Page 46 of Marriage and the Midlife Crisis

He nodded, and I listened quietly as he recounted what happened. His words were halting at first, hesitant as if he were afraid that if he said the wrong thing, it would be over.

He told me about Mitch calling him at work Friday morning, and the mad dash to the airport. He apologized for not texting or calling, and I rolled my eyes when he said he started to but stopped several times because he didn’t want to hear Mitch give him shit over it.

“Saturday night, he heard about a Guns N’ Roses cover band playing in a club a few blocks from our hotel. He suggested that we go and have a few drinks in Grady’s honor. I didn’t realize it was an actual strip club until it was too late,” he added softly, apologetically.

“What do you mean, an actual strip club. As opposed to what, exactly?”

“Mitch told me it was a live music venue that happened to have topless dancers because it was in Vegas.”

“Semantics? That’s your defense? It’s not a strip club with live music; it’s live music with strippers. That makes it so much better,” My voice was laced with sarcasm, and Ryan had the grace to look embarrassed.

“I’m not trying to defend myself. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I’m just trying to explain what happened, and yes, I realize now how fucking lame his reasoning sounds, but at the time, it seemed easier to buy that explanation than it did to argue about it in front of the bouncer, with a huge line behind us waiting to get in.”

“Fine,” I huffed, sitting back and crossing my arms over my chest. “So then what happened?”

“As soon as we got inside, I wanted to leave. The band was on the stage, but there were…dancers up on elevated platforms scattered throughout the room. I was uncomfortable, and pissed off, but Mitch insisted that we order a round of beers so we could raise a toast to Grady.”

Trust Mitch the Bitch to manipulate Ryan’s grief about Grady to suit his own purposes. I didn’t doubt for a minute that Mitch’s interest in the club was due to the strippers, not the cover band. That had just been a convenient excuse to get Ryan through the door. And Ryan let himself be led like a lamb to slaughter.

“I told him that as soon as I had one beer, I was going back to the hotel. He was busy watching one of the…dancers, so I figured I could slip out and he’d never notice. The bar was packed, and it took a while for our beers to come.” Ryan paused and took a deep breath, and I noticed how he stopped maintaining eye contact with me. I also noticed his scrupulous avoidance of the word “stripper” in his retelling.

“He went to the restroom, and the band started playing Sweet Child o’ Mine.” He swallowed heavily, and my heart ached at the memory of Grady, belting out his favorite song any chance he’d gotten. “I pulled out my phone and stared at your picture on my lock screen.” Ryan’s gaze sought out mine for a moment, and a faint sheen of tears covered those beautiful blue eyes of his. “I swear to you, I realized then that I still hadn’t talked to you, and I planned to go back to the hotel and call you. Then the beers came, and I raised mine and toasted Grady, even though Mitch wasn’t back from the restroom yet.”

He stopped speaking and appeared to be lost in his memories for a second. I was getting ready to prompt him to continue, when he started talking again.

“I drank about half, then set my mug down and pushed my chair back so I could leave. All of a sudden, this woman had her arms around me from behind and was whispering in my ear that I looked depressed or some shit like that and before I could even figure out what was happening, she’d slid her leg over my lap and started dancing. That must be when she got the makeup and perfume on my shirt.”

Ryan looked away again, and I could see his pulse picking up as the vein in his temple began to throb.

“The stripper with the purple thong?” I asked through gritted teeth, and Ryan nodded reluctantly.

“I…I stood up so fast that she almost fell on her ass. I grabbed her arms to keep her from falling and knocked over my beer. One of the bouncers came running over, ready to throw me out or have me arrested or maybe even to drag me outside and beat my ass, I don’t know. The only reason he let me leave on my own is because I told him I didn’t ask for a lap dance, that I didn’t want a lap dance, and that she had no business touching me. She admitted that Mitch bought the dance for me, and that he’d told her I needed some cheering up.” The last of his explanation came out in a rush, as if he were afraid he wouldn’t get through it otherwise.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about any of that information, so I asked the burning question that had been on my mind for almost forty-eight hours now.

“That doesn’t explain how the thong got from her ass to your suitcase,” I pointed out bluntly.

Ryan dropped his head and clenched his good fist where it rested on his leg. The other hand was still swollen, and would definitely benefit from an ice pack, while the cut on his knuckle looked red and angry.

“I felt so fucking guilty by the time I got back to the hotel that I couldn’t call you. I…just couldn’t, because you would have known something was wrong. I grabbed some drinks from the mini bar in our suite, and pounded those, then showered and went to bed. I woke up in the middle of the night when Mitch brought a woman back to his room. They were…loud,” he grimaced, “and it woke me up. She left before I got up the next morning, and I didn’t realize that it was the same woman that tried to give me a lap dance until…” he paused, again, and finally raised his head to meet my gaze once more. “Until you told me the thong wasn’t yours. It took me a minute, but I recognized it because she’d been wearing it while she was dancing.”

So maybe that had been why he’d gotten such a strange look on his face during our argument? Maybe that’s why he looked so guilty?

My head was spinning with everything he’d just told me. I’d been trying to study his body language as he talked, trying to look for any signs that he was lying…or that he was telling the truth.

My gut told me that he was telling the truth, yet I still felt as if something was off. It bothered me that he kept looking away, but maybe that was just my imagination working overtime.

“I confronted Mitch after you left, because I’d put the pieces together by then and knew the only way that damned thing could have ended up in my suitcase was if he’d put it there. So, I called him, and I asked him why.”

Ryan was clenching his fist again. His body radiated tension, from the hard line of his jaw and the stiff set of his shoulders, to the way his nostrils flared with every breath.

“He laughed, Mel. He fucking laughed. Told me she’d left it behind and he found it, and that he’d done it as a joke. You left me, and he laughed, and I wanted to fucking kill him.”

Ryan’s voice was ragged, as if every syllable took strength that he wasn’t sure he had left.

“He offered to call you and explain it, but I told him not to. I knew if you didn’t believe me, you sure as hell wouldn’t believe him, and he’d likely just piss you off even more.”

“You’re probably right about that,” I admitted. I glanced around the room, unable to bear looking at Ryan at this very moment. He looked so…defeated and broken-hearted, and I wanted to comfort him, of all things.