Baby Blue Blues

It was the eve of our thirtieth wedding anniversary. Since our daughter, Emily, was expecting any day, my wife suggested, and I agreed, we delay our celebration until after the arrival of our first grandchild. Then we could plan our anniversary around helping Emily and Michael with the new baby.

I thought I'd surprise Amy with a nice dinner at home to recognize our engagement and still be available if we got the happy news. If she complained I broke our agreement, I'd just claim we weren't celebrating our actual anniversary. I knew that was lame, but Amy had been working long hours lately, and I wanted to do something special for her.

I took half a day away from the office to prepare. I replicated our rehearsal dinner: grilled pork tenderloin with fresh sage leaves, lemon rice, snow peas and white chocolate raspberry cheesecake for dessert. I garnished the table setting with a bouquet of white lilies and scented candles. I even learned a fleur-de-les napkin fold.

Amy arrived home late, as usual. She came into the kitchen from the garage, dropped her portfolio bag on the counter, and walked right passed the dining room, her eyes glued to her phone as she headed down the hallway to our bedroom.

She made no notice of the sights and smells I had lovingly created. She acknowledged me with a perfunctory, "Hey, Chris."

This had happened too often lately, but I let it pass in honor of the occasion.

The fixation on her phone was no surprise. She worked for an up-and-coming ad agency and had been courting a potential client that, if signed, would earn her a significant bonus and a few steps further up the ladder toward a junior partnership. As she said more than once, open communication was critical at this stage in the negotiations.

That she completely missed the effort I had made in reproducing our rehearsal dinner hurt, more than just a little.

I carved and plated the tenderloin over a bed of rice and the peas on the side. I sat at my usual spot at the table and waited for Amy to return.

She took longer than usual but when she entered the dining room, she voiced the appropriate approvals.

"Oh, Chris! This is fantastic!"

I handed her a glass of Dom Pérignon and toasted, "To thirty glorious years with the most beautiful woman I know."

She went a little pale and looked at me wide-eyed. "Chris, that's not tonight, is it? I didn't miss it, did I?"

I wasn't sure if she had forgotten what day it was or if she had forgotten our anniversary altogether.

"No, Honey, our anniversary is tomorrow. We agreed to celebrate after Noah was born, remember."

"Then why all the fuss?

"Not that I don't appreciate it," she quickly added.

"I wanted to show you that I love you, appreciate you, and I'm proud that you're my wife," I said slowly.

"That's lovely, Chris. Thank you."

"This is what we had for our rehearsal dinner. Do you remember?"

"Ohmygod! That's so thoughtful! Oh, Chris..."

Her eyes welled up and it warmed my heart. She appeared to appreciate my efforts, even if I had to draw her attention to them.

"Well, let's dig in. The sooner we finish, the sooner we can put the icing on this cake," I said.

She gave me that sexy smirk that I loved so well but had seldom seen as of late.

Before she took her first bite, her ever-invasive phone announced an incoming text. She picked up her phone, read a bit, smirked, and furiously typed her response.

Yeah, smirked.

Then she waited,

she waited

, for a reply. I knew this was going to be a long, drawn-out conversation.

The hell with it,

I thought.

I'm eating.

Halfway through my meal, she finally looked up at me and smiled.

"It's Emily. Preggo talk," she said and returned her attention to her phone.

I finished my dinner before Amy had eaten a single bite. I wondered if she would miss me if I just stood up and left the table. Before I could test that theory, I got a text from our son-in-law, Michael.

Congrats, grandma and grandpa! Noah Christopher Tanner 8lb 2oz 21" bouncing baby boy. 10 fingers and 10 toes. 7:16 PM Mother and son doing fine. Poor Emily 11 hours in labor.

How could this be? She's texting with Emily right now but...shit. How stupid could I be. I was stunned. I felt like I'd been thrown off a cruise ship and no one noticed.

"Amy."

She continued typing.

"Amy!" I yelled.

"Hmmm?" she muttered without looking up from her phone.

"How's Emily doing?"

"She's understandably a little scared, Chris," she said, a little annoyed. "Still deciding whether to get an epidural or not."

Well, she had better decide quickly since she's already delivered.

"I see."

She went back to smirking and texting. She was so engrossed in her conversation she'd missed Michael's text.

She'd just lied to me, and what with the alleged "open communications," the late nights, and lack of attention to me, I had a pretty good idea why. She was cheating. When she finally got around to reading Michael's text, she'd know that I knew.

I got up slowly so as not to distract her from her treachery and retreated to my den. As I suspected, she didn't notice.

The den is the one room in the house I can call my own. When we bought and remodeled this old Craftsman sixteen years ago, I said one word to the designers. Masculine. I got what I asked for, an authentic hunting lodge ambience.

My favorite feature was the over-sized fireplace. There's something calming about burning wood and that was just what I needed.

I built a small fire in the fireplace with just a couple of small quarter round logs. I left the damper and flue wide open. I wanted this fire to burn hot and fast. I needed a good flame to calm myself down and clear my head.

They say pyromaniacs burn down houses to relieve an overpowering need. I didn't know why Amy felt the need to burn down our marriage, but she sure as hell lit up a goddamn bonfire.

I needed to think. I broke out the cheap bourbon and a three-dollar cigar. I save the good stuff for happier occasions.

The fire was reduced to embers, and I had a mental outline of short-term and long-term plans when Amy gently knocked on the door and entered.

"Chris," she said quietly, "I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say."

I wasn't sure what I wanted her to say. I expected at least some acknowledgement of severe pain she'd inflicted on me. She couldn't explain this away. Divorce was the only road open.

"There's nothing you

can

say. I will start looking for a lawyer right away. I suggest you do the same."

"I don't want to lose you, Chris."

"You've already lost me. I won't stay married to someone who shows me such disrespect."

"Chris..."

"You used Emily's pregnancy for cover," I interrupted. "You conducted your affair right in front of me. Right in my face, you bitch! I can't think of anything you could do that would be any more disrespectful."

"I meant no disrespect, Chris. I know it sounds hollow, but I do love you."

I took a long draw on the cigar and blew a smoke ring. I watched it drift toward the smoke eater until it dissipated altogether.

"Just not enough to keep from spreading your legs for some jackoff. Not enough to tell him you're not interested and to fuck off."

Amy was crying. "That's the problem. I was interested. I didn't want to be, but I was. Believe me, I struggled with those feelings. I didn't want this complication any more than you. I just couldn't stop loving him, any more than I could stop loving you."

Another smoke ring. She wouldn't give him up even if it meant divorce. She wasn't capable.

"So, you love him."

"Yes."

"And you love me."

"Yes, Chris, with all my..."

She realized how absurd what she was about to say would sound.

I blew a smoke ring right into her face.

"Not quite 'with all your heart,' huh."

She sniffled, wiped her eyes, then blew her nose.

"I never would have thought it possible to love two men," she said. "But it is. I'm living proof. I'm sorry, I wish it wasn't, but it's true."

"Amy, how long have you been 'in love' with this pecker head?"

"Please don't be crude, Chris..."

"Fuck you, Amy! Don't tell me how to handle my marriage falling apart. How fucking long?"

She paled and her shoulders tensed. She'd never heard such unmitigated vitriol from me. I'd never had a marriage crumble before.

She bowed her head, eyes closed. "Five months," she said.

Five months. More than half of Emily's pregnancy. Almost the entire length of her current project.

Oh, shit.

"It's your client, isn't it!"

She slowly nodded.

"You've been fucking a client! Goddamn, that son of a bitch sure knows how to negotiate a contract. Jesus h christ. Make a deal and get a little pussy on the side. Win fucking win!"

There's no way she loved him, or he loved her. There wasn't enough time to develop intimacy before they were playing hide the sausage. She was probably whirling around on his dick from day one.

"I call bullshit, Amy. There's no love involved here. He just wanted to jump your bones, get a favorable deal, and you fucking let him."

"No! Stop it, Chris! It's not like that. It's not. We're in love. We are!"

"Oh, hell, Amy, that's not true. It can't be true. You don't really love him. Some pissant comes along, makes your pussy tingle, and you rubber stamp it 'love' so you can justify getting some dick bigger than mine."

She was loudly sobbing by then.

"That's not true, Chris. It's not. It's not."

I waited until she composed herself and quieted down. It was time to end this nonsense.

"Amy, how long did we date before we got engaged?"

"Nine months," she whimpered.

"Nine months before we knew we loved each other enough to get married. How long did it take for dickhead to get your panties off, nine hours?"

She ran out of my den, bawling.

Love, my ass.

Epilogue

Amy and I split everything amicably and divorced six months later. Her paramour dumped her as soon as the contract was signed. His next target didn't appreciate his advances and reported him. His wife has since filed for divorce.

Amy's boss ordered a review of the contract after he caught wind of their affair. They kept her on, but she was officially reprimanded and will most likely never make junior partner.

At Noah's first birthday party, Emily pulled me aside and asked, "Dad, you got a second?"

I saw Amy watch us as we moved away from the other guests so we could talk privately.

Emily started by saying, "Dad, you and Mom get along so well since the divorce. I can't help but think you two should maybe give it another go.

"She loves you, Dad, and I've seen the way you look at her sometimes. I think you still love her, too."

"I miss her, Em. God help me, I do miss her. How can I not miss someone who's been a part of my life for thirty plus years, but I don't love her anymore. At least, not like that.

"I'll never be able to forget what she did or how she did it."

She looked confused.

"Then how do you do it, Dad? How can you be so nice to her when you're in the same room? I'd never forgive Mike if he cheated. They'd never find his body."

That made me smile but I couldn't tell her any more than she already knew. She loved Amy, rightfully so, but sometimes love repels truth. She'd never believe her mother was so defective.

It wasn't Amy that took nine months to fall in love with me. She would have married me after the first time we had sex. I'm the one that took so long to make sure.

I would never have fallen in love with her if I hadn't believed Amy was essentially a good person. But we all have flaws, and some defects are more detrimental than others. No mistake, Amy's failing is destructive, but it is no fault of her own, and hurts her more than anyone else, even if she doesn't realize it.

I discovered, way too late, Amy can't discern physical love from emotional love. It just isn't in her skill set. It's ingrained in her, either by nature or nurture. She believes she loved two men, when she truly loved only one and lusted after another.

To my way of thinking, sex without love is lust. Love without sex is platonic friendship. For Amy, they are conceptually one and the same.

The tragedy for Amy is she will never experience the transcendence of lust and love conjoined, yet that is the cement that ensures a lasting partnership. How can the whole be greater than the sum of the parts when the parts are identical?

How can you not pity someone who has such shortcomings? How can you not forgive someone worthy of such pity?

Maybe this is all one big steaming pile of horse manure, but it's my big steaming pile of horse manure and it helped me to forgive Amy, heal the heartache, and move on with my life.

"Everyone needs to find their own path to forgiveness, Em. I found mine."

"I love you, Daddy."

"I love you too, Sweet Pea."