The Dating Bender Page 6

  Candy: Sam, what are you doing?

  Candy: Hello?

  Candy: We’re thinking of having a few friends over.

  Candy: Are you there?

  Candy: Whatever. Get over here. Lon is making his famous peach margaritas and fajitas for some of the guys, and I can’t deal with the bromance for much longer.

  Candy: BTW, you’ve been acting funny ever since you got back from the investor meeting. What’s up?

  Without giving me as much as a minute to reply, she continued her rant.

  Candy: Are you on your way yet?

  She could be impatient at times, but in this instant I loved her too much to care. This was almost too perfect to be happening to me. I needed reinforcements to get through my reunion of unwedded-dreaded-bliss with Sheldon.

  Me: Headed out. Save some tequila for me. I’m gonna need it.

  ***

  Sheldon and I suffered through a tedious ten-minute drive to Candy’s house. I ushered us in the front door where she stood waiting with a bottle of tequila in one hand and Jägermeister in the other. Unaware of the smoking-hot sex that Superstar and I had been having lately, she looked at me with the excitement only a girlfriend could conjure when her bestie is on a hot date. If only she knew the real story.

  As Sheldon entered their spunky A-frame house, she mouthed behind his back, “Who’s that?”

  When I mouthed back asking who, her face fell and turned borderline angry.

  “WTF?” she mouthed.

  Not even I could explain myself, so I grabbed the bottle of Jäger from her hand and downed two shots of the deer blood. It coated my throat the way only a good cough medicine could, and it made me gag. When Sheldon made no attempt to comfort me or offer me a fucking glass of water even, I slugged back two more shots.

  Lon, the consummate husband, came to my rescue with a bottle of Evian. Too bad he couldn’t have schooled my long-lost spouse in the fine art of marital niceties. Sheldon proceeded to introduce himself to everybody as my “husband,” and then went on to bore anybody who would listen to him. The people who knew me from work looked back and forth between us as if we had been to Mars, Venus, and finally had landed on Uranus. God knows I felt like one.

  I couldn’t be certain, but it looked like Candy was shaking her head at me in disapproval. All I could muster in return was a shrug and a “what are you going to do” look.

  The Jäger was making me woozy, or maybe it was the sight of Sheldon trying to “work” the crowd that sickened me, but regardless of the reason, I tapped him on the shoulder, signaling it was time to go. When he failed to stop talking, I pushed him around and forced him to make eye contact with me.

  “We’re leaving,” I said.

  “I’m just getting to know everybody. This is a great bunch of guys. I can really see myself living here.”

  With that threat, I grabbed one more shot, and pushed him out the door, apologizing over my back on the way out.

  He drove us home because apparently I was in no condition to drive. As always, he refused to listen to my directions and got lost on the way. When we finally arrived, I ran out of the car and up to my front stoop, steadying myself as best as possible and willing myself not to vomit.

  “Sam, is everything all right? Is it something I did?”

  “Ya think?” I deadpanned.

  With no ability to contain myself, everything came tumbling out. First, the Jäger-induced puke, then the angry tears. In my mind, I spewed a string of expletives that would have done my dad proud. In reality, I asked him to leave—for good.

  He looked at me, confusion registering on his face.

  “Are you sure?” he said.

  I gave him my best puke-face death-glare. But said nothing.

  And so he left.

  Chapter Nine

  Sheldon could be efficient when he wanted to be. In the end, it was he and not me that stepped up, took the reins, and initiated what would be the first and (I determined) last divorce of my life. You sure as hell better hope so.

  Superstar and I had enjoyed another night of hot, steamy sex before I hopped on the plane to Florida to finalize the legal termination of my marriage. I couldn’t explain why I kept porking him other than I wanted to numb my feelings of guilt, and sex seemed like as good of a tool as any. Besides, as my mother often reminded me, I was destined to end up in hell, so why not enjoy myself in the meantime?

  I arrived back to my once idyllic hometown to a rainstorm of monsoon proportions, or at least it felt that way. A few minutes passed and I already hated Florida and missed Colorado. The scenes of my paltry marriage played like a poorly cut skin flick—innocence, sex, adultery, more sex, cardinal sin—closing credits—main character ends up in hell. I walked off the plane and into the terminal. My mental state disintegrated further with each plodding step. I thought I could do this. I had to do this. I owed myself, and him, that much.

  Sheldon had already put our house on the market, which meant I had to return home to parse through the remains of our so-called marital life and sign the final document that would decree our marriage dead.

  Steeped in sweat, I looked around the Tampa Bay terminal and saw Sheldon on the other side of the baggage claim. Perspiration plastered his shiny brown hair to his forehead. He was the only person in the airport who looked worse than me.

  “Hey, Sam, hope your flight was okay.”

  Please, for the love of God, don’t be nice to me.

  “It was fine. You look tired,” I said.

  “Packing up our house was tougher than I expected. I still can’t believe this is it for us. Are you sure? It’s not too late. I never stopped loving you. I just got overwhelmed with work. I’m sorry for that.”

  Am I sure, for fuck’s sake? Of course I’m not sure. But I had done the dastardly deed, which, in the world according to Catholicism, meant my marriage and life were over unless I went to confession. There was no way I could do that. Pussy.

  “Thanks for clearing out the house,” I said.

  I tried to speak again but couldn’t because tears threatened to flow.

  We walked in silence through the terminal until we reached the parking lot. A walk of shame: Sheldon’s shame for not caring enough until it was too late, and mine for cheating my way out of a marriage.

  “All right. I guess this is it then. I put aside some things that I thought you might want,” he said. “We can stop by our house and take a final look if you like?”

  “That would be nice. To sort of say goodbye to our place…” I said as I choked back a tear.

  “Whatever you want. You’ll be okay. You know that, right? It’s going to be okay.”

  I knew it was going to be okay. Why did he have to keep saying that? It was possible to move on after a divorce despite what the Catholic church and my parents wanted me to believe. People started over and got second chances. At least that’s what Oprah was always saying.

  As we drove down the once memorable Beach Drive, a flurry of memories came into focus—memories of a life that was supposed to last forever but ended before its time.

  As we rounded the waterway and pulled into the driveway of the house that would soon enough belong to someone else, I scrambled out of the car. I stood, nose pressed against our spectacular bay window, an outsider looking in on my own life. All the peach walls, white picket fences, and palm trees couldn’t put Samantha and Sheldon back together again.

  He got out of the car, and like a nurturing, devoted old husband, he walked me into our home for the last time. The house was barren and void of any form of happiness, empty except for a lone box that was labeled Cubby Bear in bold letters, with a sad face drawn underneath.

  I ran over to it and picked through an assortment of knickknacks that Sheldon had set aside for me. A hand-sewn snowman ornament, my favorite. A squishy “I heart you” keychain, his first gift to me. And the “forgive me, I have zinned,” magnet, which was hard not to take personally. This was what he chose to save for me as a reflecti
on of the best parts of our time together?

  A lonely tear slipped down my cheek. I prayed to God Almighty to prevent me from breaking down, but the big guy let me down. I sat hunched over my Cubby Bear box, holding it like it was my baby, while I cried just like one.

  Sheldon walked up to me, held me and rocked me into a more settled state.

  “Samantha, it is going to be okay.”

  At least one of us was sure of that.

  Chapter Ten

  The visit to what was once my marital home was heartbreaking. Sheldon was my best friend, but even he couldn’t deliver me from evil. I had loved him to the best of my abilities, which were limited given my upbringing. Our friendship changed my life and without it, it was hard to know who I would be anymore, other than a divorcée responsible for the dissolution of a marriage. And a sinner.

  After hours spent at the airport diluting my guilt with booze the way only a Serrano could, I decided I was free to move on with my life. As I swigged down the last of my Bloody Mary, waiting for my plane to board, I sent Superstar a racy email to anoint my freedom.

  It had been a couple of days. Surely he would be yearning for me as badly as I was for him, or at least I hoped so. People couldn’t have such wanton sex and not miss each other, right? I reviewed my sent message and confirmed that it still seemed sexy and mysterious without—as Elle magazine advised—being too forward or needy.

  I got up and wandered around the terminal for an hour to burn some time and then stopped off at the restroom. It was still bloody hot, even though it was 10 o’clock at night. Florida sucked as badly as I looked. Having a husband appear many months too late to reclaim your love took a toll. I had massive bags under my eyes. Sorry, Self magazine, cooled cucumber slices can only do so much.

  Superstar must have been rubbing off on me because email and Facebook calmed my nerves. The departure board showed that my flight was delayed another hour, so I found a wine bar and ordered a spicy Cabernet to match my sure-to-be sweltering sex life.

  I fired up the nifty NetSocial app on my iPad, which we were beta testing before the official launch. Superstar had recently enhanced the interface to spark more social engagements. Hopefully, my seductive message would engage him. Hmm, it was odd that he hadn’t responded to my previous email yet. He was always online. How could he go offline in my time of need? I could tell that he had read the message but for some reason, hadn’t responded. Bad social netiquette if you asked me.

  I was fairly certain my note was cute and witty while being sexy at the same time. What more did he want? I had just ended my marriage. He should know that I needed to erase my past by flinging myself forward, sexually, as soon as possible.

  I thought about my mother’s best defense: Wine makes everything better. It almost saved Christ, so why not me? I shot down the remains of my vino. It burned and coated my throat all at once. You’re going to need a lot more than wine to save your soul.

  Another stomach-twisting hour passed. The airport temperatures climbed, as did the raucous behavior at the wine bar. There was lots of pounding on the bar, and suits swatting each other on the back with one too many attaboys for my taste.

  Amped up on cheap wine, I may have serial texted Superstar and every person in my contact list followed by a Twitter bender aimed at Mr. Twinkle Eyes himself. The PA system stopped the frenzy by announcing my flight was beginning to board. I stuffed my iPad into my cow print pink purse and sprinted to the gate.

  “I’m headed your way!”

  ***

  “Ms., please return your seat to the full upright position and stow your tray table. We’re about to land,” the pissy flight attendant said as she tapped my hand.

  Christ, had I passed out? I had a horrible dream where I went on a social media bender. No, it was fine, everything would be okay, just like Sheldon said.

  My head throbbed to an evil airport rendition of elevator music. Superstar’s penis inside me would remedy that. Marie Claire said sex could be an instant cure for a hangover.

  As I wobbled off the gangplank to the greeting gate at Denver International Airport, I looked for Superstar. It was hard to tell where he might have been hiding. Didn’t he say he would meet me at the airport? He was probably waiting downstairs at the baggage claim.

  I flicked on my phone certain he’d have texted to tell me where he was in the terminal, but there was nothing. Surveying the area with the precision of a Navy Seal, I still couldn’t find him. After fetching my bag, I walked with purpose all the way to the next terminal. Still no Superstar. Was this God’s way of punishing me because I had committed multiple acts of adultery?

  I fumbled with the iPad trying to get the damn thing to chirp with its magical new message ding, but nothing. I shut it off and then back on and waited for it to reboot. After one too many seconds the bitten apple appeared, reminding me that we all make mistakes. Even Eve ate the apple for God’s sake.

  Still not a single message from Boy Wonder. Had I ever sent him my note? I double-checked my sent folder. Yep, eight messages ought to have covered it. Perhaps the last that read ASSHOLE might have been one step too far. Oprah was always saying never to use all caps, as it could be inflammatory. She had a point. Not only was I divorced and disowned, but also too free with flapping fingers. But really, could anyone be held accountable for messages sent under the influence? That was the whole point of Twitter; it’s the Millennials’ answer to drunk dialing.

  I rang Babs to see if she had been in contact with Superstar. Maybe he had dropped his phone in the john while trying to pee and control that gargantuan penis of his.

  “Hey, I’m back. Have you heard from Superstar? I’m not getting any new messages from him,” I said.

  “Hey, sweetie, welcome home. I’m glad you’re back. Hopefully you can start to focus more at work. The whole divorce thing has been getting in the way of your performance, and yes, I just got a text from him a second ago. Relax and meet me for a drink. I miss you!”

  “Babs, I’ll call you right back.”

  I tried to calm myself by massaging my nose. It didn’t help. I lugged my stuff to the curb and hailed a cab. The jumping up and down, as if I were on a pogo stick, attracted a cabbie, but drew scared looks from passersby.

  “Hey, where are you? I’m desperate for a cocktail,” I said to Babs, who I dialed as soon as I’d settled into the backseat of the cab.

  “Phantom Canyon, honey. I can’t wait to see you. There are tons of cuties out tonight. Now that you’re single again, we can party. I just dropped some E,” she said, and hung up.

  Perfect, Superstar’s favorite hangout. He was always there trying to seduce the crowd like he did at client meetings. Connectivity was often patchy there given the bar’s proximity to Pikes Peak, which could also explain his lack of response. Or maybe the amazing sex we had before I left was not as good for him as it was for me?

  As I pulled into the parking lot, I felt a sense of peace from the familiar surroundings. Tasteful brew bars with thoughtful food always calmed me. The NetSocial team had spent many nights here. Plus, the food and beer were so good, it would distract attention away from my rumpled outfit and airplane hair.

  As I walked through the entrance, a glorious view of the mountains assaulted my senses as the whiz of bar banter engulfed me. So did the prospect of a new life. Divorce would not define me despite what the church and my family chanted relentlessly.

  The scent of sweet potato tots filled the air and reminded me of home. My mom favored the tater tot variety as opposed to this spiced up version, but still. Maybe she would find a way to support my decision to divorce.

  I pushed past the throngs of people and headed upstairs, where I spotted Babs seducing the sexy bartender while making eyes at a pair of underaged guys across the room. She was hard to miss in her plunging crimson tube top and miniskirt. The fact that it was still winter didn’t seem to matter. She often coached me to “flaunt the flesh” regardless of the time of year.

  I caught h
er eye and she motioned for me to join her.

  “Hey, honey! Welcome home. You look awful. You need a man sandwich,” she said as she grazed a twentysomething's buttocks with her manicured fingertips to indicate I should sit on his lap.

  “Good to see you too. I’ve missed…”

  I choked on my words when I looked past Babs to the pool tables. Superstar sat on the corner of one, cupping someone’s chin as he kissed her. What the hell? Blatant public displays should be banned except for has-been episodes of Jersey Shore, when it’s hilarious.

  “Honey, is everything okay?” Babs said.

  Clearly the E was talking. Of course I wasn’t okay. Instead of Superstar greeting me with a welcome-home bouquet of tulips, he was engaged in a lip tango with some other woman.

  Not only hadn’t he answered my emails and texts, but he appeared to be on something that resembled a date, or worse yet, in the throes of a hook-up. There had to be a reasonable explanation that I couldn’t wait to hear. Maybe he was in the midst of one of his client-wooing sessions…although kissing a client could be considered a conflict of interest, not that he seemed too concerned about it.

  I catapulted myself to the other end of the bar and stood before them, arms folded, like an angry mother. The girl looked barely legal. Babs followed.

  When Superstar did not ditch the dame and envelop me in one of his luscious kisses, I thought I’d provoke him into an embrace.

  “So, hey, how are you? I tried to get your attention. Did you see me waving at you?”

  “Yeah, I caught that. Would you step aside, doll? You’re in the middle of our game.”

  “Are you serious?” I said. “I’ve been gone for a week and all you have to say is I’m interrupting your game?”

  “Well, you are,” he said as he wagged his hips and lined up the cue stick.