Page 12 of Two Wrongs
Why didn’t I tell anyone? I needed to let my family know first, and maybe if my mother had let me get a word in edgeways during one of her calls, I might have been able to fudge the details a little, maybe tell her that the man I’d been dating had whisked me away for a weekend of drunken debauchery. That we’d had such a fuck-fest—though maybe I wouldn’t have mentioned words pertaining to excessive drinking or sex, and I would’ve definitely nixed all f-words. Maybe I would’ve said we drunkenly—though again, I wouldn’t have mentioned that little nugget—declared our love for one another and promptly popped off to the tacky chapel... that so wouldn’t meet the requirements of the daughter of someone as pious as my mum.
In reality, even if my mother had taken a vow of silence, there’s no way I could’ve said any of those things over the phone. I’d decided to tell them on my next visit, and when I saymynext visit, I meantours. Yep, I was planning on arriving back home with a husband in tow. I was hoping we’d put on a united front—strength in numbers and all that. Okay, maybe I was hoping to spread the blame.A problem shared is a problem halved, isn’t it?I figured Dylan could be quite charming when he has some kind of incentive to turn it on. But then he became famous almost overnight, and things started to go wrong. It seems we were never destined to make it back.
Our marriage was an easy lie to live with especially on the other side of the world.Out of sight, out of mind. It’s much easier to be selective about the truth when your only contact is over a phone or internet connection. And I chose not to care for the first time in my life. I put my wants and desires first, desires I had no idea I was even capable of. I was happy, and that’s all that mattered. But that happiness was short lived.
So Dylan became super famous, super-fast. There was just no getting used to that. We couldn’t even grocery shop together for fear of being snapped. Dylan’s agent, Ric, cautioned against us being labelleda thing,and while Dylan paid him no mind, I did. I didn’t want my friends and family to learn about us from the media, and I cared about him. I loved the very bones of him, and he’d worked so hard and had schlepped the audition trail for a half dozen years or more, so no way was I going to stand in the way of his fame.
The promise of a blockbuster movie on the heels of the indie—an indie where he’d been astute enough to insist on a portion of the ticket sales—and his star began to ascend. We bought a house from the proceeds, where it was much easier to maintain our privacy. We were newlyweds; we didn’t need to leave the house, wrapped up in each other as we were. But as his star ascended, our marriage sunk like its counterweight. The tiny nothings became somethings. And the somethings? Well, they became insurmountable. At least, for me. And as they say, the rest is history. And just as painful. And as I’d confided in no one, I was by myself with this pain. Meanwhile, Dylan seemed to drown himself in women and notoriety. And his fans lapped it up. A pretty face is easier to forgive for some.
And now, we’ve been living on opposite sides of the world for longer than we’ve been married, and I think that’s kind of symbolic. It’s been months since we’ve spoken. Months in which I’ve avoided every mention of him. I’d disabled all social media. Avoided the internet. Ignored anything with access to showbiz news. I didn’t need to know where my husband was or which skinny starlet he was boning that week or how many cameras he’d smashed.
I didn’t need to know any of it. For the sake of my sanity mostly.
Yes, I’m bitter.Still.
Not only did I do him a favour by starting our divorce proceedings months ago, but I also filled out the reason on the dotted line, providing us both with more than just cause.
Adultery, the documents read.
All. He. Needed. To. Do. Was. Sign.
I did the hard part; started rolling that concrete ball down the rocky slope. Why couldn’t he have just managed that one thing in return?
How hard is it to pick up a pen?
I’d relinquished my rights to everything—alimony, the house—but all he returned was an envelope containing a scrawled note. Two words. The same number of syllables.
Fuck. You.
And then... nothing. Not another word for months.
What else could I do? I don’t have money to chase him down. I don’t have his bank balance, and I had a business to build—a beauty salon to renovate and open. An income to create, not to mention a place to heal.That’s what I’d returned home for—business. I didn’t run away from LA.
At least, I don’t think I did.
I didn’t take the easy way out, despite my daydreams of vindication. I’m not some fame whore who’d sell their story to some celeb-stalking site. I didn’t need to introduce DMZ into either of our lives. Though, God knows I could’ve done with a cash injection, especially as I’m now kind of responsible for Fin. Poor Fin. Her own marriage problems are much more terminal and have left her emotionally battered and sleeping in my spare room.
Nope. Telling the world Dylan Duffy is married, and to me, would never have been possible. And then tell the world that he’s divorced? It’s not even funny, though I doubt I’d need to worry about retribution at the hands of his rabid fans. Not if my mother got there first. Especially after his threats—those of him exposing more than my bottom to the internet. No, I’d have to have a death wish to go public with any of this, and I’m not sick of my life. Not yet, anyway. I just have a husband I can’t shake. But once this trip is over, I’ll be set. No one will ever need to know. We’ll be over. Done. Finito. Kaput. And I think... I think I must be due my period because why else would my eyes be wet?
I run the back of my hand under my nose, glad for the seating structure in first class as I blot the corners of my eyes with the edge of my thumbs. Husbands. Why the hell were they invented? All those extraneous dangly bits. Okay, maybe notthatunnecessary, but also not very nice to look at. Except maybe in Dylan’s case. Smooth, long, and thick. And cut.
I’d never been with a man sans foreskin.
Oh, shut up, brain, shut up!
Blame the pre-flight cocktails. Blame the in-flight champagne because Dylan’s dick should not be floating in the sphere of my brain activity these days.There are plenty of other dicks in the sea, I tell myself, which isn’t a pleasant image or analogy. But it still makes me giggle. He can’t be the only one in the world who knows how to work one, surely?
Maybe that’s what I need to do; move on and find me a new D.
Rather than imagining pickling Dylan’s in a jar...
Because screw him. My life was back on track until I’d slid my finger under that envelope flap. A shiver had coursed down my spine as the heavy paper tore with a reluctance I’d felt bone deep.
Leave it unopened, my mind whispered.Ignore it. Send it back.
Apparently, God gives you that little voice for a reason. I ought to learn to listen to it.
In my state of shock, I’d managed to keep from spilling my secrets, and though I’d thought about confiding in Fin, she could do without that right now. Instead, I sold my friends a line about prior work obligations. I told them in the vaguest terms that I needed to return for a contractual thing.
