Page 18 of Missile Tow
“It’s not…” he began until I stepped around him toward the door.
“Sorry, but I can’t do this,” I stated.
“My wife doesn’t provide what I need,” he defended. “I’m sorry, but I can’t be out in this town. I just need the touch of another man.”
“You have your reasons, I’m sure. But this goes against everything I stand for,” I pointed out. “Trust me, I want to, Dirk. You are so my type, and it would be easy to jump into bed with you, but I won’t invite this into my life.”
“It’s a one-night stand,” he defended. “Not a big deal.”
“Not to us perhaps, but there’s someone else that it would matter to if she knew,” I stated. “I can’t do that to a person. Trust me, I know what that feels like.”
I expected him to be pissed, call me a cocktease, maybe even lash out at me, but he didn’t.
“I can respect that,” he said. “I’m not happy you have standards, but that’s my dick talking.”
I smiled and laid my hand on his chest. “Believe me, I’m not happy either. And that’s also my dick talking.”
I stepped outside, closing the door behind me. Leaning back, I took a deep breath and wondered if I was being too much of a prude. There was Grade-A beefcake behind the door I just exited. I had physical needs, and he was just the type to provide them. But it hurt being the person who didn’t see it coming. Maybe his wife would never find out. Maybe she would. But one thing was certain: I’d have a clean conscience.
“One down,” I said to myself, wondering if my journey to find a good man was going to be more difficult than my Christmas miracle fantasy.
Exhaling a deep breath, I glanced at the door to my room. Nope, I wasn’t done for the night. Instead of going to bed, I took one step forward, and then several more, as I made my way back to the elevators.
You’ve got this, Van.
CHAPTER NINE: Chip
Quiet was so noisy. I’d made that discovery over the past year. When you came home to an empty house, the reminder of just how alone you truly were hit you squarely between the eyes. The silence screamed into your head that you’re on your own.
There were no discussions about what’s for dinner. No shared after-work showers with your partner. No chance the post-workday bathing will lead to hot sex. Just the cabin greeting me with a big fat nothingness that filled my existence with sadness.
Pooch was glad we were home, though. He was so busy at the mercantile, greeting folks and making sure he extracted every pat he could get, that he loved the comfort of his bed in front of a crackling fire at the end of the day.
After a year, I’d finally removed all evidence of John and our life as a couple. The few framed photos of us were boxed up. The clothes he’d left in the loft were given to a local clothing drive. His toothbrush was removed from the glass near the sink. I’d managed to wipe the last vestiges of our shared life from the cabin.
However, you can remove a person’s belongings, and they still haunt the space, no matter how little of them is left. The quiet I spoke of didn’t truly exist because no matter what I did,where I stood in the cabin, or how much time ticked by, John was everywhere, his ghost a presence I couldn’t let go of.
After a year, I’d realized that our split was unusual. There was no big blow-up. There were very few signs of an impending breakup. In fact, the whole relationship disintegrated far too easily and with little discussion.
* * *
John had stayed home on that fateful Tuesday, Christmas Eve of 2024. He’d said he had a lot to do with holiday preparations. I figured that since my birthday was the next day, he was most likely working on a surprise for me. He always made sure we celebrated my special day as well as Christmas.
The mercantile was slower than usual, being Christmas Eve, so I knew we could manage without him. In the back of my mind, I had this dread that’d been knocking about in my head for a couple of weeks. Something was off with John. He seemed removed from our day-to-day tasks and usual loving banter.
I’d asked him more times than I cared to admit, “What’s wrong?” His reply was a subdued response that nothing was wrong. His usual joy over the holidays, matching my own, was nowhere to be seen. We were always competitive about decorating and discovering new ideas to light up the cabin and the store. But this year, he’d barely participated in any of our usual preparations.
He was preoccupied with his laptop on what he called a work project. The damn thing went everywhere with him, but was closed tight as a drum whenever he had work to do at the mercantile. Of course, I trusted him and never thought anything other than what he told me was true. He claimed he was working on a special project for some extra cash.
He maintained a freelance position with an accounting firm he’d worked part-time at during college. I did appreciate the extra money he earned, and he never seemed all that distracted from our main responsibility, the mercantile. But the level of attention he was directing at this new project was unusually intense.
“What has you so preoccupied?” I finally asked the night before our last day as a couple.
“It’s work,” he repeated.
“No, John!” I exclaimed. “It isnotjust work. You’re acting differently. Are you okay?”
“I’ll be finished tomorrow.”
