After the Concert

After the Concert

The genesis of this story was the ferry ride scene, and I just let it go where it wanted from there.

Thanks to MaryFrancis36 and UpperNorthLeft for their thoughtful editing. Their suggestions made this a better story.

© 2024 by Jalibar62

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Months ago, my daughter Rachael bought tickets for my wife and me to go see Chris Stapleton at the BB&T Pavilion, in Camden, New Jersey. Ingrid Andress was the opening act, and I was eagerly looking forward to both performances. It was an anniversary gift, and I had planned a whole weekend in Philadelphia for us.

Monique knew about the concert on Friday, but I was going to surprise her with tickets to the Kimmel Center on Saturday to see the Philadelphia Orchestra, then wrap it up at the Museum of Art on Sunday, where I would give her the emerald earrings that I'd picked out. And maybe find some rekindled romance along the way. We'd been a bit distant of late, and I was hoping this weekend would be a step toward fixing that.

About a week before the event, she had begged off, saying she had to work; her boss was calling an emergency meeting of all the senior managers, of which she was one. They were going to meet at her company's main office in DC. When I reminded her of the concert, she rather offhandedly suggested that I sell the tickets.

That pissed me off. "Are you serious? Rachael bought us these tickets! We've been looking forward to this! And it was supposed to be a surprise, so thanks for ruining that, but I had a whole romantic weekend planned! Are you seriously choosing work over our thirtieth anniversary?"

That shut her up for a moment, and she did look... guilty? Or just annoyed? Whatever it was, she covered it quickly and shot back, "I'm sorry, Greg, I just can't get out of it. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

I stared at her in shock. She could see it in my face, but she merely turned and went upstairs.

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Monique and I were both 52. We had gotten married right after college, where we both dated around before meeting at, of all places, a dance marathon. The university's Greek community sponsored it every year to raise money to fight childhood cancer. It was a pretty big deal, and it was very well organized. Anyway, we wound up next to each other during one of the many choreographed events, and I went the wrong way and crashed into her, both of us going to the floor in a tangle. I managed to twist around so that she fell on me, rather than vice versa. Not entirely unpleasant, at least from my perspective.

I helped her up, apologizing profusely, but to my surprise, she was laughing. Probably because we'd been up for nearly 30 hours straight at that point, and she - well, both of us - were a little giddy from sleep deprivation. We wound up talking and helping each other stay awake for the rest of the marathon. After it was over, we hugged, congratulated each other, and staggered off toward our respective houses for some much-needed rest.

When I woke up fourteen hours later in my room at the frat, I realized I hadn't gotten her number.

"Greg, you moron," I groaned to myself. Then I remembered that she was wearing a Sigma Alpha sweatshirt - well until it got too warm, and she took it off. To this day, I remember that moment. The T-shirt she was wearing underneath got hung in it, and dragged up her body, revealing the smooth skin and alluring contours of her abdomen, almost to the point where... I chose to be a gentleman and grabbed it, stopping it from going any higher. Even so, the movement of her breasts as the sweatshirt caught momentarily, and then released... I was hard in an instant. Again, sleep-deprived. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

She started to get upset with me until she realized what I had done, and then she stopped and thanked me, laughing softly at my eyes-averted, beet-red expression. She went up on tiptoes and kissed me on the cheek, and I was a goner.

But I digress.

Anyway, I had a half-formed plan of going over to the ΣΑ house and asking around, maybe leaving a note. You can imagine my surprise when I opened the door to leave, and standing in front of me, hand raised to knock, was Monique!

"Umm, hi!" I stammered.

"Hi yourself," she chirped. "You off to class or something? Sorry, I didn't mean to just drop in, but..." and she trailed off.

"No, actually... you might not believe this but I was just headed out to see if I could find you! I've been kicking myself for not getting your number and was panicking about how to get in touch, until I remembered your sweatshirt. ΣΑ, right?"

"Oh! Yep, that's right!" Her cheeks pinked, just a bit. "So, umm... maybe I can buy you a coffee? Or something?"

"I'd really like that," I replied.

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That was February of our junior year. We dated the rest of that semester, becoming intimate after our sixth date. It wasn't the first time for either of us, but we weren't very experienced and enjoyed learning and experimenting together.

Before we went home for the summer, we had a long talk. The gist of it was that we were falling for each other, not sure if it was love yet, but agreed that certainly, it was on the horizon. Heart in my throat, I asked if she considered us exclusive. Before she replied, I told her that I hadn't dated anyone since I met her.

When she didn't answer right away, my chest started to get tight.

"Greg, I haven't been with anyone else either since we started dating, but..." she wouldn't look at me, "we're going to be apart for the next three months."

It was true; I was headed to Eastport, MD to stay with my grandparents, where I had a job lined up with a large yacht broker, doing sailboat maintenance and minor refurbishment. She was flying back to St. Cloud to work in her mother's store.

With ever-increasing dread, I asked, "What exactly are you saying, Monique?"

She still wouldn't look at me. "I just... I don't want to promise you something and then not be able to keep it."

I was confused. "So, you're saying you want to see other guys? And by not promising to be exclusive, you expect me to be okay with it. Jesus, Monique, we've been dating for three months and sleeping together for two. Have you already gotten tired of me?"

"No! That's not... shit, this is coming out all wrong. I don't plan on seeing other guys. I just... I don't know, I don't want to lie to you. And I don't want you to have to lie to me, either." She stretched out a hand to me then, and I could tell she was trying to get me to understand something, but I wasn't having it.

I leaned back, out of her reach. "The only way I can interpret this conversation is that you don't intend to, but you don't want to rule out the possibility, is that it? And you don't care if the same thing applies to me. So that's a 'no' on exclusivity. Got it. Glad we had this conversation."

"Greg..." she pleaded, but I was already getting up.

"Have a good summer, Monique. Maybe I'll see you around."

I left her calling after me. It sounded like she was crying but I didn't look back.

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I guess in her mind she felt like she needed to be 'honest' with me, but it still hurt. I ignored her, for as long as I could, anyway, but I was young and thought I was in love, and I eventually returned her call. We wound up chatting fairly regularly over the first part of summer break and even tried some phone sex. But I admit, I was still pretty insecure. A couple of times when I called her house (in those pre-cell phone days) on a Friday or Saturday evening (yes, I admit I was trying to catch her out), it went straight to the answering machine. Or I'd get her mother, who would tell me that she was out with friends.

When she didn't call me back until two days later, my imagination had already gotten the better of me, and I just stopped calling. Yeah, childish. I couldn't help what I felt.

I lost myself in my work. I was part of a crew of four, two other guys and a girl, and we worked well together. All of them had girlfriends - well, in Allison's case, a boyfriend - but we still had a good time, both on the job and hanging out afterward. Allison and Sean both played guitar, and more than once we'd find an empty corner of the boatyard where we could build a small fire in an empty drum, sit around sipping cheap wine or beer, and singing. Even though I was a bit of a seventh wheel, it helped keep my mind off Monique.

So... yeah. When she did call, I would answer, and try to be positive, but the intimacy had been damaged badly, at least for me. She would ask what was wrong and I would give her noncommittal answers, like being tired from work.

"Greg, are we okay?" she finally asked about two weeks before fall classes started.

'Well. That was a question.' I had to ask myself, 'Was I in love with her, and did I want her in my life? Did I believe her when she said she felt the same? Did I trust her?'

At the moment, the answer to all of those questions was 'I don't know.'

So, I told her, "I'd rather not have this conversation on the phone. Let's get together at school and talk face-to-face, okay?"

I could tell she was a little thrown, but she just said, "O-okay. I miss you. I'll call you again soon."

We did speak twice more before school started back up, but not about anything of consequence. She called the frat house the first day we were both back, but I made her wait. I told her that as a senior, I had frat duties to take care of, and I'd call her. That didn't go over too well, and she showed up at my door the next day.

She stood there with her arms crossed, looking in equal parts nervous and defiant. "Stop hiding from me, Greg. Can you please tell me what you're thinking? What you're feeling?" Under my gaze, her demeanor broke and she looked like she was about to cry.

'I don 't think you really want to know,' I thought, but just said, "Fine, but not here." Some of my frat brothers were loitering nearby, and I had no desire for them to eavesdrop on our conversation. I guess I could have taken her up to my room, but... yeah, too soon.

I took her hand, and said, "Come on, let's take a walk." And that's what we did. She tried to get the conversation started a couple of times, but I asked her to be patient. The trouble was, she looked amazing, and all my feelings came rushing back. I needed the walk to give myself time to get settled.

We got to a nice quiet spot and found a bench to sit on. When we were finally situated, I turned to her, and she started right in.

"Greg, I'm so sorry about what I said before we left for the summer. I thought about it a lot, and I realized how selfish it sounded, and how much I hurt you. Being away from you... and now, seeing you again, I realize that my feelings for you haven't changed, and if you still want me, I'm yours. Only yours."

Without me even noticing, I saw that she had taken my hand in both of hers. I broke her gaze, turning my head to look out over the long green expanse that led up to the school's historic administration building. She was telling me exactly what I'd hoped to hear, only three months later than I wanted.

'Was it too late? Or maybe... could I get over my insecurity? Could I pretend last summer never happened, and treat this as a new beginning?' It all came back to the same old question. 'Did I trust her, and did I want her in my life?' I decided. 'Everyone deserves a second chance.'

With a sigh, I turned back to her. "Monique... that's all I ever wanted."

She threw her arms around my neck and sobbed into my chest.

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At graduation, both of us still in our caps and gowns, and with our parents watching, I got down on one knee.

Monique agreed to come east. "If I never see a Minnesota winter again, it'll be too soon," she swore, and we started looking for job opportunities. The economy was good, and we didn't have too much trouble finding work in our fields. We rented a small apartment and started saving for a house.

We were married the next summer, and as a wedding gift, our parents helped with the downpayment on a house that was close to the commuter rail, and in a good school district. Rachael came along the following May.

I didn't think life could get any better.

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Monique was about 5'3", with dark blond hair and soulful brown eyes. She always thought she was chunky, but I told her that to me, she was curvy, and I loved her body. I always complimented her, and she knew I loved her, but she always had just a touch of self-doubt. After Rachael was born, it got worse, but she worked hard and got back to close to her pre-baby weight.

I don't think she really believed me when I said I thought it made her look hotter. I got the look that said, 'You're my husband and you have to say nice things.'

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So, back to the here and now. She had just blown me off for our anniversary weekend, getting her nose bent out of shape and telling me that there was no way she could get out of this meeting, it was mandatory, and her boss was depending on her. She had her bags packed and she was out the door Friday morning.

"Love you dear, I'm so sorry we'll be missing everything! You were so thoughtful. I promise I'll make it up to you when I get back."

It was the first time I could remember not answering in kind when she said she loved me. And she didn't seem to notice when I didn't reply.

'Yeah, right. Screw her,' I thought. 'And what was that bit about 'we'll' be missing? Did she think I was going to sit home waiting for her? Not!'

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Damned if I was going to waste the weekend. I went upstairs to pack, wondering how our marriage had gotten to this place. We hadn't had a real conversation in months. Just exchanging information. 'I'm working late, don't wait up,' or, 'Don't forget, dinner with Rachael on Sunday,' or 'Can you please pick up my dry-cleaning on your way home?'

I felt like I had an increasingly distant roommate, rather than a loving wife. I couldn't remember the last time we'd had sex, let alone made love. This weekend was supposed to be our chance to try to mend all that. Begin to, anyway.

Well, it certainly was a beginning. Just not the one I expected.

I was wandering around the house looking for an extra charging cable for my phone and casually stuck my head in Monique's home office. Sitting right there beside her desk was the leather Bottega Veneta briefcase that I had given her for her 50^th birthday. Laptop inside, along with a few files.

'Shit.' I was pretty sure she'd need it for her meeting; she carried it religiously. I called her cell and was mildly surprised when it went straight to voicemail. 'What the heck, she just left the house less than two hours ago. It couldn't be dead. Which meant... she had turned it off. Odd.'

So I called her secretary. "Hey, Sally, it's Greg Pearson, Monique's husband." Sally was a recent addition to Monique's staff; her long-time assistant Cheryl having recently retired.

"Oh, hello Mr. Pearson! Mrs. Pearson isn't in the office; can I take a message?"

"Yes, I know, Sally. Monique told me that Mr. Rutledge called an emergency meeting and she'd be in DC all weekend. It's just that she left her briefcase behind, and I'm sure she needs it. If you could tell me where the conference is, I'll overnight it to her."

There was silence on the line for a few moments, then, "Umm... I'm sorry, Mr. Pearson, but I don't see anything on the schedule... I can try to call her if you'd like?"

'Hmmm.'

"That's all right Sally, I've tried calling, and I guess her phone is dead or she's somewhere with no coverage. I guess I got my dates wrong with the meeting." I forced a laugh. "Please don't mention this to her; she'll have me committed!"

She laughed politely. "Of course, Mr. Pearson. Was there anything else I can do?"

"No, that's all Sally, thank you. It was very nice to speak with you."

"Yes, likewise!"

And we rang off.

'Fuck.'

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'Fuck

Fuck

Fuckity

Fuck.'

I moped around in a bit - more than a bit, really - of a funk, doing a few mindless chores around the house. I spoke to our neighbor again about taking care of Sam, our Westie.

I finished packing and then found a few other things to keep myself occupied, as I waited until it was time to call an Uber to take me to the local train station. The entire time, I was wracking my brain for possible reasons that she would leave without her work lifeline. Despite what I had learned; and what I suspected, I refused to be drawn into that miasma of negativity and mistrust. I decided to stick to the original plan and enjoy myself. Well, do my best anyway.

Once in the city, I caught a taxi from 30^th Street to my hotel, where I checked in, dropped off my luggage, and freshened up a bit. Then I called an Uber to take me to the concert venue.

I was early, so I took a short walk around outside. I admired the decommissioned battleship New Jersey, which was moored nearby. 'Good lord, that ship was immense.' I was lost in thought for a while, thinking of all that she had seen and done.

Eventually, I came back to earth. I found the vendor area, decided to chuck my diet - actually Monique's - and bought a bucket of Boardwalk fries and a beer - both insanely overpriced - and went to find my seat.

Ingrid Andress was beautiful and talented, and her haunting lyrics were heart-wrenching. Perhaps my current situation made them more so? Maybe? Probably. I found myself near tears a few times. She finished far too quickly, and Chris came on and lived up to every bit of his reputation.

After the concert was over, I took the ferry from the pavilion to Penn's Landing. The show had been amazing, even being there alone, but for some reason (hah, I knew exactly why) I was feeling every one of my 52 years.

I must have looked awful because a young woman - she looked young to me, anyway - sat beside me and asked if I was all right. It startled me, and I jumped, which made her jump, and she started to giggle, and we both reached out and somehow wound up briefly holding hands.

She had thick, dark brown hair that fell in gentle waves past her shoulders. She also had the most startling blue eyes, and an open, kind face. Perfect figure, to my taste - not a skinny girl, but someone who you could wrap your arms around and feel warm and safe and loved. Quite a reaction, I realized, 30 seconds after meeting her.

I looked at our intertwined fingers, nonplussed, and gave her a bemused smile. Blushing, she gently let go, and within minutes, we were chatting like old friends. It was surreal; she appeared to be barely 30 - I later found out she was 34 - but we just clicked.

She had a friend with her, but when I tried to draw her into the conversation, the friend made noncommittal replies until she finally got up and stood by the rail, watching the water and the lights on the Ben Franklin Bridge. I raised an eyebrow at my new acquaintance, who had introduced herself as Catja, but she just shrugged and turned back to me to continue our chat.

Small talk was usually a chore with me, but it seemed to flow effortlessly with her. We talked about the concert, and some of our favorite artists, then moved to our jobs, and she amused me with some stories of places she'd been, and then I was telling her about soon becoming a grandfather and how old that made me feel, but also how much I was looking forward to it. She was smiling tenderly, listening to me effuse.