Worth The Wait

"Why?" I finally asked softly. "And why did you turn me down for a date before? I thought we had something."

"We did have something, and it scared me. I didn't know how to handle it," she answered. "Look, Nicholas, you know that I've already got my path in life chosen, and we both know that long-distance relationships in college don't ever work out. I didn't want to start something with you and then have it fall apart six months later, and have you hate me. I really value your friendship, and I don't want to lose that. I don't have a lot of friends, and I really can't spare any. So if we just stay friends..."

"Okay, I get it. But why tonight, and what was that shit earlier with Laurie?"

"Considering she turned you down for prom, I felt she didn't have any claim on you, and I wanted to make sure you were leaving with me tonight. I wanted to send you off to college right.

"But it turned out really great for me... where did you learn all that other stuff? That was wonderful!" she gushed.

"Believe it or not, I learned it reading Penthouse and Playboy," I said. "There's a lot more to those magazines than just pictures of naked women. There are actually words in between those pictures."

"Huh. Who knew? That should certainly make you very popular in college," she said.

After we got dressed and sort of straightened up, I took Angela home. I went to the passenger side of the car, opened the door for her and helped her out. I then planted my best kiss on her.

"Goodbye, Dr. Talarico," I said in my most somber tone. "If you ever get any free time in your life at Cornell, how about sending an old friend a letter?"

I reached into the car, grabbed a pen and a piece of paper and scribbled down my college address.

"Goodbye, Nicholas," she said as she put my address in a pocket of her shorts, turned and walked into her house.

I actually did get a letter from Angela about a month later, telling me of all the exciting stuff she was doing. I wrote back about a week later, describing my life. I got a second letter a month after that, and I answered that, one, too, but that was to be the last letter I was to get. I got her point. I would be just a pleasant memory for her one day, I hoped.

******

Angela was right about my pussy eating skills making me very popular in college. I'm kind of a picky bastard, so I didn't just go out with any woman wanting a shot at me, but when I did go out and got to the point of sex, none of my partners ever left wanting, I'm proud to say. It's sort of like when you eat at the home of a good Italian or Jewish cook, if you go home hungry, that's on you. I felt — and still feel — that any women who wants more from me only has to ask.

As I said, I've never been one to date just for the sake of numbers. I don't have that kind of ego. I also don't think I need to date the best-looking girls... at least best looking on the outside. Yes, it's a bonus if a woman is as pretty on the outside as she is on the inside, but I truly look for inner beauty. But now I'm back to whining about Angela ...

Classes were interesting, to say the least. Since I was already fluent in French and had some CLEP credits, I went for an easier language and a tougher one my freshman year, taking Italian and Chinese. I added Spanish and Russian to the mix my sophomore year, then spent a semester in Italy for the first half of my junior year. I spent the second part of my junior year in China.

In essence, I was off-campus for my entire junior year.

For my senior year, I signed up for the only French class I could take, the most upper-level one, but I found I was a little rusty the first two weeks. We were actually using a book one level down from what we used in my senior year of high school. I could get by, but I couldn't dominate the way I used to, and was honestly not comfortable with myself. The professor was one of these "let's get everybody involved types," so I went to her and asked for a courtesy: I would turn in any work she wanted and take the tests, but I didn't want to be involved in any class discussions for two weeks. Then, I explained to her, I would not only participate, but probably dominate, to the detriment of the rest of the class.

I'm guessing Mme Crate was hard of hearing, because it seemed like she went out of her way to ask me questions for the next two weeks. That succeeded in pissing me off royally, and would result in me remaining silent. After two weeks of this, I was called in to speak with the dean of language arts, who told me about Mme Crate's complaint.

"Dean Patrick," I said forcefully. "Have you checked my transcript lately? Is there anyone in this school who's got a higher core classes GPA than I do, with even close to the amount of language diversity I have? Wouldn't it be a shame if this year's department honors winner dropped French because of professorial harassment, and made damn sure everybody knew about it at the awards banquet?"

At this point, I was feeling pretty smug with myself. Without another word, I turned around and went to walk out of the door... and literally knocked over my future wife.

Traci Patrick was the dean's daughter, and she was apparently coming through his doorway with his lunch from a local bistro when I spun around and walked right over the top of her, knocking the bag of food from her hand and sending her flat on her back. I was just about 6 feet tall, and this Munchkin had to be about 5-foot-nothing, so I just saw the top of her blonde head when I ran into her. I didn't know she was the dean's daughter at this point, but I felt terrible for flattening what appeared to be the cutest little thing I had seen on campus. She let out a string of invectives in French, which caused me to step back from attempting to help her off the floor. Without even giving it a second thought, I immediately started apologizing to her in perfect French. We then had a little give-and-take, also in French, before the dean introduced the sprite as his daughter, a senior at the university with a major in marketing.

"Apparently, seeing a beautiful young girl makes you much more comfortable speaking French," he said to me, in French, with a big smile on his face. "Now take my daughter someplace nice and apologize to her properly, and on the way back you can buy me another sandwich."

That lunch was the first of many we would have over the course of our senior year. It's tough to resist a beautiful woman with an hourglass figure in miniature, who can hold a conversation one minute than laugh like a 5-year-old when somebody tells a goofy joke. I asked her to marry me right before graduation, she accepted my ring and made the happiest man on the planet. We set the wedding for the next spring in her home church near Marist.

I had gotten a job in human relations with an international firm based in Washington, D.C., and Traci immediately found one in her field in our nation's capital. We decided to live just outside of D.C., in Virginia. We were close enough to play in the city when we wanted, but far enough away to be in our own world when we got home. We did all the usual kid things our first year on our own, including some great weekends where we hardly ever left our bed. The woman was practically insatiable in the sack, and she absolutely screamed when I'd eat her to a dozen orgasms as a warm-up.

The old saying is that "chance favors the prepared mind." My chance came about right after we were married the next spring, when I was waiting on line at a Starbucks during my lunch hour one day. These two young executive types ahead of me were talking about their company's need to hire two people who understood business. Finding one who also spoke Spanish wouldn't be hard, but finding one who spoke Russian was going to be a challenge, they agreed.

I knew I shouldn't have been listening, but...

"You could make it easy on yourselves and just hire me, and skip hiring the second person," I said to the pair.

They both looked at me quizzically, so I repeated myself, twice, once in Spanish and once in Russian.

"What are you drinking?" asked the taller of the two, who turned out to be Assistant Vice President Michael Abrams of 529 Orthopedics, a medical devices company. The other man turned out to be the head of the company's payroll department, John Hardacre. The three of us sat down at a table and in the span of 30 minutes they explained to me about a new position they could create for me within the company, and how this opportunity could be the career of a lifetime. I told them I needed to speak to my wife about this, and we set up an interview for two days later.

Tough to turn down a job that doubled my pretty good salary right out of the box. The only downside we could see would be the occasional travel, but we both agreed it would be worth it for the money. In fact, we noted that with proper budgeting on our part, Traci could become a full-time mom after we started having children in a few years.

Two years after starting with the company, my role had morphed into a combination of translator, business analyst, information specialist and "protector of the realm," as my immediate boss, CEO Ralph Turner, liked to call me. In loose terms, I became Mr. Turner's right-hand man, his go-to guy on a lot of projects. Since I spoke six languages, having added Arabic, I often sat in on some top-level negotiations. I wasn't the official translator on those negotiations, but my job was to make sure what Mr. Turner was being told wasn't getting "spun." It was sort of a covert role, but there were times where I'd have to break cover to keep things rolling. Those few times usually resulted in 529's official translator losing his or her job, and the other side sitting shame-faced at the table.

I was making incredible money and playing an important role for an international company at the age of 28. Traci had stopped working right before our first son, Joshua, was born three years previously, and three months before, she had presented me with a daughter, Isabel.

Traci was an amazing mother, running the kids to whichever sport or activity they had, keeping a great house, becoming a world-class cook and a volunteer extraordinaire for several non-profit groups. She was also a great hostess the few times we entertained.

Pregnancy only added about 10 pounds to Traci's frame, as she was a gym rat in addition to everything else she did. Those extra pounds seemed to go to the right places, too. She had no trouble turning heads wherever she went, whether she was dressed nicely or was in gym attire. I had no trouble with people looking, and she didn't seem to notice the admirers.

Even the traveling I occasionally had to do was pretty good. Since I was part of the "inner circle," I always travelled either business class or first class, and 529 always put us up at great hotels. Every now and then I'd have a women at a hotel bar get friendly and encourage me to pick up her up for an evening, but I always deflected the advances as courteously as I could. I was a one-woman man, although it was a nice compliment for a woman to think I wasn't a troll. I still had the mop of unruly hair, although I kept it above shoulder-length, and I stood 5-11 and a solid 180. I, too, was a gym rat.

Every now and then when a woman would try to pick me up, I would wonder about her story, especially the married ones. There were even a few I talked with who told me their stories, and most of the time I encouraged them to try to make things right in their marriages. I suppose some would call me a six-language Dr. Phil.

A few years later, we had concluded a negotiation with a hospital in New York City, and after having a great meal with the 529 crew, I had adjourned to the hotel's bar, which was mostly underlit and empty, for a nightcap or two of rye. Although I didn't turn my head to look, I could tell it was a woman who sat down next to me as I could smell her perfume.

"Buy an old friend a drink?" she asked in that direct way of hers, and I knew in an instant it was Angela.

"Dr. Talarico, I presume?" I questioned brightly.

"Always will be. You remembered. Like I told you all those years ago, just easier to keep the name, the husband's..."

I studied her face silently. With the exception of perhaps seeing too much pain and suffering from her patients, and maybe in her own life, showing in her eyes, the face was almost exactly the same as I remembered it. She was dressed for an evening out and looked wonderful; she was still a big woman at about 5-10, but she looked to be a little slimmer than she was in high school, maybe 140 pounds. The ample boobs and butt added nicely to her look.

I took all of that in quickly, and most women wouldn't even have realized I took as good a look as I did, but this was Angela. Nothing got by Angela.

"Did I pass muster?" she asked in a sassy voice. She blinked, waiting for an answer. Of course. This was Angela.

"Yass!" I sassed back.

We both chuckled and sighed. I ordered her a Tanqueray and tonic.

I knew from talking with some old friends occasionally that she was an up-and-coming heart surgeon destined for a very big career. I expected nothing less. I also knew that her career would come before her personal life, and evidence of that was her left ring finger being empty despite a slight groove being in the skin.

"One so far?" I asked as I held up my left hand and wiggled my fingers.

"Yeah. He was a good man. He just couldn't put up with all the time I needed to get this done. I didn't lie to him, like I didn't lie to you."

No, she hadn't lied to me. She gave it to me straight.

"What about you, Nicholas? Are you translating at the UN or something noble like that? Wife and 17 kids?

I related the story of how I got my job at 529 and how it had progressed. I then took out my phone and showed her photos of Traci and the kids. She seemed very happy for me. We had a couple of drinks, then I paid the bartender and said my good-night. She leaned in and gave me a very soft kiss on my cheek. I returned the favor. We exchanged cell numbers, mostly out of courtesy, because I knew she would never have the time to return my calls.

Traci went back to work part time when our second child hit junior high school. Six months after the youngest graduated and left for college, she went back full time. She was working in the PR department for one of the area colleges, and really seemed to be enjoying her work. Our home life continued on as it always had, except for the new feeling of being empty-nesters. It took us a while to catch on to that, but one Sunday we took a trip down memory lane and hardly left the bed for the entire day. The difference was that this time we were both 46 as opposed to our early 20s. I have to admit that I slept like an absolute beast that night, and had more than a few sore muscles when I went into work the next morning.

"Hey, Grandpa! Forget your cane?" one of the young bucks said to me as I sort of limped to the break room for my first cup of coffee of the morning.

Traci left the university a couple of years later and went to work at a large financial services company that was relocating from upper New York state to the D.C. metro area. Since they were new to the area but she was a veteran, she noted that she would have a lot of input on several aspects of the company, including things like directing the company's non-profit spending. She pointed out to me that she might have to work over on some projects, but it wouldn't affect our home life too much. I was as supportive as I could be of the move, and told her to go for it.

I didn't think anything of it at first, but about a month after Traci went to work at the financial services firm, she started to work late an hour or two about twice a week, then a couple of times there were some late rights in the 10 PM to 11 PM range. She explained those as dinners with some important clients and/or leaders of some of the non-profits the firm was working with and for, and that made sense considering her position. I didn't notice any changes in her behavior at home and she seemed to still be the loving wife I always had, but I still got this funny feeling from time to time, almost as if she was trying too hard to be Mrs. Perfect.

A few months later her parents came down from New York for a visit. At one point, Traci and her mother were in the kitchen, and her father and I were in the family room of our home watching sports and just generally shooting the breeze.

"So how does Traci like working for Dennis O'Brien? I heard he had taken over most of the day-to-day from his father, Chuck, a few years back. Good for Chuck. He was a couple of years younger than me, if I remember. That would probably make him about 65," Joe Patrick said.

"Traci knew her boss before she started working for him?" I asked nonchalantly, trying not to show too much concern. "Heh, she never mentioned that."

"Oh yeah, the O'Briens lived just a few blocks away from us when the kids were growing up. Traci and Dennis were an item for the last two years of high school; even were prom queen and king. For a couple of minutes there, I thought he was going to be my son-in-law, but he broke up with Traci a few months after leaving for Michigan State. She was pretty heartbroken at the time, but you know how those kid things go."

I nodded while keeping down the bile that was rising. Traci and I hadn't talked much about our past love lives. Hers wasn't my concern, the same way mine wasn't her concern. But you would have thought she would have mentioned that her new boss was an old flame. I kept my wits about me but I realized I needed to at least verify my trust in my wife. I deftly changed the subject with Joe, but my brain was suddenly working overtime.

I really didn't even get a chance to put a plan into place before Traci and her boss smacked me in the face with their cheating, although I'm sure at the time they never realized what they had done. It was the simplest of actions, played out on a local TV newscast for everybody to see. I didn't see it, initially, but the beauty of the Internet is that something seen on TV never goes away. What a co-worker thought was a pretty good thing for me to be able to watch a replay of my wife on TV turned out to be the worst day of my life.

Dennis O'Brien thought it would be a good public relations move to do a splashy fund-raiser for Washington's police force to raise money for new equipment. They called the promotion "Love Ya, Blue," probably a take-off on the old theme used by the Houston Oilers when they were coached by Bum Phillips. O'Brien and Traci had been working on the fund-raiser for some time, and the company held a press conference to announce its kickoff. I didn't see the press conference, but several of my co-workers did, and stopped by my office to tell me that my wife had been on the noon news with her boss. The three of them and I called up the video from the CBS affiliate's website. Traci spoke first at the podium, and then introduced Dennis O'Brien, who walked up to the podium, leaned in to Traci while she put her hands on his forearms and gave her a soft, casual peck on the lips. Nothing too demonstrative, just a soft, casual peck on the lips, exactly like the kind of kiss I gave her when I left for week this morning.

"FUCK!" I growled, completely shocking my three co-workers. "That fucking whorebait bastard is sleeping with my Goddamn wife! I'll kill the two of them!"

I jumped out of my chair, but my co-workers were smart enough to stop me from leaving my office, despite my threats of physical violence to them. One of them called our security guy and another called Mr. Turner, and both came running.

Mr. Turner has been like a second father to me, so when he entered my office and told me to calm down and explain what had happened, I took some deep breaths and hit the play button on the video. Mr. Turner picked up on what he was seeing immediately.