Chapter 1

The arrogant waiter looked like a caricature of a server at an expensive restaurant, with a pencil-thin mustache and a face that was all protruding nose. I ordered the cheapest glass of red wine on the drinking menu, turning his already tight smile into an unfriendly glare. Unlike at a less expensive eatery, where the staff would go to great lengths to appear friendly, this ambassador of etiquette acted as though it was my honor to be in his presence. I wasn’t angry. Truth was that his irritated countenance was a welcome distraction from my nervousness. I found the entire situation absurd, and after he corrected my pronunciation of the wine, I gave a hearty chuckle at his retreating back. From the way he stiffened, I was sure he heard me.

It was a hollow victory. We both knew I couldn’t afford to eat at a place like this; or at least, the snooty server confirmed that suspicion upon my wine selection. I wouldn’t have made reservations at the most expensive Italian place in the city for myself. I wanted, no needed, to make a powerful impression. Italian was my wife’s favorite, and this place supposedly had carbonara that would change your life. According to one food reviewer, anyway.

A different server brought the fine red I ordered, and I wondered if it was a roundabout snub.

After taking an exploratory sip of the admittedly delicious wine, my thoughts spiraled inward. The upcoming conversation with Heather terrified me. Butterflies flitted in my stomach, leaving a queasy, gassy feeling. Too much uncertainty gnawed at my thoughts, despite six good years of pleasant memories to the contrary, and that made me a little angry. Why should a man be scared to meet with his own wife? I found that question resurfacing like an unflushable turd.

It had only been ten days since Heather and I had seen each other, but it had felt like a listless eternity for me. We met in college and have been joined at the hip since. She wasn’t just my lover; she was my advisor, confidant, and best friend. I couldn’t ask for a better partner. I didn’t really understand why she needed the space that she requested, but I had honored it.

About halfway through the glass of wine, I reached over to check the time on my smartphone. Heather was already fifteen minutes late, and that was foreboding. She didn’t do late. She was the type of working woman that prided herself on always being punctual. It was more than a professional thing. She treated timeliness almost like a chivalric code. I’d always figured it was a cultural carryover from her well-to-do blue blood family.

I unlocked the phone to check for messages, but there was nothing. Nothing to suggest that she wouldn’t be coming.

I took another drink of wine and tried to push it from my mind. She’d always chided me for being a worrier. There was no reason to prove her correct.

After another ten minutes, I broke and decided I would text her to see where we stood. I dismissed Montclair (the actual name of my server) a second time, then wrote and rewrote several texts asking her whereabouts. I’m ashamed to admit that I was too fearful to ask such a simple question, for fear of offending her. I ended up settling for a classic, “Where are you?”

Right before I pushed send, Heather rounded the corner, entering the main dining area like a summoned goddess. She was beautiful, and confident, striding between the candlelit tables toward me in an elegant pinstripe work dress. Shadows and light danced in the dim romantic ambiance of the room, making her bouncing auburn hair shine. Maybe it was the frosty night air, or maybe it was the lingering glow of pregnancy that made her chubbier than normal cheeks glow with a natural rosy hue. But the result was that Heather looked healthy. In my heart, she was a vision of elegance, buttressed in her beauty by the strongest love I had to give.

Self-consciously, I adjusted my tie. I always felt like a fool when I dressed up in formal attire, but I did it anyway because she loved it.

I stood to greet her when she was only a few feet away. A huge stupid grin broke out on my face, and I could do nothing to mask it. Her quick green eyes caught the smile and dragged her pouty lips into a reciprocating gesture. God, I had missed her so much.

When she was near, I reached out to embrace her, but she unexpectedly clasped my hands instead. It was a minor rejection, but it brought back the fear that had dissipated upon seeing her and killed the smile.

Heather seemed to notice or expect my reaction, because she gave me a light conciliatory kiss on the cheek before releasing my hands and seating herself.

I stood there dumbly for a second, then followed her, falling into my chair.

She isn’t coming home; I realized. No, it was more than that. The sinking feeling grew worse in my already disturbed stomach. Heather was sitting across from me resolute, like she did with one of her clients, and gave me her stony courtroom face.

“Sorry I’m a little late. Busy day at the office,” she said in a far too professional tone.

“No biggie. I hadn’t noticed,” I lied, taking another sip of wine to mask my frown. I could have sworn that I enjoyed the flavor of the wine a few minutes past. Now it tasted like acid on my tongue.

“How’s work? Is that new supervisor still giving you trouble?” Heather asked politely.

“It is what it is,” I snapped, saying a phrase that we both knew that I hated. Thinking, much less talking about my crappy job and even crappier salary, was the last thing I wanted to do. If she planned on dropping bad news on me, I wanted to get to it. Worrier I might be, but “rip the band aid off” was always the way I dealt with problems, and she knew it.

Heather studied me for a moment and bit her lower lip, seeming to appreciate my annoyance. Sympathy snuck through her defenses in the face of my rare agitation with her.

“Look,” Heather started, but before she could say something else, Montclair materialized and interrupted what was no doubt something important. He had timed the intrusion well. Probably on purpose.

I tried to appear friendly toward the stiff, who was no doubt enjoying his interruption. Almost by rote, I answered the questions the surly waiter asked, hoping to appease the man so he would leave. To his credit, he was much friendlier toward Heather than he had been toward me. Her breed was probably the clientele he usually dealt with.

Once the waiter left, I returned all my focus back to Heather, who was finishing the rest of my glass of wine in uncharacteristic gulps. She never drank like that. Her apprehensiveness fed into mine, making my pulse quicken. In all our years together, she’d never looked so uncomposed. On spring break one year, she tied her own hair back before puking in the toilet. That kind of dedication to resolve wasn’t normal and seeing her act so put off scared me.

“Julian, I know that this has been hard for you and that we need to talk,” she said, setting the empty glass down, lower lip trembling.

I nodded and waited. Other than being hesitant to tell me something, she looked well. I’d given her the time and space she asked for, and it appeared to have done the trick. But you can never be sure about a situation like ours.

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The doctor had said it wasn’t a miscarriage; it was a stillbirth. Heather had been too far along in the pregnancy. We had just one month to go before our perfect, precious baby died. It had devastated us both, but she knew I would jump through as many hoops as she needed to get us back to where we needed to be. I just needed direction so we could move forward.

“Y-you’ve been an amazing husband and partner. You’ve done everything I have ever asked you. I love you and will always love you. I’ll never forget our time together. Look, this isn’t easy for me to say, I...” Heather started, quieted again, then took a deep breath and seemed to compose herself.

I hadn’t expected a speech like this, a breakup speech. My already beating heart began thumping so fast my vision pulsed. Scenarios flitted through my consciousness, leaving me scarcely able to focus. Should I interrupt her and bring up grief counseling? Maybe this was all just a terrible joke? I would beg if I had to.

“I’m just going to come out and say it: the baby wasn’t yours,” she said, both hands on the table, anxiously straightening out a cloth napkin.

I jerked back in the chair as if struck. What did she just say?

“What did you say?” I whispered, not wanting to believe what I’d heard.

“The baby, it wasn’t yours. You didn’t lose a baby, I did. And… I haven’t been staying with my mother. I’ve been staying with Chase.” she said.

I stared at her aghast, heart racing so fast my vision blackened at the edges. A panicked part of my mind thought I was having a stroke. Breathing became difficult.

“Chase’s?” I coughed out.

Heather took a swallow of her own spit and nodded. A second later she gave a quick glance to my empty wine glass as though it might save her.

“Your boss Chase?” I clarified in mounting shock.

“Yes,” Heather confirmed. “I’m sure it was his. Almost certain. We’ve been… grieving together.”

“How long?” I asked. So much suddenly made sense that it physically hurt. I had naively believed that the distance growing between us was because of the stress of her pregnancy colliding with her career ambitions. That was how she had explained it. It wasn’t a novel problem.

Heather at least had the decency to flinch in shame at the question. She could no longer look me in the eye. She stared at the table then answered, “Since last Christmas.”

The world felt ripped from under me. Some portion of my brain sensed the emotional eruption that threatened to consume me and rendered me mercifully numb. I stood before I puked all over the dining table, feeling like an outside observer to my life.

“I have… I have to go,” I said, stumbling away, knocking into the table as I extricated myself from the chair.

“Wait! We have to talk about this,” Heather begged. “I know this is a lot to take in, but--”

I ignored her pleas, heading for the exit. She didn’t stop me, nor did she follow. Heather hated causing a scene.

Three Hours Later

I popped open another can of low-quality piss tasting beer, then deliberated on the action. Empty bent cans surrounded my feet, making my recliner look like a temple overlooking a cemetery for six packs. I knew that continuing to drink, drunk as I was, would be a disaster for my job tomorrow.

My new boss was a complete dickhead. The man would no doubt sense my hangover, then swarm over me and drop heaps of bullshit on my head like the dung beetle he was. Since the man had started last month, he seemed to make it his life’s mission to antagonize me. Underhanded threats, shitty assignments, and then the shift to my schedule to work every weekend. Was it even legal to give me Monday and Thursday as my off days? I should ask Heather. I thought for a brief second, before my work problems evaporated in a cloud of resentment.

I tried to push thoughts of her away from my alcohol addled mind, but a sinister revelation brought them raging back. Chase was the one that got me the security job. His brother was an executive at the corporation. Had he been the architect of all my misery? To fuck my wife — no, the woman I thought was the love of my life for a year showed a deplorable level of seediness. Of course, he had done it, I realized. Trying to get me fired was a small thing compared to the burden of sin he had done against me.

I scoffed at my weakness and drank the new can of beer. An inner voice that said “fuck the world” had won over, and I tossed it back in thick gulps. I would just call in sick or quit, consequences be damned.

The awful taste of the brew felt like a punishment, reinforcing my new worldview that I deserved to suffer. Even if I were technically doing this one myself, I felt confident it would appease the almighty. My life had so spectacularly fallen apart, I had to have angered God. No other explanation made sense, I thought, wallowing in my self-pity.

I discarded the empty can, tossing it amongst my other drained victims.

Before I could grab another one, my phone vibrated. Again.

I would have ignored it, like the last six times, except this time it beeped to indicate a voice message. I knew it wouldn’t be Heather calling, because she never called someone multiple times. So many quirks she had like that were cute a few hours ago. But now they disgusted me. She should call me, begging for forgiveness. I wanted that more than anything.

Feeling more than a little angry at the volume of phone calls, I resolved to see what new flapdoodle life had in store for me. I started the message, pushing the speakerphone button and setting the phone on my armrest, glaring at it with drunken bloodshot eyes.

“Julian, it’s your mother-in-law. I know you are upset with Heather and Chase, but just try to appreciate what they are going through. They’ve lost a baby. It isn’t fair. Just consider that it was never yours, and their suffering is much worse than yours. Don’t make all the pain about you. Just — try to be the bigger man here. These things happen. There is someone else out there for you. You’ll pull through this. Chase will come to your apartment tomorrow, while you are at work, to get the rest of her things. He asks that you stack them near the door so he can get it done quickly. Also, they want the TV I bought you for Christmas for their guest room. Let them have it. With your hours you probably don’t watch it much, anyway. Oh, and stop ignoring my calls. Act like a grown-up.”

“They’ve lost a fucking baby!?” I shouted, hurling the phone into the TV that my adulterous wife and her love wanted. To ensure that neither of them would ever use it, I stormed over to it, ripped it off the wall, and slammed it on the ground. It’s a good thing I live on the first floor, because I was just getting started.

Once I’d rendered the television unrecognizable, my fury led me to the bedroom. The clarity of rage rang through my thoughts, and I knew what I had to do. It might have taken thirty minutes, but it felt like two. Gathering up everything that Heather owned in garbage bags went by in a blur.

A short time later, I popped open another beer while I watched her things burn in a nice fat pile. It turned out; name brand designer clothes burned just as well as everything else.

It was cold enough to snow, which also made it a grand night to start a drunken bonfire. Hopefully, I’d moved deep enough in the woods behind my place to not draw attention.

The thrill didn’t last long. Fire burned away some plastic, revealing a little pink onesie I had purchased for my daughter. My first child. I couldn’t hold back the gut-wrenching wail that escaped. Unable to cope with so much loss, I fell to my knees and sobbed in my hands. When she left me, she didn’t just leave me in fear for our marriage. She left me to grieve alone.

The heat from the flame’s closeness threatened to burn my face, but I didn’t care. Betrayal and loss fused in such a consummate whole, I considered throwing myself on to the fire to end the pain.

Everyone had thought she was too good for me. I saw the expression in the questioning looks from her friends on outings. No one had ever said anything, but I knew what they were thinking. Heather was successful, urbane, and from a connected family. She was a high-paid lawyer and worked for one of the best law firms in the state.

Meanwhile, I was just a stereotypical tortured dreamer. It hadn’t been hard for me to give up my job and move closer to her family. When she asked me to diet and become her running partner, I gave up my favorite foods and got up at 5:30 a.m. every morning. I loved her so much. No personal sacrifice felt too great. She made me happier than all those other things.

The truth was ugly. It had taken all of three months of marriage for her vows to mean nothing. To please her, I’d lost myself. And for what?

I knew my mother-in-law was ecstatic that those two had gotten together. In her eyes, Heather leaving me was a karmic rebalance of the world. I had never been ambitious enough to please that harpy of a woman and could hear the judgement in her admonishing voice message. She was proud of Chase for landing such a marvelous woman. The strong took from the weak in her classist game of survival of the fittest.

Chase was tall, suave, athletic. The perfect specimen for a gal like Heather. I had to admit it made it hurt all the worse for it.

That would change, I decided, standing in the ashes of Heather’s shit. The first thing I would do tomorrow was rearrange my Chases’ perfect fucking face.

I took a piss on the fire, then went to bed.