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She grabs my arm with both her hands and tries to turn me away from the bed. I don’t budge.
“That’s the biggest crock of shit I’ve ever heard,” I tell her, staring through her. “For someone claiming to be inexperienced, you’re apparently a quick learner, based on what I saw when I walked in.”
Henrietta falls on to the settee with a sigh.
“Try again.”
She takes a moment to think about her next move, not realizing that there’s absolutely nothing she could say that would make me forget what I’ve seen here tonight.
“I didn’t know they were going to be here, I swear,” she finally says, and then undermining her credibility even further, she shrugs.The bitch actually shrugs!
As if I didn’t know she was just throwing excuse after bullshit excuse against the wall to see if anything would stick. She’s not even trying to hide her slutty, true self, now.
I simply roll my eyes at her and begin to head for the door. Springing into action, she follows me and grabs my arm again, this time to stop me by digging in her heels.
“Like you wouldn’t fuck twelve strippers if you had the chance,” she says.
I whip back around from the sheer ludicrousness of that statement to see her standing there with her hands on her hips.
“Obviously I wouldn’t,” I say, starting to yell, “or else I’d be in bed with them right now!”
Taking a step back to gain my composure, I say, “Instead, I’m standing here on the night before my wedding day, watching the woman I love get fucked every way that’s under the sun.”
Although…love. Using the word in the present tense feels pretty fucking wrong from where I’m standing right now. Admired,maybe. Tolerated,definitely.
There aren’t many women who would take a chance on a man like me. The notches on my bedpost are the same in number as my batting average if you move the decimal point two places to the left.
I used to be infamous—on the field and off of it.
Until Henrietta came along, anyway. I didn’t even make a pass at my sister Becky’s blonde beauty queen friend at the family Christmas party this year—though God knows we both wanted me to.
Henrietta was never going to be a Mysti May Grace—but she was going to be my wife, and for me, that was good enough.
“How hypocritical can you be?” Henrietta shouts back at me. “You know you never loved me anyway.”
“You got me,” I say with a sigh. “I always ask women I don’t love to marry me.”
If I’m being honest with myself, she might be right. I never thought of Henrietta as the great love of my life. I just got to the point where I was tired of dating women I knew weren’t the right one for me.
So I guess I started looking to get hitched to one instead.
Meeting Henrietta seemed fated. Our moms knew each other. Henrietta’s mom had been pushing mine to get me to ask her out for ages.
I finally did, and we started dating. Or, rather, we never stopped dating.
That’s my best explanation for our relationship. It was easier to continue dating her than to end it. Not exactly the kind of love poets write about, I know.
But, come on. We all know that shit’s for romance novels and fairy tales. The closest Henrietta ever came to becoming royalty was being a fucking pillow princess, and I’m not exactly a Prince Charming type myself.
My parents have that kind of love. That’s a one-in-a-million kind of thing and we all fucking know it.
True love? That heart-stopping, earth-shattering bullshit?
Nah. That doesn’t exist in the wild.
“Fine, fine,” she says, resigned, “let’s just talk settlement, and we can put this unpleasantness behind us.”
“Are you mental?” I laugh. “You’ve some nerve if you think you’re getting one cent from me.”
