Chapter Thirty-One
Atlas
Twenty minutes later, I'm walking into Woody's.
It's busy, as it usually is on Saturdays especially during football and basketball season. I weave my way through the crowd, not exactly sure why I'm even here.
I could say that I just want to hang out with my friend Trace on a Saturday night, but that would be a lie. I'm not entirely here for the man sitting at the bar, backwards hat on, still in his usual Hayes & Sons t-shirt, jeans, and boots.
I feel a little ridiculous in my own baseball cap that’s pulled low, my flannel jacket, and jeans, but I'm incognito.
I don't want Wendy to see me and feel awkward, because she's here to have fun with Taylor—when's the last time she even had a night out with Taylor—and I want her to have a good time.
I'm just here to make sure that she does... and that no one bothers her.
And I need to see with my own eyes that she's safe.
My wife likes music and loves to dance. On our sporadic nights out with friends, we'd come here with Taylor and Trace, and the girls would go out to the dance floor while we hung out at the bar.
My eyes wouldn't stray from my wife for long, checking to make sure she was safe and having fun, while watching the game or just talking with the guys.
Inevitably, because my wife is beautiful, some guy would get too close. I would pop out of my chair instantly, stepping in between them and sending the guy a get lost look. I had perfected that look over the years.
Then I would pull Wendy close, not so much dancing as just enjoying her body against mine. She'd kiss me, tell me she was having fun, and that she loved me.
This woman, this gorgeous, beautiful woman, is my wife and mother to my children.
So, I sit at the bar next to Trace, my cap low over my face, and my eyes where they belong—looking for Wendy.
Trace turns to me with a bemused smirk.
"Sorry, do I know you?"
"Shut up."
Trace laughs, slapping my back. "Good to see you, man."
The bartender comes over, and I just order a soda. Dr. Newman recommends no drinking on my meds.
Truthfully, I don't want to drink. I've been feeling really good lately, and I don't want to introduce anything into my body that could jeopardize my newly stable state.
"How you been feeling?"
"Better," I answer Trace, happy that it's the honest truth. "Just... still a little lost without Wendy."
Trace nods, not taking his eyes off the game and raising his beer to his lips.
He comments absentmindedly, "Yeah, houses usually fall apart without their cornerstone."
I pause, his words settling themselves in my chest.
"A cornerstone..."
Yeah.
That's Wendy.
She's our cornerstone, mine and the boys.
She's the first stone placed when building a house, setting the position for the rest of the structure. She bears the weight and adds crucial support. It's usually unseen, but without it, everything would crumble to the ground.
A cornerstone isn't optional. It's not decorative.
It's necessary.
Wendy isn't just my wife. She's not just my home. She's the reason I've been able to stand up straight at all.
Wendy is my cornerstone.
A flash of red catches my eye, and I turn toward it, seeing Wendy on the dance floor. Her head is tossed back, curls bouncing around her shoulders. She’s laughing as she dances next to Taylor, and the aforementioned blonde that Trace was talking about.
Wendy looks… wow.
She's dressed in a tight black tank top, showing off a healthy amount of cleavage that's got my heart racing. Tight jeans showing off her long, shapely legs, black heeled boots on her feet making her tower over the crowd. Her perfect face looks as if it’s glowing, even in the low light.
Her gorgeous smile spreads as Taylor says something in her ear, and she moves fluidly as she doesn’t stop dancing. My chest tightens as I watch her, as do my jeans.
She's always had that effect on me, and I'm glad the SSRI hasn't dulled it because she's the only one it matters for.
My wife. My Wendy.
"Fucking Christ, look at her—" I then glare at Trace and block his view. "Actually, no—you keep your eyes to yourself."
"Please, my eyes are for blondie," Trace says, his blue eyes trailing over the short blonde woman with them. I'm not sure how Wendy met her, maybe through the boys' school or her work. "Once you sort your shit out with Wendy, can you get me an introduction?"
I turn back to the bar, putting my head in my hands and adjusting my hat.
"Fuck, I don't even know where to start with that."
Restoring my marriage, while Wendy has shown me more trust lately, I'm still lost on how to approach that, especially since I feel that I have no right to.
She fought so hard for us already, and I can't help but wince every time I think of my wife sitting alone in that couple's therapist's office, waiting for me.
The image makes me too sad to think about.
"Couple's therapy?" Trace suggests.
I grit my teeth, angry at myself again.
"We already tried that. I fucked it up. I didn't show."
"People fuck up. People get second chances."
"Do I deserve a second chance?"
"I don't know. That's up to her to decide," Trace shrugs. "But you won't know until you ask."
My eyes find Wendy again, dancing with her friends, looking so free and beautiful, and I know I'd crawl through glass for a second chance.
I will do it right this time.
That means doing the right, unselfish thing. That means leaving her be and letting her have her fun.
Not letting her see me and worry if someone is wrong with the kids who are peacefully sleeping, safe in my parents' house.
I don't go over and interrupt her night. I drop a five on the bar and Trace tells me that he'll make sure they get to their cars safely—winking at me that he'll especially look out for the blonde.
I'm trusting that my wife is safe, that she's with her friends, having more fun than I've seen her have in a long time.
I trust that she'll get home safe, that my thoughts are fears, not facts, and that I cannot control everything through my fear.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
I walk out of that bar, feeling a little shaky—but trusting.
And fucking resolved to win her back.