Chapter 5
FIVE
Jess
It’s almost midnight when Tommy slips into our bed. The fucking gall. I immediately sit up and stare at him. My eyes wide. Livid. That’s what I am, livid. He has the nerve to get into our bed after… that?
“What are you doing?” I ask harshly.
“Come here.” He reaches out for me, but I lurch back and away from him. “Jess, baby, please come here.” No. No. No. I shake my head. Finding words is all of a sudden way too hard.
He sits up and slips an arm around my midsection, pulling me towards him. I could fight back, push him away, but the shitty thing is, I need somewhere to rest my head. I need someone to hold me and tell me everything is going to be alright. I need comforting, too, and it’s a miserable realization to understand that Tommy is that person for me — was that person for me.
Fuck him for smelling so good, too. The cologne I bought him for his birthday fills our shared space. Our shared existence. A nd especially fuck him for feeling so good, for absorbing the weight I’ve placed on his shoulder.
“Jess, I told you without telling you a long time ago.” I stiffen in his arms, at his words. I know Tommy is bisexual. I knew that. It’s never been an issue. Not once. It’s the betrayal that bothers me. It’s the fact that he’s not mine and mine alone that bothers me.
Yes, I knew there was someone he was with a long time ago that he still had feelings for, but he assured me it was in the past. It would have never worked. It could never happen. (Never say never, huh?)
“I didn’t know it was Jamie, Tommy. You left that part out.” I can feel him nod against my back, then rest his chin on my shoulder.
“Jamie didn’t want anyone to know. His family isn’t like our family, Jess. They don’t understand.”
“So now that Jamie’s ready, he says jump, and you do?” I ask, the hurt burning my airways.
“No,” he hesitates. “I’ve been trying to figure this out for a long time because I love you, Jess. But I also love Jamie. He’s my best friend, an-and I’ve wanted to be with him since I was 13.” My eyes well with tears. Not one fucking tear, Jess , and by sheer force of will, I swallow hard and hold them in.
“How can I compete with that?” I ask. I’m progressive. I’m all for polyamory, gender fluidity, sex-positivity, blended families. But when it comes to what I want, I don’t want to come in second place. I don’t want to be watered down to just some surrogate for their dream family.
Ugh ! I want to scream. Is this how my dad felt? Just some sperm donor, some extra to the leading roles of Jules and May? I’m just the “mistake” to Tommy and Jamie, aren’t I ?
“It doesn’t have to be a competition, sweetheart,” Tommy says, soothing me. I laugh inwardly, and roll my eyes.
I hate that I still love him, though . So when he pulls me onto his lap, I don’t stop him. When he peppers me with soft kisses along my shoulders, I let him. When he slips a hand under my nightgown, he finds me wet because my body still wants him.
I know I’m a sick bitch for still wanting him, I know that. But there’s this desperate part of me that has something to prove. That he still desires me. I’m still worthy. It wasn’t all a lie. And I am desperate — to prove all of that.
He lays me out beneath him, sliding my nightgown up my torso as he gazes at me intently. And it’s just like it’s always been. There’s still that same fire there. I can see where he’s bulging against his briefs. Nothing is different, nothing has changed…except me knowing.
His hand grips my breast as he trails hot kisses down my abdomen, and then, like a flip of a switch, the need within us both turns primal. There’s that desperation lacing each touch. There’s a torment in each tug of our garments. When he rips my nightgown, the sound makes me even more wet.
There’s a sort of tortured roughness when he pushes into me, and my head falls back, muscles already clenching and pulsing. I love my husband, I love my husband's cock, I love when my husband fucks me; the words play over in my mind.
But it’s all a lie, though. My husband? No. He was never mine, was he?
The needy desperation of fucking turns sour and my eyes clench tight as I focus on my pleasure and mine alone. Fuck you, Tommy DiAngelo. I put my hand on my clit and rub, bringing myself to orgasm within seconds. He comes with me, but I’ ve already started the disassociation and I don’t care. I barely wait for him to finish emptying himself when I push him off me.
Every bad feeling seems to find me at once. It’s anguish, it’s disgust, it’s despair. I picture Tommy and Jamie. Does Tommy fuck Jamie like that? Is it better? Do they make love? It’s not fast and hard, is it? It’s not like it just was with me, I bet. Where Tommy is just dying for it to be over as quickly as possible? Probably not.
Stumbling to the bathroom, I shut the water closet door, pee, clean up, then come back out to grab my phone off the charger.
“Where are you going?” Tommy asks, a little befuddled.
“I love you, Tommy, but I can’t do this. It’ll eat me alive.” Even in our darkened room, I can see his face fall. “I’ll be sleeping in the guest room until we figure out next steps…and you’re on morning duty.” I look down at my phone, July 13th, 2023 at 1:27 A.M. It's official now . My marriage is over.
I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling when I hear the first cry. It's shortly followed by the sound of Tommy shuffling down the hall to get our daughter.
Normally, I’d get her and bring her back to bed for morning cuddles. That was our routine. Get the baby, family cuddles in bed. Then Tommy would get up first to bring me a coffee that I’d drink while he got ready for the day. It sounds picturesque, right?
But that’s the thing about a picture. You’re getting a one dimensional view of someone’s life. Just a glimpse of someone’s layered an d nuanced existence. A picture tells the story of a fragment of a second. That’s all. Just an infinitesimal fraction of your life, representing such a small moment in time, it essentially amounts to nil in the scheme of things.
A quick snapshot glosses over the emotions, the hurt, the pain, and all the hidden secrets. (You won’t find those happily displayed on your Instagram feed.)
If someone took a photo of me right now, maybe they’d see some of the truth.
Hanging in some sparse gallery, a single photo is mounted to cheap cardstock. The work of art titled: “Sad Woman Stares at Ceiling.”
But if you’d have taken a photo of me at this exact time yesterday, the photo could have easily been titled “Marital Bliss in Capitol Hill .” And even I wouldn’t have known it was all a lie. (Wild, right?)
I can hear the front door opening, then there’s an extra pair of footsteps that join my husband’s downstairs. Joining Tommy’s downstairs. (Have to stop referring to him as my husband, don’t I?)
I feel a bit nauseated when I sit up, hands already clammy. The nervousness is coursing freely through my veins.
But I’m not as furious as I thought I’d be. (One should feel that way, right?) When the person you’ve married (and thought was your person) is in love with someone else, you’re supposed to be burn-the-world-down pissed. And I thought I was yesterday, but today I’m finding it hard to give enough fucks to be irate.
What I am is nervous, because today is the day that starts a new life for me and for Eden. And I’m afraid that I have no idea what th at looks like. Where do we live? Do I find a new job? Do I put Eden in daycare? Do we split custody? Do I babysit for their date nights? Hate that, though.
I softly pad out of the guest bedroom and down the stairs and…it’s as bad as I imagined it would be. (Okay, maybe I am a little fucking pissed still.)
Tommy is sitting on our living room sofa against Jamie with our daughter wedged between the two of them. I’ve never seen a more beautiful family.
It’s miserable, this feeling. Being the outsider looking in.
They’re talking softly to one another and it reminds me of times I’ve seen them similar to this before. Times when I thought they just shared a tight bond, but now every time I’ll look back on the memories, I’ll wonder. I’ll question. I’ll grow sick with envy and jealousy. No, thank you. Unsubscribe.
I walk into the kitchen avoiding making eye contact with either of them and work on brewing coffee and putting together Eden’s morning bottle.
It’s only a minute before Jamie joins me in the kitchen. Fucker.
“I’m sorry, Jess.” I nod, putting my back to him as I measure out formula. I want to ask: Sorry for what??? I want to scream, but I’m holding my cards (and feelings) a little bit tighter to my chest now and won’t be giving them the satisfaction of an outburst.
When I turn around to put the bottle in the warmer, I find Jamie staring at my nightgown, where it’s been ripped at the hem. It’s weird to see him jealous, but even weirder to know I’ve seen him like this before. Hundreds of times. I thought Jamie just wasn’t very fond of me. And well, I suppose he wasn’t. He was jealous .
“He told me the two of you had sex last night. You didn’t need to come down here in a ripped nightgown to prove a point. Or make me jealous.”
I rear back at the tone and the accusation, like he’s slapped me. Those are fighting words. “Are you fucking kidding me right now, Jamie?” I clap back and he shakes his head. Not because he’s saying no, but because he’s shaking out of whatever just came over him.
“Jess, I’m sorry. That was way out of line…” he trails off, probably thinking of all the things he wants to say to me, but doesn’t know how to. Same. I’m thinking of questions, I’m thinking of accusations, I’m thinking of hurtful words. But does any of it matter? Not. At. All.
I know it’s over, regardless of what Tommy wants. Because, honestly, I’m not sure Tommy is being completely honest with himself when he says he still wants me. It wouldn’t take much for him to choose, and I’m almost positive he’d choose Jamie.
I imagine a car barreling down the street towards the three of us, Jamie and I unaware, and Tommy’s the only one with the power to save us. With one on either side of him, he can’t save both. Who does he push to safety? It’s not me.
I give Jamie a sad look and he knows, like I know. One random night of sex, one ripped nightgown is nothing to whatever they have.
He opens his arms, offering me a hug with a question on his face, but I shake my head. Not yet. I’m not ready yet. I think he understands because he drops his arms and works on making me a cup of coffee instead. Kudos to him (read: fuck all the way off, Jamie) because it’s even the right shade of brown. He passes it to me, a peace offering, and this I’ll accept.
Tommy and Eden come find us. She’s a graspy little thing right now, squirming, hungry for her breakfast.
I watch, like an outsider, as Jamie takes his goddaughter (daughter?) from Tommy and sits at the kitchen island to feed her. He does it with ease. He’s done it before, he’ll do it again, but I think this is the first time I’m seeing him do it…as her dad. Don’t love it. This feeling, it’s a big nope. He gets to have Tommy…and my daughter? That’s bullshit. I look at Tommy and he sees the fight or flight rising in me.
He pulls me to his office on the first floor, closing the door softly and I wait. No clue what he’s planning to do or say.
“Jamie didn’t come here this morning to see me.” I scoff and give a roll of the eyes. Like hell he didn’t. “He was dropping off files I need to review,” he pauses, “because they want me on the Chen case…in Taiwan.” Normally I get bummed when he has to go to Asia for work. But not this time. Weird, but I guess that’s the new normal.
“I want you and Eden to come with us.” US . Come with Tommy and Jamie. Third wheel for real. I can see it: We’re walking in the airport, the two of them cuddled together, laughing with a giggling Eden. And then there’s me, trailing behind with a diaper bag and stroller. Title of that snapshot would read: “Gorgeous Family…and Their Nanny.” (Cute, right?)
My face is completely void when I shake my head back and forth. My eyes are glazed over because I can see how this is going to go down in the future. I can see another name for a different snapshot: “Two Successful Lawyers with a Beautiful House in Cap itol Hill Want Full Custody.” Who wouldn’t give it to them?
I’m just me. Part-time assistant to my best friend. No real assets, thanks to Tommy’s lock-tight prenup and a lot of paychecks I’ve foolishly spent on shoes and vacations. Maybe I should have planned for this, but silly me for thinking when I got married, what does a prenup matter when I plan on staying married forever? When Tommy told me not to worry about retirement plans and credit card bills because he was taking care of me, I trusted him.
Now here we are…well, here I am. (There’s no “we” here.)
I can see the resignation in Tommy. I can see the line in the sand. My refusal to go, him unable to force me (for now). The writing is on the wall, plain as day.
“I have to go, Jess.”
“I know. But Eden and I aren’t coming with you.” He’s never asked us to go before. Well, he’s never asked me before. It used to just be me. This will be his first international trip since Eden was born.
He nods, but it’s not a nod that says, “I’m backing down.” This is a nod that says, “I know I won’t win this battle, but don’t worry, I’ll win the war.”
“When do you leave?” I ask.
“This weekend.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? That’s it?” He questions my nonchalance.
I shrug. “We can talk about it, or bide our time in this false sense of peace. It’s entirely up to you.” And it is. I’m fine either way.
“When I come back, we’ll start figuring this out, okay?” He asks and I nod. This gives him time to come up with a strategy. What he’s not banking on is that I’ll be coming up with one, too. Not that I have any idea what that is yet…
After we left the office, I went upstairs to change. Tommy went to the kitchen and I waited until I knew Eden was done with her bottle before resurfacing. Jamie didn’t linger much longer after that.
When they said their goodbyes, I purposely diverted my attention, however it would have been impossible to not hear the sound of them embracing, then kissing farewell. Still makes me feel nauseous to even think about him kissing someone else.
And then, much like a normal day would go, Tommy got ready for work. I drank my coffee and fed Eden some yogurt and raspberries with a handful of cheerios for breakfast.
When Tommy comes down, looking dapper as fuck in his Brunello Cucinelli one-and-a-half breasted suit, I have to avert my gaze because it’s starting to hurt. And hurt leads to sadness, and sadness leads to tears. And I really don’t want to give him that satisfaction. He doesn’t deserve it.
The three of us stand at the threshold of our house, his house, and we say our goodbyes. Tommy blows a raspberry on Eden’s belly then leans over to give me a kiss, but I turn, giving him my cheek instead. It’s unfortunate how fast things can fade and change.
He inhales deeply, and I maintain my stoic stance. “I’ll see you tonight?” He asks me what’s normally a statement, but instead comes out as a question. It’s normally, “I’ll see you tonight, bab e.” And now it's a question because he’s a smart man. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t already thinking of a thousand other places I could be between now and when he leaves this weekend. I’d be lying if I said that question didn’t suck balls.
“Nowhere else to be,” I reply with a shrug. He nods, turns to leave, but stops.
Looking back at us, he says, “I love you both.” I won’t say it back.
Instead, I lift Eden’s hand to wave to her dad and say, “Eden loves you, too.” Tommy reads between the lines. He looks crestfallen, but it doesn’t deter him from leaving for the office. Didn’t think it would.
Eden and I trudge back inside and start our own morning routine, but instead of it taking two hours to pick up the toys, make me breakfast, get Eden bathed and dressed, it takes us 45 minutes. It’s amazing how motivating relationship woes can be. I can’t sit still. Sitting still leads to thinking which leads to hurting which leads to sadness which leads to tears.
I will not sit still.
I take Eden to her Pack ‘n Play that’s still in our primary bathroom, and plop her down with my iPad while I shower. I spend my time in the shower making a list of all the museums I’ve been wanting to go to, but haven’t gotten around to. Yes, we’ll go to the National Portrait Gallery. Get pizza at Pie. Then we’ll make our way to the sculpture garden. I’ll give Brit a call while Eden naps in the stroller…
As soon as I’m wrapped in a towel, my phone starts vibrating on the edge of my vanity and I immediately swipe to answer. (It’s Britain). And yes! Another distraction.
“Hey, babe. I was just thinking about you!” I say, overly cheery. Shou ld probably tone that down. Don’t want to seem suspicious.
“Hi.” My best friend’s voice comes out weak and trembling, and I know.
“What’s wrong? Is everything okay?” I know Brit, and that meager little voice tells me everything I need to know, except who I need to murder to make everything better.
“Everything is wrong, and nothing is okay,” she cries out. She’s crying so hard. Big gasping breaths that make my heart feel like it’s being squeezed too tight.
“Oh, Britain. I’m sorry. What’s going on?” I’m worried about her. She’s trying so hard to be okay, and it's at her own expense. I hate this for her.
“I,” she cries out again, “I can’t pretend like I’m fine anymore.” She keeps crying.
“Then don’t. Don’t pretend to be fine. You shouldn’t be fine.” (The coded message there is that I shouldn’t be fine either. Noted.)
“I…I dropped the girls off at Sandy’s this morning and she told me Liam called her. And he asked about me. Why?!” She cries, “Why would he do that?!” It comes out half shrill yell half sob. This fucking guy . If Britain would let me, I’d roll up to his front door and unload on him, but she won’t. For whatever reason, she’s still protective of him. Still protecting the guy who dumped her in the middle of a bar, at their engagement party, when she was just 5 weeks pregnant. None of that says this guy is worth protecting, however I do respect her wishes. It’s just getting harder to do so.
What I want to say is, maybe stop hanging around his mom, Sandy. Maybe cut off all ties with him entirely. But Sandy has become something of a surrogate mother to her, and I think it would actually hurt her more than running the risk of hearing about him or even potentially running into him. (Him, aka Liam, the guy that destroyed her heart, body, and soul).
No, instead I say, “I have no idea, sweetheart. Is that why you’re so worked up?”
“It’s one of the reasons.” She sniffles. “Jess, I…I’m struggling…to get out of bed in the mornings, and to keep going. It just hurts so bad.” This is worse than the sucker punch, roundhouse-kick to the head, dagger-through-the-heart combo Tommy delivered last night. (That should tell me something right there.) This is so much worse. Guilt, pain, and fear run rampant through me. It only takes me a quick moment before I know what to do.
“I’ll be there tonight. At the latest, tomorrow morning. Okay?” It's a no-brainer.
“Okay.” That meek fucking voice. I hate it on her. I’ll try my best to bolster her up, though. It’s what friends are for. And the deeper I get into this life, the more I realize maybe Jules and May were on to something: Fuck this “men” bullshit. It’s the women in my life who are important. It’s Jules and May, it’s Brit and her girls, it was Amy.
“Everything’s going to be okay. Not right this moment, not even tomorrow,” I try to pepper the truth in, “but soon. Everything will be okay, got it?” I want her to believe me. I need her to. I need myself to.
“Yep,” she sniffles out.
“I’m gonna go book a flight and pack. Are you okay to go to your appointment this afternoon?” Poor babe has her 12-week scan today. She was planning to go alone. I should have been there for her, though. I will be there for her. I owe her. “There's noth ing wrong with rescheduling it. In fact, I recommend rescheduling it. Go to the store, get some ice cream.” (Our girl loves her Ben & Jerry’s.) “Then go home and put on Bridgerton.” (Our girl also loves a period drama. Bridgerton is the only one I’ll watch with her.) “Before you can even get to Queen Charlotte, I’ll be there.” I hope she takes my advice. I hope she takes a day to let herself be sad.
But it’s hard when you’re a mom and you’re mourning. How do you balance the pain with the need to show the younger women in your life that you are strong and capable and that they should be, too? It’s a catch 22. I wish Britain would see that. She can show her girls strength by crying about the fact that her heart was traumatized. You can cry and still be a strong, independent woman who is also vulnerable, and beautiful, and intelligent. (I should probably take my own advice, too.) Oh my gawd, though, I’ve turned into May. I smile a little bit. She’d be proud of me right now.
“Y-you’re right. I’m going to reschedule,” she says, her crying simmering down.
“Good, I’m going to let you go, but text me if you need anything. I’ll see you soon, okay?”
“Okay, and Jess?” she asks.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.” Hate that. She shouldn’t be thanking me.
“Of course. Love you.” (I mean that). “We’re going to be okay, okay?” We are, both of us.
She quickly says back, “Uh-huh. Love you, too. Bye.” Then hangs up the phone. Christ . I’m glad she called, but I hate that we’re all that each other really has right now. I look down at Eden aimlessly rolling back and forth with a teething ring, and I let a few tears fall .
Picking up my baby, I cuddle my face into her soft neck, inhaling her sweet scent. And I start whispering my affirmations to her. “You and I are amazing women. We come from a long line of amazing women who do amazing things with their lives. We will do the same. When we’re ready, you and me. We'll do amazing things and we will be wonderful, and fulfilled, and happy, and strong, and vulnerable. All at the same time.” It’s in one ear and out the other with this one, but that’s okay.
I set her back down and text the man who started this all, Brit’s ex-husband Damian.
Jess
You owe me. One flight to California. I’m going to see your wife who is probably going through the darkest moments of her life, and we should be there. I’m counting on you to do the right thing.
When do you want to leave?
Ideally today. Ideally in the next three hours.
Done. I’ll send a car for you.
Damian . I hate to love him, but a part of me does. I’d never tell him. Never. Not after what he did to Brit (which was leaving her for his assistant). But if it meant making Britain happy, I think he’d jump off a ragged cliff just to see her smile. He’s like that.
In the end, a part of me doesn’t blame him for cheating, though. He was desperately in love with his wife, and she just…couldn’t love him back the same way. Ultimately, the cheating ended their marriage, but it was really just a symptom. Their marriage had ended years before, and I think Damian hoped if he could screw up big enough, it’d awaken some part of Brit that would fight for him.
It never did.
I text Tommy to let him know I’m leaving, and then with the speed and efficiency of the executive assistant that I am, I pack our bags and wait for Damian to tell me the car is on the way.