrown.
You're pathetic, Monica said behind me. Maybe next time I'll invite more friends. I turned to face my wife. She stood in the doorway like a queen surveying her disappointing kingdom. Her blonde hair was perfectly styled, her makeup flawless despite the late hour.
She'd always been beautiful. Too bad beauty was only skin deep. "You want a war, Monica?" I said quietly. "You'll get one." She smirked and walked back into the house, leaving me alone in the garage with my tools, my heavy bag, and the growing realization that my marriage wasn't just over. It had been dead for months, maybe years.
I just hadn't smelled the rot yet. My phone buzzed. A text from Barb. Everything okay over there? I typed back.
Just getting started. The next morning, Monica acted like nothing had happened. She sat at the kitchen island, scrolling through her phone and sipping coffee from the mug I bought her last Christmas. "World's greatest wife," it said. The irony wasn't lost on me.
"I'm thinking of redecorating the bedroom," she said without looking up. "Something more modern, less masculine. I was making eggs for Lily's breakfast, trying to maintain some normaly in our rapidly deteriorating household." Masculine? You mean the furniture I built with my own hands? It's very rustic, Monica said, finally meeting my eyes.
But I'm thinking we need a change. Fresh start. Lily stumbled into the kitchen, earbuds in, backpack slung over one shoulder. She grabbed a piece of toast and headed for the door. Breakfast, I called after her.
I'll eat at school, she mumbled. Lily, sit down and eat with your family, Monica said sharply. Our daughter stopped, pulled out one earbud, and looked between us. Even at 17, she could read the room better than most adults. "Are you guys getting divorced?" she asked bluntly.
The question hung in the air like smoke from a house fire. Monica's coffee cup paused halfway to her lips. I kept scrambling eggs. The only sound the sizzle of butter in the pan. "Don't be dramatic," Monica finally said.
"Your father and I are just exploring new dynamics in our relationship." Gross, mom. Just say you're having a midlife crisis like a normal person. I couldn't help but smile. Lily had inherited my sarcasm and Monica's sharp tongue. Dangerous combination.
After Lily left for school, Monica disappeared into her home office to prepare for court. I knew better. She was texting Trent, probably planning their next move. I'd seen the signs for months. Late nights at the office, new lingerie hidden in the back of her drawer, whispered phone calls that ended when I entered the room.