“So what you’re saying is that you’re very attracted to her, and you have feelings for her?” I ask, still not sure what this woman means to him.
“Yes, I’m attracted to her, but do I love her? I do, sometimes, and I also hate her. I can’t explain it…”
“You hate her and you’re sleeping with her?!” I say, flabbergasted. It’s not so much a question as it is a statement. This, I don’t quite get.
He stares at the floor, at the green area rug I got him a few years back. “She plays with me,” he says, “she pushes me away. She says we can’t do this, and I agree. But then she seeks me out again, tries to seduce me, sends me pictures…”
“Wow,” I say, speechless. I get it now. They must have this whole love-hate thing going on, and the sex must be off-the-charts. I hate this fucking woman. She gets off on this, I’m sure. She doesn’t give a shit if he’s married with kids. I fucking hate her. I don’t even hate John anymore, just her.
John is quiet, and I’m suddenly livid.
“This woman sounds like a real winner,” I deadpan. “I hope the sex was worth it because she’s completely ruined your life.” My voice cracks, and my words are broken. “I... h-hope the sex was the best you’ve ever had because now you’ll be losing your wife over it.”
He falls to his knees and sinks into me. He lays his head on my lap and clings to me. He’s crying now. “No, Gabbie. You can’t do this.”
“I’m not doing anything,” I say. “You’ve done this to yourself, John.”
He’s completely broken when he lifts his gaze to mine. “I don’t think I really love her, Gabbie. You’re my only one. I don’t want to break up over this.”
“Well, you should have thought about that before you stuck your dick in that whore.” I push him away, and struggle out of his hold. I dash out of the room, and he chases me up the stairs. But he doesn’t catch me. I slam the bedroom door in his face, and lock it.
“Gabbie, c’mon,” he whines and punches the door.
“Settle down,” I scoff. “You’ll wake the kids.”
“I’ll end it,” he says quietly.
I don’t respond, and a few long seconds later, I hear the scuffle of his feet as he trudges down the stairs.
I exhale a breath of air as I lie down on our bed. It’s neatly made, as always. My gaze travels across our bedroom, dances over the antique armoire we got at that auction, and the expensive bedroom set we bought five years ago, the perfectly coordinated throw pillows, and the framed artwork over the bed, specifically created for this room — everything is so perfect. Looking in from the outside, our home, our life is the picture of perfection.
I swore that I would give him a second chance if he was honest with me. And he was… too honest, some might say. He could have told me it was just sex — I would have never known any better. It was more than sex, but perhaps not love. Something complicated, in the middle. She was excitement, she was a challenge. She was a flash of color… temptation.
I get it. He’s a man. And she’s a whore. I get the attraction. I’m dying of curiosity. A little voice in my head is screaming as I reach for my phone.Don’t do it, Gabbie! Don’t do it!it screams, but of course, I ignore it.
Chapter Seventeen
I TYPE ‘AMANDA TUCKER’ in the search engine, and just as I’d expected, pictures pop up, and also a Wikipedia entry. It doesn’t take me long to find her. I click on her Wikipedia photo. She’s nothing like I’d expected. I was picturing a skinny blonde, dressed like a hooker, but she looks so conservative. She actually kind of looks like me; long thick dark hair with auburn accents, olive complexion and brown eyes. She wears a tasteful black blazer, but even in the conservative outfit, you can tell that she’s an attractive, sensual woman. She has that sweet innocent look that some women have, like she could do no wrong.
Innocent, my ass. Home wrecking bitch.
I obsessively stalk her, not taking in the information fast enough, tapping feverishly on Google entries. She’s also a NYT Bestselling author. Of course. My husband couldn’t just step out on me with an ordinary woman. He had to do it with a famous, successful beauty.
She’s thirty-one (four years younger than me). She’s divorced, and has a five year old. Who goes out, and fucks other men with a five year old at home? In addition to writing, she rides horses, and loves mountain climbing.
I quickly move on to Twitter, her Facebook page, blog interviews, and finally, the most heartbreaking one of all, Instagram. It’s full of quirky selfies, and the tips of her auburn locks are light purple, and in one photo, I spot two tattoos, and in another, nails painted in a rainbow of colors. She has pigtails in another photo, and wears a huge mood ring. Now I see the wild playful side of her. I can totally see the attraction. I want to vomit all over my phone.
I won’t get over this. I know I won’t. There is no way in hell that I can stand by him every day, knowing he’s done this, knowing he’s been with this woman. It’s impossible for me to pretend nothing’s wrong. Even if he breaks it off with her, I’ll always wonder if he’s still with her, riding a horse, or climbing a mountain, or slapping her ass as he fucks her from behind. There’s no fucking way he’s getting away with this, with no repercussions, no consequences.
No fucking way.
The man needs to pay for his sins.
I throw my phone on the floor, and I resolve to never stalk her ever again because it’s a total waste of time, and also, it makes me want to kill myself.
No, I’m not going to sulk and cry in my pillow, obsessing over how she’s younger, prettier, more successful, and more fun than me. I’m not going to ponder how they must have so much in common since they’re both writers. I’m not going to imagine what their interactions might be like. I’m not going to picture them together, or ever think about her again. I don’t need to know any more. I don’t care how many times they’ve fucked, or how exactly they first met. She doesn’t exist, as far as I’m concerned.
No, I’m taking a completely different approach, and I have a feeling that it will keep my mind quite occupied. And the last thing we’ll both be thinking about is Amanda Tucker.
