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Rachel
You know what they say about the best laid plans…they don’t mean shit all if you’re not the one getting laid.
I’d tried everything. I swear to God, I’d tried everything I could think of. And when I ran out of things I could think of, I turned to the internet. I read all the blogs about divorces. What sent people over the edge. What made them finally crack. I searched out every straw that broke every camel’s back. I asked JoJo for ideas. When she ran out too, I asked my accountant. When he came up empty, I asked the lady at the checkout counter at the grocery store.
“I don’t know, my husband hates when I talk about celebrity gossip at dinner.”
I sighed. I’d given that a go days ago, and Mason had just jumped right in at the first mention of Jamie Dornan.
All my attempts to be such a bad wife that my husband would kick me straight out of the house, straight onto a plane, straight back into the life I was supposed to be living with my fiancé back in America failed. Absolutely failed.
Because no matter what I did, no matter how loud I was, no matter how ugly I made myself, no matter how much I annoyed Mason, at the end of the day (or beginning of the morning) he was the one who was having sex with other people.
I was the one who had to come in when it was all said and done. Who had to see her there in bed with him. Who had to yell and wave my hands like some crazy lady. Who had to pretend day after exhausting day that it didn’t bother me. That I was fine. Just fine. Fine. Fine. I said I’m fucking fine!
I wasn’t fine.
I was fairly certain I was losing it. Every night I lay awake waiting for Mason and his little Miss Last Night to return. There I was in bed with a face covered in mud mask and coconut oil-slicked hair and there he was stumbling against the walls with another woman’s lips locked with his. I was bundled in a quilted robe three sizes bigger than I needed and Miss Last Night was losing clothes by the second. I knew because I’d find them. A pair of jeans on the stairs. A bra in the hallway. A thong tossed over the door handle.
I’d lie in bed and listen to her giggling. Her giggling that turned to whimpering. Her whimpering that turned to moaning. Her moaning that turned to panting and screaming and calling out his name (which more times than not, wasn’t even the right name).
No amount of stuffing my ears worked. No amount of cramming a pillow against my head worked. No amount of vacuuming at any hour of the day could get those noises out of my head.
What made it worse was that I knew it was coming again. I knew the next night would be exactly the same. Sure, it would be a different pair of jeans on the stairs. The bra would be a different cup size. The thong would be mesh instead of lace. The giggles would be higher maybe, the whimpers louder, the screams a little shorter as she maybe came faster, this new Miss Last Night. But there would be a new Miss Last Night. And I would have to face her in the morning. To face her and to face the fact that it wasn’t me. It wasn’t me in Mason’s bed.
“That was a brilliant,” Mason said one morning toward the end of my first week as Mrs Donovan.
He was sprawled out in bed. Again. Naked. Again. Satiated from the night before and throwing it in my face that I was most certainly not. Again.
“In fact, it was such a good performance,” he continued, “that I almost believe you.”
I snatched his pillow from under his head and didn’t feel bad at all when it cracked painfully against the headboard.
“Need to clean these,” I grumbled.
Mason continued unperturbed.
“You really will do well in this new role of yours, because you’ve almost got me believing that it does bother you,” Mason said. “Me fucking these women with you next door.”
I stripped the pillow of its cover a little too roughly.
“Well, it doesn’t.”
“Right, right,” Mason said. “Of course not. But it almost seems like you do, you know? You’re that good, is all I’m saying. Like when you were yelling at that chick before, I really almost believed that you were upset your husband was slipping his cock into some pussy that wasn’t his wife’s.”
“Well, I wasn’t.” With a mighty yank of the fitted sheet, I sent him and his stupid cock, that I didn’t care about one tiny little bit, sprawling onto the floor.
As I stuffed the sheet under my arm, Mason’s head popped up from the side of the bed. He rested his chin on the edge of the mattress and grinned up at me, his dark mohawk messied slightly. If I hadn’t known the reason for that messiness, I would have found him charming. A little boyish. Sweet. Innocent even.
But I knew better. Fuck, did I know better.
“There’s no telling what’s been on that mattress,” I said before stalking out of the room.
Mason laughed and called after me, “Well, I think we have some idea, now don’t we, dear?”
Me slamming the door of my bedroom only made him laugh harder.
It couldn’t go on like that forever. I just knew it couldn’t. Something was going to have to break.
