February Sucks Same Old Me 4Of4

This is PART 4 OF 4 and the conclusion of a derivative work and alternate ending of GeorgeAnderson's story "February Sucks!" GeorgeAnderson is the author and sole owner of February Sucks and the characters he created. There are hundreds of other variations and alternate endings of "February Sucks" posted in Literotica's Loving Wives category. The original version can be read here:

https://literotica.com/s/february-sucks

WARNING: If you don't like 'em long and hard, this isn't for you. The four parts of this story add up to 93,000 words, and only now, the reader is finally in unfamiliar territory. If you've stayed with me this long, you have no business complaining about how long it is. You could have caught up on your yardwork, or knitted an afghan, or taken Spanish lessons, or finished Skyrim again. You could have done ANYTHING other than waste your time on this overblown take on a tired old LW trope that doesn't even BTB or show RAAC. I TOLD YOU SO at the beginning of every part, so please go somewhere else if you need to fling a one-star review and leave rude comments.

WARNING #2: If you've already read my story "C is for Cookie," thank you. That one is also Way Too Long, and I've already said everything in that one that I've said here. That story started its life as a version of this one, and I even inadvertently failed to change Jim's name to Dave once (oops). But Cookie told me in no uncertain terms that she belonged in her own feature, having upstaged everyone here, so I ended up swimming in the same waters twice.

The story continues, flashing forward twenty years from the end of Jim and Linda's marriage, to the events of their daughter Emma's wedding.

***

She took a step back. Resolved. She held her left hand in her right, slid her rings off, and handed them to me.

"I'll sign the papers. I'm... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

***

Twenty years is a long time.

Emma is getting married.

Let me catch you up:

Our divorce was final that August. Linda was married again by Thanksgiving. I have no idea how she did that or where she found the guy. It didn't last. Linda had tried to follow my plan of taking turns spending time at the house with the kids, and her new husband didn't care for that at all. He wanted her full time, and he wanted to take the kids with her and be their new dad. Linda wasn't having it- we had joint custody, and we were keeping them in their home. After all she'd done, she didn't want to take Emma and Tommy away from me. I guess her guy felt like she had only one foot in the marriage, and the whole thing lasted about eight months. Then she found another guy a few months later and married husband number three within another year. That lasted seven or eight years. He cheated on her several times and she eventually had enough of that, so she moved on to husband number four. She's been with him for almost ten years now. I have no idea what he's like. I hope he's a football fan.

I never learned if she really had kept things going with Marc LaValliere behind my back after she said she'd broken up with him. It didn't matter anyway. I also never learned if she'd been playing around behind my back before that, either. She'd said she hadn't, but really, I had no idea what she'd been up to with her little slut club. Once I realized what kind of person she was, I was inclined to imagine the worst.

I'd like to say that the Asshole eventually got what was coming to him. I'd like to say that some jealous husband eventually shot him or beat him half to death in a dark alley after crushing his nuts into tapioca. I'd like to say he got AIDS or syphilis and wasted away into pain and madness. I'd like to say that he married a gold digging trophy wife who'd go on to dump him and steal all his money and dignity. But nothing like that happened. Instead, he kept playing football for a few more years, and eventually got one of those routine minor injuries that didn't kill his career outright, but slowed him down enough to matter. He spent a few seasons riding the bench a little too often, until the team bought out his contract and he retired from the game as a rich man. He used his natural charisma to become a sports commentator and made even more money, got even more famous, and I'm sure he kept up his pastime of seducing even more married women. I can only pray that he eventually worked himself into a Hell of his own making, a shallow, bleak existence with no real friends or relationships or meaningful rewards... but I doubt it.

I kept up with Alison, slightly. I never dated her. As far as I know, she never dated anybody. She did start that support group with five or six other women who'd gone through Asshole's routine. I found three of them for her through my SmokeSignal contacts. They never staged any interventions, but they did meet once a month to commiserate. Linda refused to be a part of it. It turned out that Allison lied about the chlamydia. She just wanted to shake Linda up. I once reached out to Allie's ex, Barry, but he told me to fuck off. Oh, and her daughter Jenny turned out all right. She's thirty-one and has two kids of her own now. So at least there's that.

I didn't date, not for years. I kept myself busy with work and with the kids. Emma responded well to her therapy; once the situation at home had broken and the divorce was settled, her distracting antics faded away. After a year had gone by, she was back to her old self as Daddy's Girl and Queen Of My Heart, before becoming a Terrible Tween. She was the one who successfully nagged me into trying to date again. She said she didn't need a new mom, but I sure did need a new wife. She was eleven when she said that. How'd she get so smart, again?

Elizabeth was with us for six more years, which I later realized is a long, healthy life for a dog that size. She was one of the main reasons I didn't feel like I had to date. I had a loving "wife" at home, at least emotionally. There was a warm (albeit furry) body cuddled in my bed every night, a sympathetic soul, one who understood and shared my loss, who was willing to build something new with me, who helped me raise our children and knew how to listen and never peed on the floor.

God, this is even harder to say than all the rest of it.

I came home the day it happened and Sven ran over, all agitated. I tried to put his harness on for walkies, but he wouldn't have it. I thought it was odd that Elizabeth wasn't with him for walkies time, even though she'd been slowing down, but Sven was yipping and dancing and trying to get me to the bedroom.

Elizabeth was laying on the floor near the foot of my bed. She was too weak to hop up onto it. She hadn't eaten. She was barely breathing. Her nose was dry and hot. I scooped her into my arms and she opened one eye and twitched an ear.

Jim? Is that you?

"I'm here, old girl."

I'm tired. I'm so tired. It's late for me.

"Oh, Elizabeth." I felt my heart breaking all over again.

It's okay, Jim. You're with me now. Everything's okay. I love you.

"I love you, too, Elizabeth."

It's time. Help me out. Please. It'll be okay.

I wrapped her in my blanket and bundled her into the car. I don't know how I made it to the vet without crashing into anything. I drove slowly, not wanting any of it to be real. I could hardly see through my tears.

Doctor Bhadi was sympathetic. "We've stabilized her, but her body is shutting down. I'm afraid this is normal, she's about fifteen years old, isn't she? There's not much to do but... keep her comfortable and help her along. I'm sorry." I believed him.

"I... I understand."

"Listen, Mister Johnson. A lot of people, a lot of families, prefer not to be in the room. I understand that. It's hard to see. We can do it that way. But I have to tell you, whenever it's like that... well, my patients look for their people. They feel alone. It makes a difference to them, if their owners are there, touching them. I mean, while they go. It will mean something to Elizabeth if you're holding her when the lights go out. It's your choice. You do what's right for you. I understand either way."

God Damn It.

"Of course I'll be there. She's given me so much. I owe her that."

"Thank you. You're a good man. However hard this is for you, I promise you, it will make a difference for her."

The lights were dimmed. Elizabeth was barely conscious. Her breathing was labored, more of a wheeze than anything else, and her eyes were heavy lidded.

"I'm here, Elizabeth. You're a good girl."

I'm a good girl. I've been a good dog for you, haven't I? I told you I would be.

"You were right, old girl. You're the best dog in the world."

Don't be sad, Jim. You gave me a good life. You saved me, I know that.

"You saved me, too. I needed you. I didn't even know how much, but I needed you."

I'm glad we found each other. Half my life, Jim. I was with you for half my life. You gave me a new family. A good family. I'm sorry about your mate. I know you were sad. I did my best to fill in. I did what I could to help.

"Oh, god. Elizabeth. What am I going to do without you?"

You'll be okay. Sven's a grown dog, but Emma and Tommy still need you. There are other people and dogs who are going to need you, too, and some of them you haven't even met yet. You've still got a lot to do. I'm only sorry I can't stay to see it. You'll find another mate. Some woman who needs you. There's room in your heart for her. You've got a big heart for a human.

"Oh, Elizabeth. Oh, Honey. I love you so much."

I love you too. It's okay. Thank you for my life and our family and my time with you. Thank you, so, so much. I love you.

She made a faint licking motion with her tongue and her eyes glazed over. My hand was on her head, I brushed it down across her sweet grayed face and closed her eyes for the last time while my heart exploded and my chest convulsed with sobbing.

I don't remember another single thing that happened that day.

***

With Elizabeth gone and Emma needling me about dating again, I decided to start trying. It was almost seven years after that Leap Night.

It was awful.

I was set up with some woman named Ellen, an acquaintance of L.W.'s. She was pretty enough. I guess you'd have to call her beautiful. But I was awkward, embarrassed, and uncomfortable. I hadn't dated anybody but my wife for more than sixteen years, and I was never really all that good at dating to begin with. It was even worse as an adult, when your life is supposed to be in order. When you're young, everyone's full of hope and promise and healthy anxiety but cautious optimism about the future. At my age, with a failed marriage behind me, everyone was full of bitterness, regret, and clumsy baggage.

In principle, dating is no different than anything else. The first few times you do something new, you suck at it. But if you keep it up, it gets easier and you start to suck less. So I kept it up. I wrote profiles and took pictures and put it all online with those websites and apps. I joined the groups and went out and did the stuff. I made a lot of mistakes, but they were the ones I needed to make, and there's no getting around that. So I learned some of life's lessons.

The first one is that desperation is a stinky cologne. There is almost nothing more repulsive to anyone. I wanted to date because I wanted to prove myself worthy. I wanted to show Linda... hell, I wanted to show The World that I'm desirable and there's nothing wrong with me. Guess what? If you start out with the idea that you're NOT worthy and you're seeking evidence to prove yourself wrong, it's a disaster.

I learned that not all good relationships are supposed to be permanent. Sometimes, things run their course, it ends when it should, and there's nothing wrong with that. At best, a good relationship is open-ended. It will keep going indefinitely, as long as it's moving in a good direction for everyone involved. Some of the relationships I had were rewarding in their own way even if they didn't last- if I could go back in time to change them, I wouldn't do anything differently.

Looking back on it, I have to admit that I pursued some relationships because they seemed to be safely doomed. There were experiences I needed to have, so I sought them out and got them. Does that make me a hypocrite? Isn't that what Linda did? Maybe. Probably not. I wasn't married to anyone when I did that, neither were the women I went after. Besides I wasn't trying to fuck things up for anybody else the way the Asshole was.

I learned to broaden my horizons, how to ask for what I want and what I need, and how to be ready to give what's asked and needed. That turned out to be really, REALLY important. I have a "Type." Linda was my Type. Having a Type is STUPID. It's hard to be happy when you're helplessly enthralled. It's insane to assume that things will work out between two people because of desire. The only reliable principles that apply are openness, communication, and deliberate dedication to each other and to the relationship. I'd been so delighted with Linda... with WHAT she was, that I never noticed WHO she was. Boy, did I ever pay the price for that.

So, I deliberately dated AGAINST my Type. I was so all over the place, I almost didn't care what the women I tried to date looked like. Tall, short, fat, skinny, blonde, brunette, redhead, it didn't matter. Every woman is beautiful in her own way, in the right setting and circumstances, and the most attractive thing about a woman is how happy she is with me. I'm not a breast guy. Anything from "bee stings" to "the gazongas that ate Toledo" was okay by me. I'm not an ass guy, or a leg guy, or a foot guy. Really, so long as the lady was presentable, I was fine with her. If anything, I didn't trust a girl if she was TOO pretty. I didn't want to have to deal with anyone who was high maintenance or who had an air of entitlement. I sure as hell didn't want to have to chase away other men or compete for a woman's attention. Fuck that. You either want to be with me, or not. End of story.

The only rule I stuck to was "At least half my age plus seven years, rounding up" because I'm not a creep. I never got around to dating far outside my ethnicity, either, but I probably should have. That's a difficult thing to go for deliberately. It makes it look like you've got a fetish for it, and I don't. The one thing that I avoided was women who looked or acted like Linda. I'm sorry to say there were one or two prospects I might have snubbed because of that. I hope I didn't hurt their feelings.

Not only did my options increase a hundredfold, I learned that I like some things about women... about people, really, that I was NOT specifically looking for and never would have thought to seek out. I let myself be pleasantly surprised when I found good things, and I was less disappointed when I found things that weren't so good, because I didn't have an agenda. Just by being open to whatever they brought to the table, I was able to see them for who they were and I could appreciate them for that. God, if only I could have been like that when I was younger.

I learned that pretty much everybody means well. Few people are deliberately cruel. When that happens, it's mostly because we're thoughtless and selfish. Almost all of us just want to be loved and accepted.

I learned to say "I Love You." Those are big words, sure. But it's not a promise of forever. It's not a marriage proposal. It's just a feeling. And like I've said many times before: there's what you feel, and then there's what you do about it. I was able to allow myself, and my partners, the dignity of expressing genuine emotions without expecting anything more from them than just that.

Things eventually turned around for me. It was rough for a few years. I'd had no idea how Linda did what she did, landing feet-first into another marriage... er, series of marriages, but it doesn't work for men. Nobody rushes in to 'save' us or 'claim' us. But at some point after a few years, there came a tidal shift and suddenly everything started working in my favor. At first, it came in dribbles. Not a lot of success. Not a lot of single women around. The ladies in their thirties were all married and busy with kids and careers. The ones who were single didn't seem all that interested, they just went on a few dates here and there I guess because they thought they should. I never followed up if they were like that.

When women are young, they're the desired commodity. Men compete for them. They giggle and retreat, having an awful lot of fun juggling their suitors, secure in the knowledge that they'll always have a steady stream of boys knocking at their doors. But, sometime in middle age, that script flips. Everybody who wanted to pair up did, then a meaningful portion of the men (namely, the successful, aggressive ones who were in high demand to begin with) traded in their wives and girlfriends for younger, skinnier, hotter ones. Suddenly there were truckloads of women in their late thirties or early forties who weren't as shiny as they used to be, finding themselves starved for companionship and male validation. If a forty year old man has a job, and a car, and a place of his own, if he's unencumbered by drugs or alcohol or a gambling addiction, if he isn't gay, and is willing to date within his own age group, he'll find himself in the position formerly occupied by twenty-something women: All You Have To Do Is Show Up.

For a while, I was the hot commodity, and my "body count" tripled. I went through a dozen girlfriends in five years. Some of these relationships lasted weeks. The longest went on for almost ten months, the shortest were merely hookups. Two of these ladies remain friends of mine to this day. Another one wanted to get married to somebody, anybody, and she didn't much care who. Well, desperation is just as stinky when it's perfume. A different woman, who I really liked, had the decency to say she didn't think we were going anywhere after two dates and wished me luck. I was sorry to hear it, but I respected her saying so.

I'm afraid I must have come across as a jerk to at least a few of them, but I hope I can also say that some remember me fondly. I'd take a lot of comfort in the idea that I did as much good as harm, but I don't know, you can only declare that kind of thing after it's over. I was probably fifty-fifty. At least I got to sew a lot of the wild oats that I hadn't in my youth. I'm not especially proud of everything I did, but I am proud that I got through it.

They say dating is a rat race. Well, there are plenty of rats, but it's not a race. Things happen when they happen, and if they don't, they don't. There are far too many moving parts in human relationships to be able to engineer what might go on between you when you start getting close, and we're foolish to try. The best thing to do is to detach from the results, be comfortable with who you are, and develop confidence in yourself. Confidence is the opposite of desperation.

I ended up following Pete's advice and I quit worrying about it. I focused on myself, went to the gym when I didn't want to, and I pretty much quit drinking. I took the trouble to do the things that I otherwise wouldn't have done... and ended up taking dancing lessons. I remembered how the Asshole used that to his advantage, and I figured I needed to up my game. It turns out that there are more women than men taking these classes and I danced with an awful lot of them, and yes, that led to some dates. I had to make sure I wasn't being presumptuous about it and tried not to look like I was on the make. It's funny- the best way to date at my age is to seem like you're not overly interested.

Something I didn't expect is that dating stopped mattering to me so much after a while. The specter of "Dating Again" no longer loomed so large. I wasn't intimidated by it. I stopped trying so hard. There were some times when I realized I hadn't been on a date or had a steady casual relationship for quite a while, and I didn't miss it. It just didn't seem all that important any more.