Page 67 of Maverick
And it’s hard not to be.
I’m out of practice with being kind to another human being. I’m out of practice being with another human.
Full stop.
But she makes me want to try something different. At least within the context of this moment.
Of this time that we have. This time where I’ve lied to her to keep her in my house. Well, lied by omission. I’ve been told that’s still a lie.
I grew up with an addict, so to me, that was just a form of communication. Something I had to learn to be a little better with when I met Sadie.
And again, here I am reverting back to type. Another point in that column. But I can’t hold onto the fantasy that I might be able to change endlessly.
I am what I am. But I’m also currently making a picnic for the woman that I’m sleeping with.
Still, there’s a bit of villainy in that.
I go through the list of reasons why anything with Stella is a mistake. I do that once a day or so. And then I go right back to having her when and where I want. It’s amazing how comfortable you can get with doing the wrong thing.
But she wants it. She’s complicit in it. I comfort myself with that. I stand there looking at the cheese board that I’ve assembled – not something I’ve ever done before, I have to say – and I ask myself if I even really need the comfort.
Or if it’s enough that I feel satisfied.
It’s enough that I feel satisfied. It’s been so long. It’s been so many Goddamned years since I’ve felt satisfied on this level.
And maybe I never really have. That thought slugs me in the stomach.
I’m not really performing for Stella, though. Because it has a set end time. I’m not trying to be somebody else, to put on a mask so that I can turn myself into a husband-shaped person, not that I did it on purpose. Not that I tried to trick Sadie, or bait and switch her in any way. I just kept thinking that eventually I would become the thing she needed naturally. And that if I could perform it for long enough to get us there, it would just happen.
But it always felt like an effort. It always felt like work.
We always felt like work.
And people say that marriage is hard, so maybe that was always going to be the case.
I don’t regret my marriage. I miss it. I miss her.
None of that is a negative on Sadie. It’s just me.
Just then, the front door opens and breaks into my brooding thoughts. Stella rushes in, her cheeks pink, her hair damp with sweat, and all wild besides. “What are you doing?” She asks.
“I might ask you the same question.”
“I just had the best ride with Frank. He was incredible. It was perfect. I think that I could compete with him, and we could do amazing. Today it was just like we were one. Every move that I needed him to make he was just so responsive. So sure-footed.”
“That’s amazing,” I say. And it is. But I realize that right then it’s not so much about my goal of getting Frank anywhere, as it is about her joy and satisfaction in what she’s doing. It matters to me. It means something to me.
“But now back to you,” she says.
“I thought we should have a picnic.”
She looks… She looks at me like I just hung the sun up in the sky. Her eyes are glittering, that same flush of pleasure is there in her cheeks. I’m not sure if anyone’s ever looked at me like that before. But they haven’t looked at me like that in a long time. And now I’m old enough to know how rare it is. To know how much I don’t deserve it. And she’s young enough to still believe big. In me. For this moment to mean something, to matter.
It’s why this is such a volatile combination. Why, on my part, it’s a really fucked up decision.
But God, I need it. It’s like balm for a wound I didn’t even know was there. Yeah, I’m wounded. Wounded by the loss of the one woman that I ever loved, and that’s fair. But I wasn’t aware of this. I’m so comfortable being the villain. I didn’t realize what it might mean to have somebody look at me like I’m the hero.
I clear my throat. “I noticed that you like cheese.”
