My Blue Angel

Around 6 I got up to take a shower, enjoying the sound from the bedroom of Stephanie yelling at the refs to throw a fuckin' flag once in a while, willya? When I came out she said, "feel like staying for dinner? We could get Chinese again, or pizza or something."

I smiled. "Sorry, but I can't tonight. I told Carrie I'd be home for dinner."

Stephanie sat bolt upright, giving me a great view of her lovely breasts. "What the fuck? You mean she's back, and you're here? Does she know?"

"Yeah, she got home last night. I hit her with it this morning—about her fuck-buddy, I mean. And she knows exactly where I am, though I don't imagine she likes it much."

A slow smile came over Stephanie's face. "You are one tough son-of-a-bitch, aren't you?" She climbed out of bed, pulled on her nightie, and came over to give me a hug. "So what does this mean?" she murmured. "About us?"

I looked at her and said, "honestly, I don't know. There aren't really that many alternatives, and I'll know a lot more after tonight. I could end up divorced, in which case you are Item #1 on my To-Do list!" I smiled at her.

"Or I suppose Carrie and I could agree on an open marriage, given what she's been doing. In which case, see above. Or, just maybe, we'll work it out and go back to where I thought we had been all along."

Stephanie rubbed my shoulders, looking thoughtfully at me. "I like you a lot, Jack. In bed and out, actually. But I don't think I should be anywhere in the middle of your marriage—that's not what I had in mind when we started to play."

I kissed her. "I understand. First things first—and that's dealing with Carrie. After that we'll see. But I sure wouldn't mind a lot more of what we've been doing, Steph."

Catching her by surprise, I grabbed her by the ass and lifted her up into my arms. Squealing, she cinched her legs around my waist and hugged me, giggling as I kissed her again, hard. She was no lightweight, but it was worth it!

***************

When I came into the house there was music playing, softly—Vivaldi or something. I peeked into the dining room and saw the table set for two, complete with place mats, nice napkins, and two tall candles. Before I could go looking for Carrie she came in from the kitchen holding a roast chicken in a big pan. She'd put on one of her nicer dresses, much fancier than usual for a quiet weekend dinner at home.

"There you are," she said, in what sounded like a voice full of forced cheer. "Dinner is just ready, so come sit down." In a moment she was back from the kitchen with two more dishes: rice pilaf and spinach. As I sat down she pulled a bottle of a nice white wine we both like out of a cooler and poured us each a glass.

"This looks delicious, Carrie," I said. We toasted one another silently with the wine, and ate our dinner without much talking. There was some conversation about innocent things—latest news from the kids, what was up at my work—but there was too much going unsaid and too many subjects that had to be avoided. It was tense, and she was clearly enjoying it a lot less than I was.

When she cleared the table and brought out a beautiful apple pie, I'd suddenly had enough. All day—all week actually—I'd had thoughts swirling around and around in my head. Could my marriage be saved? Did I want to save it? Would I be just as well off as a single guy again? Was any sort of future with Stephanie possible?

And I realized that—at that exact moment, at least—it all depended on what Carrie had to say. On what her story would be, and how she'd tell it.

"So, Carrie, shall we get to it? What's first? Should we talk about my afternoon with Stephanie, or about your week with Roger Dionne? Which of us has been getting the better fucking? How many other lovers or fuck-buddies or whatever you call them you've been spreading your legs for? Whether we're going to have an open marriage, or no marriage at all? Where would you like to start?"

I'd caught her by surprise—she stared at me, face pale, mouth open. Then she began to cry quietly.

"Jack, I'm ... I'm an awful person." She spoke quietly, tears dripping down her face and onto the table. "I'm selfish, I'm immature, I'm a liar and a cheater."

She looked up at me. "You know that before you I never even had a relationship that lasted a year. I was always, I don't know, restless or moody or claustrophobic, always discontented with what I had. And when we ... got together, when we fell in love and you asked me to marry you, I was so happy, so relieved! I felt like, at last! Now I've found the right guy and I'll love him to death, forever. No more restlessness, no more worrying about what else or who else was out there. Just one man who made me so happy ..."

Now I was the one who was surprised. No evasions, no trying to minimize what she'd done, although I didn't know all of it yet. This was not what I'd expected.

"And I have been," she went on. "Happy, I mean. With you, with us, even with getting to be the stepmom to the kids." She looked at me. "I can't tell you how blessed I feel, whenever I think about it.

"But it hasn't stopped me from continuing to be a selfish, fucked-up, cheating bitch. And I know I've ruined everything, and I don't even know what ..."

At this point she lost it completely, sobbing convulsively, her hands covering her face. I waited for her to cry herself out. Part of me wanted to comfort her, put an arm around her; but most of me wanted her to have to feel what she was feeling: alone, guilty, scared. She'd made me feel like shit and I wanted her to feel like shit.

Not so noble, I guess, but can you blame me?

***************

After a few minutes she started to calm down, catch her breath. I said, "why don't you go wash your face, and we can sit on the deck and talk."

When we were settled I said, "you have any idea what's going to happen now?"

She shook her head, looking haunted, and I said, "actually, me neither. But we're going to start with you telling me about it. Not the disgusting details, but who, how many, where and when.

"And Goddammit it Carrie, you lie to me even once—even over something small—and I'll throw your fucking ass out of this house."

"Okay." She said it in a tiny voice. "No lies."

There had been three of them. A one-night stand, five years ago, when she'd been visiting Margie and they'd gone out dancing at a Nashville club. They both picked up guys and took them back to Margie's place for the night.

Then, for three years, nothing. Carrie had been shocked at herself, frightened of what she'd done. But the scare didn't last, obviously; she did it again, got picked up at a bar when she was visiting Margie and spent the night in the guy's hotel room. He was a married businessman from L.A.

After that, Carrie said, she wasn't quite so scared. She felt bad, she swore to herself she'd never ever do it again; but she wasn't quite as terrified.

The third guy was Roger Dionne. That part was as I'd imagined it: he met her on business in Charlotte, they flirted, and instead of telling him to piss off she let him keep working on her. After a few months, a number of private lunches and a few stolen kisses, she said OK. But she told him she would absolutely never get together with him in Charlotte. Finally he came up with the idea that she visit him in Florida.

On her most recent visit to Margie's, she flew to Nashville on Saturday, then got on a plane to Miami and spent four days with Roger before heading back to Nashville for the rest of the week. She didn't want to risk flying home directly from Miami and me finding out somehow.

She swore she had absolutely no intention of ever seeing him again, and I actually believed her. No part of the story suggested anything romantic. And the sex, at least as Carrie told the story, sounded pretty ordinary. Exciting, like a new affair, but nothing cosmic.

When she was done telling me her story she sat back; she looked exhausted. To my surprise, I found that I was already clear on what I wanted.

"Okay," I said. "Now it's your turn to listen. When I point at you, you say 'Yes Jack'—otherwise you shut your damn mouth, all right Carrie?"

I pointed at her. She nodded, looking scared, then belatedly said, "Yes Jack."

"I love you and value our marriage and I fucking HATE what you've done. Part of me wants to grab you around the neck and slowly strangle you, watching your face as you die.

"You've shat all over me and our marriage. You've betrayed our love and my faith in you and all the hard work we've both done to make our marriage succeed. You should be fucking ashamed of yourself—you know that, right?"

I pointed at her and she promptly said, "yes, Jack," nodding so vigorously that I almost broke into a smile.

"There are only three things that can happen—and I've already ruled out one of them," I said. I got up and started walking back and forth, watching her face.

"One. We can get a divorce. Nice and simple and clean. We just say hasta la vista, and you can move out of this house and spread your legs for any asshole who catches your eye. You can be free to be as restless and selfish and irresponsible as you want—no lies to tell, no one's heart to stomp on.

"Two. We can decide we'll have an open marriage. No sense living up to our marriage vows, they're so antiquated and oppressive, right? You fuck who you like, I fuck who I like, Stephanie Prince or whoever, and if we ever feel like it we might even fuck each other once in awhile.

Except that one doesn't work for me. There won't be any real love in that one, any trust, any connection. That's not a marriage that could ever make me happy, so I won't do it. Period.

"That leaves Three. We stay married. We decide that the words we said to each other twelve years ago, the ones about forsaking all others, still mean something to us—even after you pissed all over them, and after I spent some nights in Stephanie's bed. We—"

"I choose Three." She looked frightened but she said it right away.

"Didn't I say don't talk?"

"Yes, Jack, you did. I can't help it—I choose Three. That is, if I get a choice. You haven't said yet whether you're letting me have a vote. But my vote is for Three."

"Okay," I said. I was pleased, but I didn't let it show. "Now shut up again. The only one with a vote is me, got it? Say, 'yes, Jack.' "

"Yes, Jack." There was a tiny glimmer of a smile on her face, and I imagined maybe on mine too.

"Number Three would mean there's a lot to fix, a lot of work to do.

"You get tested to see what STDs that asshole gave you; and I guess I've got to get tested as well. I was careful with Stephanie, but even though you say you used condoms I'll be damned if I'm going to risk it.

"You start seeing a therapist, and we start seeing a marriage counselor. Frankly I think it's the first of those that matters—I don't see that this is OUR fucking problem, it's YOUR fucking problem. But I'm sure a counselor can help us communicate better. Even if it's only so I know when I should kick your ass before you do something else even one-eighth as stupid.

"Next, you nail your legs together. Got it?" I pointed at her and she said, "yes, Jack." There were tears on her face but she was starting to smile.

"You remind yourself that there's only one guy you flirt with, one guy you kiss or touch, one guy you fuck. Ever. And that's me. And if you don't like that, if you think that's 'just too confining,' then we're back to Number One."

I glanced at her and the smile was gone. "Yes, Jack. Yes, I get it—yes, absolutely."

"Okay," I said, still pacing. Thinking. "There may be some more, as we go forward—things I'll think of later, or that a marriage counselor might suggest. But there are two more for now.

"First is that Nashville is over—you're never going there again." Carrie's head jerked up and she opened her mouth, but then she shut it again. Then she nodded and said, "yes, Jack."

"Your little friend Margie has been right in the middle of you fucking up our marriage, and that's gonna stop. If you want to see her you can invite her here. And after I fucking rip her a new asshole, I might even let her stay in the guest room for a night or two. Got it?"

"Yes, Jack." She said it before I even glanced at her. "And I'm sorry. You're absolutely right, about Margie and ... about all of it."

"Now, the last one. I keep seeing Stephanie. Not all the time, but every now and then. Whenever I feel like it. To have dinner, to sleep with, whatever. Until I decide I've had enough—or you've had enough. Say it." I pointed at her.

"Yes, Jack." Her face was pale, and the tears were back in her eyes.

"Doesn't feel too good, does it? Thinking of me with her? That great body, those long legs wrapped around me—us fucking, or just kissing? Maybe just lying around whispering sweet nothings to each other?"

"No, Jack, it doesn't feel good. It hurts, a lot. And I know why you're saying these things, and you're right. So I say, 'yes, Jack.' " She was crying a little but she held my gaze.

"And I'm so sorry for, for being a selfish idiot. And for hurting you so ..." She broke out into sobs again, and this time I went over and pulled her up into my arms, still angry but loving her warmth and softness against me.

She held me tightly, crying, and finally she said, "you haven't told me your vote yet, but mine is still for Three. With all your conditions."

"Good. That's my vote too. Number Three."

***************

Carrie was fast asleep next to me, snoring softly. I was still wide awake, thoughtful, but I felt good. The evening had ended with an extended loving blowjob; she wanted to make love but I absolutely refused to fuck my own wife with a condom, and she looked pretty ashamed when I said that. I knew I'd done her bareback the night before, but I was making a point. "When the blood test results come back and not a day sooner—until then you'll just have to blow me."

I was feeling surprisingly optimistic about my marriage. Maybe part of it was just a certain degree of maturity; at 41 my response to her adultery was more than just the blind rage I might have felt at 25. Like I told you back at the beginning of this, I know that Carrie loves me. She's messed-up, but she loves me. So if we can do something about the messed-up part, maybe we'll make it.

I didn't imagine I'd keep seeing Stephanie for very long. The sex was great, and I liked her a lot, but I couldn't see how it would do anything but get in the way of trying to rebuild my marriage to Carrie.

Still, just the possibility seemed like a nice bit of leverage to have in my pocket. And I really did like licking the Kung Pao chicken off her breasts.