Page 53 of Shame

I want to grab her. Pin her down.

“Come on in,” I say instead, playing at being civilized. “I thought from your text…”

“Your girlfriend has now wrecked a second marriage in less than a month,” she spits at me.

I rock back on my heels.

“Another wife found me. It pays to have a public face, I guess.”

“How did she connect you to…?”

Grace waves her hand. “That doesn’t matter.”

I bet it does. “Uh huh.”

“But the point is, your little affair wasn’t as benign as you think it was.”

“I don’t think it was benign. I think I fucked everything up, and I’ve tried to be as honest about that as I can.”

Another wave.

Okay. We’re not interested in what I have to say, and that’s fine. It’s not fucking great, but apparently the grief cycle of infidelity is a rollercoaster you didn’t ask to be strapped into, and all I can do now is hold on for dear life.

A mistake of my own making, Grace would rightly point out.

“She decided, over and over again, to fuck married men. Did you know that?”

“I don’t know. No.”

“You weren’t the only one.”

“I guess I wasn’t.”

“You weren’t the only one to have secrets with her, to be all the little things his wife was not. She was that toothermen, too. That’s fucked up, right?”

“Yes. I guess so. I don’t think about her anymore.”

“I wish I had that privilege. So she’s moved on to another married man now. And this one doesn’t seem to care about hurting his wife in public. Should I be grateful that at least I don’t have to deal with the humiliation out there, as well as in here?”

“How did sheknow to find you, Grace?” I’m yelling a little now. Fuck me. I take a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry for that woman. I am. But you’ve let someone else’s drama pull you into a tailspin here.”

“It’s not fucking fair,” she spits at me, shoving me in the chest.

I catch her by the wrist and pull her onto the couch. “I know.”

She exhales roughly. “I’m angry.”

“I know.” I twist a lock of her hair around my finger and tug gently. I yearn for the same fairytale she does, but it’s not realistic.

She grabs my wrist, stopping me from touching her hair. But then she pulls my touch to her breast and we both gasp.

“No,” I groan, but I don’t mean it. Still, I try to be better than this. Moving my hands to her shoulders, then her hips, I pull her close. Pretend it’s just a hug. It doesn’t matter that she’s angry. I still love her just as much. If anything, her anger helps. It gives me some direction for the darkness inside. Some form, a clear penance, for the yawning grossness that would otherwise be overwhelming. “Be angry. Be loud. Be whatever you need to be. I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere.”

“I don’t like this.” She climbs into my lap and I’m helpless to say no. Her skirt rides up high on her thighs.

The warmth of her body scrambles my brain, and when I lift my hand to her arms, where I can touch her and bring her in close, I feel goosebumps rise on her skin. First the delicate, soft, pale blonde whispers of hair on her arms lift. I’m frozen, barely touching her.

Then the gooseflesh comes, a ripple of nerves, and I sink my fingers into her skin. It’s just me but that’s wrong, because I’m the devil to her. I’m dangerous.

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