Chapter Three #2
The red velvet is soft in my grip, and I smile at the memory of receiving the Valentine’s Day present, back when we still exchanged gifts. My smile falls as I try to recall the last time Ben gave me something like this.
No matter, we are together again, and that’s all that matters. I shake my head as I walk past the rumpled bed, just like it always is when I’m gone. Somehow, the unchanging sight steadies me. I was always the one to make it, not Ben. All is as it should be.
I step into the bathroom, steam billowing out at me.
My skin pebbles at the cool air from the bedroom at my back and the humid heat from the shower at my front.
I hang my robe on the back of the door, set my phone down on the counter, and step forward to pull back the curtain to surprise him when a distinctly female moan cuts through the steam.
My face screws up in concentration as my hand hovers in front of the curtain, trying to figure out what Ben could be listening to that would sound like that. He doesn’t like fiction.
“Oh, fuck yeah, just like that,” Ben groans.
My stomach bottoms out as I realize this isn’t a podcast, and he sure as shit isn’t in the shower in anticipation of me coming home. With dawning horror, it hits me. He’s in there with someone else.
I stumble backwards, silently take my robe off the hook and slip back out the door where I jerk my robe on, my nakedness making me feel even more vulnerable and raw.
I glance around the bedroom, searching for clues to help me piece together the life that is falling apart right now. Should I have seen this coming?
Looking around in bewilderment, I notice minute details I hadn’t seen in my excitement of surprising him. The pictures of us are missing from their usual spots on the dresser, and the slippers on the floor next to the bed are most definitely not mine.
Walking over to his side of the bed, I can’t stop myself from peeking into his trashcan and seeing the discarded condom wrappers it contains. I double over, the sight a visceral punch to the gut.
Ben is cheating on me. The irrefutable evidence is staring me in the face.
Questions race through my mind—how long has this been happening? With who? And most of all, why? I’d given him years of my life. I’ve gone above and beyond to be supportive, even going so far as to write papers and lessons for him. I’d offered, no begged, to be more adventurous in the bedroom.
Hell, I’d molded myself to his exact specifications with the exception of my petite, curvy build. No matter what I did, I couldn’t change that. I tried. I really had. Everything within my control that I could do to be a great partner, I had done.
And what had Ben done? Taken. Always taking, without giving anything in return—except taking me for granted. It had all been about him—his wants, his needs, his desires. What a fool I had been. What a fucking fool.
I stand there frozen, the weight of his betrayal crashing down on me. The lies. The years I’d wasted on him. After my failure to find the plant, I had thought if I could just make it home, to him, I would be able to figure out a path forward. I could do it with his help.
But now, I have nothing. Nothing.
My chest implodes in on itself until it's all I can do to force air in and out of my lungs as the truth guts me. But the more I think about it—the deception, the audacity—the heaviness begins to shift into something hotter. Sharper.
Rage hits as fast and furious as the monsoon rains, propelling me into action as I storm out of the bedroom.
In the kitchen, I reach under the sink for the cleaning bucket and carry it to the ice cube maker—the one he had to have because he likes the nuggets.
I fill the bucket with as much ice as I can and top it off with cold water.
Lugging the heavy load, I creep back into the bathroom and cautiously climb up to stand on the toilet. I’m exhausted from traveling, heartbroken from my failed research expedition, and blindsided by the abysmal end of my relationship.
But rage pumps through my veins, and the taste of revenge is sweet in my mouth, urging me to lift the heavy bucket as high as I can at the edge of the curtain.
I’m precariously balanced but when I hear the filthy words he’s spewing—words he refused to use with me when I wanted to spice things up—it gives me the extra burst I need to dump the ice water over their heads.
A maniacal giggle escapes me as the mystery woman shrieks and Ben bellows, “What the fuck?”
He rips back the curtain to reveal a woman kneeling at his feet with his now limp dick in her hand as I drop the bucket to the floor and say, “You’re right, that nugget ice is where it’s at.”
“Jesus, Dolly. I thought you were coming home tomorrow,” he barks, wiping the icy water from his face and cranking the faucet handle so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t snap off in his hand.
And there it is. My failure to understand dates and times has serendipitously saved me from a doomed marriage. I snap, “Yeah, that pesky international date line is totally to blame for you putting your dick in someone else's mouth. Did you trip over it and fall?”
My eyes drift to the younger woman and I snort. “Really, Ben? Is she your TA or your student? Could you be any more cliché? Get the fuck out, you worthless piece of shit.”
I glare down at them from my porcelain pedestal, listening to Ben sputter as icy water drips off him and the other woman.
“I'm not fucking leaving. This is my house, too,” he says, his voice rising.
I spot my phone on the bathroom counter where I’d set it earlier and step down, snatch it up, and unlock it with a flick of my thumb. I hold it up and snap a picture of them.
“Ben, I just flew halfway around the world. I didn’t find the damn plant. Instead, I come home to find you cheating on me. I’ve got nothing left to lose. Do you really want to fuck with me right now? I am one second away from sending this pic to the dean and destroying you. Get. The. Fuck. Out.”
His face pales as the weight of my words sinks in. He steps out of the shower, grabbing his robe off the back of the door and throwing it on.
The younger woman—Felicia, I think her name is, as I vaguely recall meeting her once—looks back and forth between us, following the conversation like an obscene tennis match.
I turn my withering stare on her and say, “You, too. Get the fuck out of my house. You think he's not going to cheat on you, sweetheart? I got news for you. Cheaters cheat.”
She shrinks back, covering herself in embarrassment and reaches for a towel.
I throw out a hand over them and say, “Oh, no. You can drip your shame right out the front door for all I care. Don't you dare fucking touch my towels. Get. Out.”
Am I being cruel? Harsh? Maybe. But I have no fucks left to give. I’m filled with a grim satisfaction as she runs from the bathroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints in her wake while I am left to clean up not only the puddles they left behind, but the wreckage of my heart.