My first short story, Feedback welcomed.
This story contains no sex. Just saving ya'll some time.
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"Morgan, why did you get us out of bed at this time of night?"
We'd walked up to Morgan's booth at Dusty's, the closest I'd ever seen to a neighborhood pub west of the Mississippi. We'd all had good times here, and some of the worst. Sharon, my girlfriend, sat down across from Morgan, sliding down the bench to give me room.
"Um..." Morgan hesitated. Not really like her. As much as I'd loved her when we were married, the first thing that I'd tell you about Morgan was that she never hesitated. "Sharon, would you mind if I talked to Gerald alone?"
Sharon looked to me for just a moment, then headed for the bar. I knew I'd get another earful about the Issues that my Ex had. Impatience being only the first of a laundry-list. Thing was, I rather agreed with Sharon, though both of us avoided saying anything in front of the kids. My kids that is, Tim and Pat born when Morgan and I had just left the newlywed stage.
Continuing the odd trend, Morgan stayed quiet until after my water had arrived and Morgan's coffee was refreshed. It was only after a long drink of the steaming French Vanilla that she spoke.
"Gerry, I think I made a horrible mistake four years ago."
***
Then...
Morgan and I met, as so many couples seem to, on a college campus. We married after graduation, in her family's small friendly church. Neither of us had any particularly strong religious leanings, but we didn't want to disappoint her parents. I'd picked up a job as an engineer in a software company, and she'd begun following in her father's footsteps as a lawyer. Two years after she made the bar, we decided that we could start working on kids. About a year later, the twins were born.
I've never been the stereotypical programmer; for that matter I've known very few who are. My manager and his boss as well eventually picked up on that, and offered me a position in sales. I was reluctant at first, but soon found that I could make a good deal more than I had as a programmer with the commissions on the contracts I brought the company. Unlike so many from the nineties, I could actually match what the client needed with what my company was capable of providing. Where others in marketing would make outrageous claims and failing their clients miserably, my clients were happily recommending me and my employers to their clients because we would only promise what we could deliver.
Likewise, after negotiating a place in her fathers firm, Morgan had quietly begun making a reputation for herself as a passionate attorney who regularly handled pro bono work. Not all of her cases were necessarily popular with her family, but she was proud of the work she did for the community. It was a curious bit of irony for those who knew her well; her legal work was exceptionally well researched and planned, but in her personal life, she was rather spontaneous, jumping the gun without someone to keep her in check. Often as not, that someone was me.
One of the few downsides to my sales position was the need for regular travel. Morgan had been understanding, her own career had taken a lot of time from the family as well. As often as I could, I'd bring her with me, but after the first year, things became difficult. We'd try, but things kept getting worse. Then one Saturday after a week long business trip, I came home to an empty house.
Usually the twins were there for hugs and the inevitable souvenirs that I'd acquire while away. Morgan would want a kiss or to just be together for a while. We'd all go out to a kids pizza place where the prices were impossibly high and the cheese tasted like milky rubber. Sometimes there would be a family lunch at the grandparents, and the kids would stay the night while Morgan and I relaxed at home for a bit.
I yelled, I searched, but no sign of them in the house. I went to the phone, to begin calling our friends, when I saw the post-it note directing me to read the note on the table.
Gerald,
I saw the pictures of what you did with that blond woman. I don't know you anymore. I'm staying at my parents' house.
Don't try to talk to me. There's nothing you can say that will change anything.
Morgan
Blond What? The only blond I'd been around recently was Robin Jobe, and there was no way anything would happen with him. So I did the first thing any man would do. I called her Cell, her parents' house, then called every friend or relative that I had a number for. Those who would talk to me wouldn't say much. Most just asked me not to call, which was far better than what I got when I tried to talk her father into letting me see her. His response was short and to the point.
"You really think I'd let a cheater walk into my house?"
That continued until the following Wednesday when I was served at work. Not just the standard divorce paperwork, but a restraining order preventing me from coming within 100 feet of her, the twins and any conceivable location they might be.
Having no other options that didn't lead to an arrest, I got a lawyer. She took one look at my wife's attorney on the docket, and about crapped herself. The best Divorce lawyer in the state, and possibly the greater southwest region was representing Morgan. The Irony was that she wasn't asking for much, even the child support was minimal. Which about described how much time she wanted to give me with the twins.
I did my best to fight for my family, trying every tactic I or my attorney could think of. Unfortunately, between my wife and her attorney, they had to much pull with the judicial system for my efforts to do anything but get me chastised by the court. The judge grudgingly gave me half a day each month to spend with my children. And Father's day, as long as both didn't happen on the same weekend.
For the next year, I'd have to call the cops to have any time whatsoever with my children. Literally showing up on my former in-laws' porch with an off-duty Officer in tow, just to have my children for the day. It got to the point where I'd have the aforementioned lawyer call ahead, reminding my former father in law that there was a court order giving me custody from noon to five in the afternoon. I'd see him there with the twins, but I never saw Morgan once.
I wasn't idle during that time; every hour not spent working looking for anything that could have caused my wife to leave me. During the divorce, the judge had thrown out anything even resembling a request for the images that had sent my ex-wife running. What little I'd been able to glean from her lawyer's comments told me that she'd received them via e-mail on her laptop. I'd talked with private investigators, hackers, crackers, and even a few honest-to-god former NSA black hatters. Illegal? Yes, but I had to know. What they could tell me was that the original laptop had been infected with a virus that scrambled all the data on the hard drive the Friday before I returned home.
The only other thing that they got for me was the original petition for divorce my ex had penned. That claimed that she had photographic proof of my alleged infidelity. An impressive feat, since I hadn't slept with anyone else since I met her. Just one thing that I couldn't understand. If she had the evidence, why not bring it up in court? I was stymied.
