Previous Parts

It became a routine. Every morning at two-OMFG-thirty, Mr. Hot’s alarm would go off. He’d lean over and kiss me and whisper, “I love you. Be back soon.”

I’d struggle to the surface of consciousness long enough to mutter, “Be careful.” (The “Be careful” to any loved one leaving my house continues to this day. We all do it. Come visit and you’ll see!)

And then he’d be gone - delivering papers on a rural route in the hills of West-by-gawd-Virginia for three hours. He’d come home around 6; we’d eat breakfast and hang around the apartment. We’d read or watch television. Go for walks. Make love.

Around dinnertime, we’d drive the forty-five miles to my house and wait for the phone to ring so I could keep up the pretense with Practice. Our conversations were stilted, to say the least, but I wasn’t supposed to say anything about the future until he got home. He made sure that it was always his way.

*********************

There were two conversations I remember while we played this fucked-up game.

I had, somehow, managed to get straight A’s that Fall semester. I had Calculus 2, Physics, C-Programming, Assembler (another programming language) and Engineering Graphics. It was the one thing I wanted to gloat about. Practice never thought that I was very bright - and yet, I managed to four-point my first full semester back in school. He immediately took the credit. “Yea, you wouldn’t have been able to do it without my help.” He summed up his view of our relationship pretty neatly in that one sentence.

The second conversation was with Practice’s father. Mr. Hot and I had fallen asleep at my house. Well, he had fallen asleep and I was watching him pretty intently. (And liking what I was seeing - but I suppose that goes without saying.) The phone rang around 8 p.m. Practice’s dad says to me, “I got a notice that you didn’t pay Practice’s student loan payment last month. What’s going on?” I explained that I had run out of checks and had ordered new ones, but they hadn’t arrived yet. Probably because of the holiday. I could tell he didn’t believe me, but it was the truth.

*********************

We had less than a week in our 1-bedroom Camelot. I had “moved in” on the 27th. Practice was due back on New Year’s Day.

On the 31st, Mr. Hot and I went out to dinner. We couldn’t celebrate the coming of 1991 - we didn’t know if there would be anything to celebrate. Afterwards, we went back to what we now called home and spent one last night together. When he got up to deliver papers the next morning, I couldn’t go back to sleep. I waited for him. I paced. I cried. I couldn’t believe it was over already - and I had to go back to Practice’s house that night. I got the feeling that Mr. Hot thought I was leaving for good. Nothing I could do or say convinced him otherwise.

The worst part was I had to drive back to the airport in Ohio. The flight was landing in the afternoon and I had a five hour drive. I wanted to stay with Mr. Hot as long as I possibly could, so I left the cats with him - I couldn’t take the time to drop them off at the house. I would think of an excuse on the way.

*********************

These were the days when you could still get through security without a boarding pass and go directly to the gate to wait for someone. I was sitting next to the door, my head leaning on the cinderblock wall with my eyes closed when the flight landed. Soon the passengers were off the plane and Practice was standing in front of me. He grabbed me to pull me up from the seat. I resisted at the same time. As I fell back into the chair, my head slammed back into the cinderblock. Immediately a knot rose on the back of my head and I had an instant headache.

*********************

Once we dropped R off, and headed down the road, the questions came.

“Where were you last night? I called several times. The florist said the flowers I sent you were left at the neighbors.”

I told him that I had gone to a girlfriend’s house. My head was throbbing and I was concentrating on staying awake and as alert as I could. I knew if I did tell him where I had been, I ran the risk of him driving off the road - and I was in no shape at that point to prevent anything from happening. He told me that he knew I was lying, he’d called that girlfriend’s house. I told him I was at Mr. Hot’s apartment. (He still didn’t know that this was the man I was in love with. He thought he was just the cat sitter.) For some reason, that shut him up.

When we finally made it back home, I told him I was going to bed. I took some Tylenol and slept.

The next morning, I told him everything. I told him I was in love with Mr. Hot. I told him I’d spent the entire week at his apartment and that everything was over between he and I. He argued with me. He cried. He swore that things would be better.

The phone rang.

Practice picked it up and yelled Mr. Hot’s name into the mouthpiece. I lunged for the phone. Whoever it was had hung up. There was only a dialtone on the other end. I knew Mr. Hot hadn’t yet hooked up the phone. I had no way of calling him back if it had, indeed, been him calling. I felt completely helpless - but at that point, right then and there, I knew what I was going to do.

I didn’t need anything. I took off my wedding rings. I took off the emerald he’d bought for my birthday the year before. I told him I’d take the old car - the one that was paid off - and I left. It was the last night I ever spent in that house.

…to be continued…

—- It ended up that the mysterious caller was the girlfriend Practice had called on New Year’s Eve. The one that told him she hadn’t seen me. She heard him yell Mr. Hot’s name into the phone and hung up to call a mutual friend of ours who was a lawyer. By the time she called back with an offer of someplace to stay and the name of a divorce attorney, I was long gone. —-

Edited: Aw, hell, y’know what y’all? Screw it. Flay away. (And that’s not Bobby, Lys!) It’s my story, it’s why I’m me. Read, comment, tell me I’m a soul-less homewrecker. I’ll still love you. I’ve opened the posts back up. Part 4 right below this one.

Dear All of you,

We’re getting to the part of the story where some people may be a bit, um, taken aback by the whole thing. I’m going to take this story private now. If you’d like to continue reading, please send me an email. I’m happy to give you the password. I don’t plan on making this a habit. I may open it all back up eventually, but I’m getting a bit antsy over the next few ‘chapters’ and I know that I will open myself up to the possibility of some real disapproval.

I’ve been judging myself throughout the past 18 years. I can handle being judged. What I don’t really want is to have others read any judgemental comments I get. I don’t know if password protecting is the answer, or closing comments, or what. I’m new at spilling my guts to the world.

So, we’ll try this, and see how it goes. I’d rather do this than take the stories down.

Much love,

Ree

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

After 10 days with my parents and Practice’s parents, it was time for us to leave. I had a feeling that my mother could tell something was going on, but she never asked. Practice’s parents were completely focused on Christmas. Theirs was a holiday that lasted three days.

It felt very “don’t ask, don’t tell”.

The day after Christmas, we left Michigan for the drive to drop Practice off at his friend’s house in Ohio - from there, they would leave for their ski week. We spent the night at the friend’s house, and then I took off after dropping them both off at the airport.

Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. I drove straight to Mr. Hot’s apartment.

We hadn’t been able to talk the entire time I was gone. He didn’t hook up a phone, there was no email. The last time I’d seen him was when I dropped off the cats. As far as I knew, he’d thrown the cats out on the street or taken them to a shelter and moved back in with his wife.

As I was getting closer, this song came on the radio. I took it as a sign.

“I got fifteen miles to go now
And I can hear my baby calling my name”

I parked and ran, full speed, up to the second floor. I knocked. And oh mah holy hell y’all, he opened the door.

“Sorry it took me so long to get the door opened, J.R. was asleep on my chest and I didn’t want to wake him up.”

This was the man who told me that he had no way of relating to cats…that he’d never had one, and didn’t especially like them. And now, my J.R. was laying on his chest.

“Where’s Riski?” I said, looking deep into his eyes.

“Probably on top of the kitchen cabinet. She only comes down to eat and poop.” Neither one of us had moved. I was standing just inside the doorway.
“We need to talk. I came here right from Ohio. I haven’t been home. I have everything with me, but Practice is going to be calling me every night. If I don’t answer the phone, he’s going to probably get on a plane and come home. He doesn’t love me, but he doesn’t want anyone else to have me. I don’t want to be married to him anymore, but we’ve got to figure out what we’re going to do. I won’t have any money. You have kids. I told him I was in love with someone else, but I didn’t tell him who.”

I said all this in a rush, without a breath. Mr. Hot put his hands on my shoulders. “You told him what?”

“I told him, right before we left for Michigan, that I was in love with someone else. I was laying on the couch and he was getting stoned again, and I just blurted out, ‘I don’t know why we’re married. It’s obvious you don’t love me. I don’t love you, and I don’t know why we got married. I finally figured out what love is when I fell in love.’”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘What do you mean you fell in love?’ and I said, ‘I’m in love with someone and that’s how I know I don’t love you and you don’t love me. ‘ And then he got up and walked over to the couch. He picked up the end of the couch where my feet were and acted like he was going to tip it over on top of me. I took off my rings and threw them at him.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No. He walked off, and I stayed on the couch. Then he came back into the room and said, ‘We’re still going to Michigan for Christmas, and we’re going to pretend that none of this happened. Then I’m going skiing with R. We’ll talk about this when I get back.’ And that was it. We left the next day and never talked about it the entire way. Six and a half hours; 300 miles. Not a word.”

***************************

I was never one to make waves. I knew I was in love with Mr. Hot, but I would never, ever ask him to leave his children. I was scared of driving up to Michigan with Practice - I didn’t know what he would do. I knew what his temper was like, and although I can’t believe that he would have ever lifted a finger to me, he wasn’t above hurting himself.

I remember one argument where he bit a hole through his lip - blood poured down his chin - I always thought that it was solely to prevent himself from hitting me. He turned the anger inward.

I didn’t want to ruin his parents’ holiday. I wanted to spend some time with my MomandDad - they would never understand this. No one they knew got divorced; no one in our family got divorced. You married for life - happily or not. Suck it up.

I wanted Practice to go out west so that I could have some time alone when the holidays were over. I wanted to be able to think through what I needed to do, with or without Mr. Hot in the picture.

I needed to think.

***************************

“Sit down”, he whispered as he took his hands off of my shoulders. He moved his book off of the couch. “You’re freezing”, he handed me a blanket. “Here.”

I curled up on the corner of his couch. J.R. started head-bumping my hand and I scratched him. Riski appeared from the kitchen. She jumped onto the arm of the couch. I looked at my cats. I looked at the man I loved. As silly as it may sound, this felt familiar. And safe.

“What have you been doing?”, I asked. Wanting to know, but not wanting to know, if he had really moved out. How his wife was reacting. How his children were. Most of all, how his children were.

And so we talked. And as we talked, and he held my hands, he told me that he didn’t want to be alone. He loved me and wanted to spend his life with me. His kids were young, and yes, divorce would hit them hard, but he’d make it work. He and his wife lived like brother and sister. They were together out of convenience, not because they had anything in common. But he was sure that she’d take him back; she’d always loved him way more than he loved her; if I felt like I had to stay with my husband. He’d understand. But he wanted me to know he was serious about this, and it was up to me. He wanted me, but he couldn’t spend the rest of his life alone.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So much of what I was hearing was the typical “we never have sex” story that men told their mistresses. And yet, he’d already moved out. This wasn’t some “after the kids are older” or “I can’t divorce her because she’ll take me for everything I’ve got”. He had already given up his life for me. Because how can anything be “normal” after that? You can’t undo what he’d done.

Instead of laughing or crying, I took my hands out of his and got up from the couch. I reached for his hands, and pulled him to a standing position.

“I still have to be at my house to answer the phone. They’re supposed to land in a couple of hours. He’ll call once they get to R’s house. Once he calls, I’ll pack some clean clothes, some more food for the beasts, and I’ll grab a bottle of wine. Then I’ll come home.”

He put my hands around his back. In doing so, he pulled me closer to his chest and kissed me on my forehead. I looked up again. He smiled (fuckin’ dimple) and kissed my lips. For a very.long.time.

“I’ll go with you. And then we’ll come home.”

…to be continued…

—- It took us another hour to get out of there. It was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me. I had never felt so loved, so warmly protected, so sexy. And yet, I still had to tell everyone in my life that my marriage was over. Including my husband. —-

Part 1

Part 2

I didn’t even like beer. After an ill-advised downing (and subsequent upp-ing) of a six pack during my senior year in High School, I stayed away from anything that formed a head when poured. Between 1981 and 1990, I bet I had a total of 3 or 4 beers, and those came after a day of skiing at 9500 feet. “Beers for the Knees” or some such shit. Blech. (I still hate skiing - sorry Heidi - but I can drink beer now.)

So when Mr. Hot and I made it over to a nearby bar, owned by a guy he knew, I had no freakin’ clue what to order. “Bud Ice”, I said, catching the name on the chalkboard over the bartender’s head. “Make it two”, said Mr. Hot.

We talked for the next two hours. I told him all about my “career” in Human Resources and how much I hated it. He told me about working as the Circulation Manager for a local newspaper. I told him that I adored kids, but couldn’t have any. He told me about his two - then 6 and 2, and how he had never really wanted kids; had never wanted to get married, but he’d dated her for so long that he felt like it was expected. He was too shy to date anyone else, and it was obvious that she loved him. So he married her. He told me how great it was having kids - how he never expected that he could possibly feel the way he felt towards those kids.

Based on my memories, this must have been mid September. We made this a usual Wednesday thing. We both had 6 pm classes on Wednesdays, so after his 2 o’clock, we’d go grab something to eat. We’d study. We’d talk. We’d laugh hysterically. I quizzed him on math formulas (he hated math with the heat of 10,000 suns). We’d watch whatever sporting events were on television in the bar (which started two decades of this). We looked into each other’s eyes.

He’d bring me roses he’d stolen from the city Rose Garden (the one he drove past at 3 a.m. while delivering newspapers) every day. He knew I loved all roses except red ones. He’d bring yellow, white, salmon, pink. Never red ones. He listened. He knew.
We became close friends - the kind you have for a lifetime. It had been two months.

I can hear someone out there saying, “Wait, Hot. Two months? - To become close enough to be friends for a lifetime? Right….” To which I say, “Yea, well, I wasn’t exactly swimming in friends, and this guy could have been my twin. So that’s how I felt. And I still feel that way - 18 years later.”

************************

My husband (Practice), the one that I’d met at Michigan State, was not interested in having children. I burned with the desire to be pregnant, to have a baby, to raise a child. When we found out that it was physically impossible for the two of us to have a child together, I wanted to take the next step. Medical intervention was going to be a necessity. He wasn’t interested. “Maybe when I’m 35″, was his refrain. He was 30. I didn’t think I’d last another 5 years.

His favorite past-time was smoking marijuana and watching (or looking at) porn. I was not morally opposed to either, in moderation, but the pot wasn’t helping our attempts at procreation. His porn addiction (and yes, it was an addiction), had caused us problems with our neighbors. I couldn’t handle the comments I was getting from the men on the street - men that worked in the plant with Practice. They assumed, apparently, that since my husband had no problems, um, wandering around the backyard in the nude, that I was fair game for their leering and their innuendos. I couldn’t take a walk or work in the yard without hearing threats from the fuckheads that lived around us. I became a prisoner in my house. School was the only way I could forget it all.

When I confronted Practice with the accusation that he was, um, “servicing himself” on the deck, he couldn’t deny it.

I couldn’t live with it.

And so, while we still lived in the same house, we were separate. It was only a matter of time before it was all over. He offered to “get help” with his problems. I had already disengaged. We’d been married 5 years. During our trip to the Bahamas for our fifth anniversary, he’d asked me if he could hire a prostitute to spend time with “us”.

Not in a million fucking years.

But, I had quit my job and was financially dependent on him, and I wanted to finish this degree. It would open up the kind of doors I needed.

************************

One day, after a particularly tough math exam (there it is again! math!), Mr. Hot and I were celebrating his A. It wasn’t a Wednesday, but we stopped for a quick beer (“Bud Ice”. “Make that two.” was our refrain) to toast his victory and my excellent formula-quizzing. As he was walking away from my car, I yelled at him.
“Hot! Hey, Hot!”.

He turned. We met each other halfway…“Don’t call me Hot”, he said. “Okay”, I replied. And I said his first name.

I opened my arms to give him a hug. He stepped in, and wrapped his arms back around me.

I looked up into his face (it was unusual for me to have to look up - there are physical things beyond dimples that make me weak in the knees - looking up into a man’s eyes definitely ranks in the top 10 of those). I saw his mouth coming down. I surrendered.

Somehow we staggered back to campus. We had to talk. We had to kiss more. We ended up in the Education building, making out like we were sixteen years old.

Finally, we came to our senses. Blamed it on the beer and the excitement over the math exam A.

I had a hard time driving the 45 miles back to my house that night, but when I got there, Practice told me that he was going skiing out west right after Christmas. We’d drive back to Michigan, spend the week with the parents (both sets), and then I could drive back to West-by-gawd-Virginia while he went skiing in Montana with a friend. “I know you don’t like to ski, so you may as well just forget going out west. I’ll go alone.” “Fine with me. I’ll relax before next semester starts.”

************************

Another three weeks or so went by. Mr. Hot and I talked and rehashed and beat ourselves up over and over and over again. We couldn’t break up his family. His kids needed their dad. We would always be friends…we could do this. Just because my marriage was probably breaking up, all I had was cats. No little hearts will be broken. Wednesday beer and lunch continued, complete with math quizzing and baseball watching.

Complete with my heart breaking.

************************

The week of final exams, Mr. Hot stopped me in the hallway. “Mrs. Hot knows that I am in love with you. I’m moving out over Winter break. I found an apartment. I can’t live with her anymore.”

I had 10 days to figure out what the fuck I was going to do. But first, I had to get through the holidays with my parents and Practice’s parents. Oh, and Practice. He would be there too.

In the meantime, though, I asked Mr. Hot to cat-sit for me while I was in Michigan. In his new apartment. He agreed.

….to be continued….

—- Y’all. The Pioneer Woman has a Fairy Tale story of her courtship with Marlboro Man. And although we share a name (she’s Ree, I’m Ree), her’s is truly a fairy tale written in parts (she’s up to 33 so far….and it’s heartwarming and HOT and I eagerly await each new chapter). My story is more of a catharsis after nearly 20 years of guilty feelings tempered only by the love of a man who is truly my soulmate - and the arrival of his son, his first-born, who has come to live with us. Eighteen years later, they are making peace and I’m writing our story. —-

Part 1

I, of course, knew nothing about Mr. Hot when he showed up at Hardee’s that day. All I did know was that he was cute. Oh Mah Holy Hell - so freakin’ cute.

When he pulled up that chair (I swear, I distinctly remember him pulling up a chair, but I wonder, is that even possible? Does Hardee’s have chairs that you can remove from the table????), he swung it around backwards and plopped down with his arms crossed on the table next to me. I can’t remember anything about the conversation, but I do remember that I didn’t look at the textbook OR the notes I was supposed to be studying after he opened his mouth.

We must have talked about school. About being back in school. About how strange it was to be surrounded by all of these kids. I know that at some point, I mentioned that I had a business degree and was married. That I had quit work to go back to school full-time.

He mentioned at some point that he was married. And had two children. And had quit work to go back to school full-time.

I was working towards a B.S. in Computer Science. He was going the “Management Information Systems” route; a more business- than math- oriented technology degree. We talked about the courses we were taking. The courses we would be taking the next semester.

And then, it was time to go take that final. And he had class. We said good-bye, hope to see you around…

How much later our next encounter happened, I couldn’t tell you. Summer semester was over; we were a couple of weeks into the Fall semester, so it had to be at least a month after Hardee’s.

I know where it happened though. I’ve relived it so often in my mind over the past eighteen years - I can feel the hot breeze that was blowing that day. I can smell the sun baked concrete.

If you’ve seen the movie, “We Are Marshall“, you know the story of the 1970 M.U. football team. In front of the Student Center, is The Memorial Fountain; I was just coming around that fountain to go into the Student Center when Tom and Mr. Hot appeared.

“Y’know…you’d think”, said Mr. Hot, “that if she already has one college degree, she could afford a pair of jeans that actually covered her knees.”

I was wearing my absolute favorite GAP jeans…ripped out knees and all…with a white t-shirt. (Mr. Hot claims it was the white t-shirt that he fell in love with. Thank you Fruit of the Loom!)

Tom laughed.

Being the mature woman that I was, I stuck my tongue out at them both and went on my merry way. I had to get something to eat, and then make my way over to the office of this professor I was tutoring. (Yes, shush. I actually tutored a professor in computer programming, thanks to ace-ing that course with Professor Dickhead.)

*******************

What was going through my head? This was the second time I’d run into this guy. I thought he was cute and funny. I wanted to know more about him, but I was married. He was married. I thought we could be friends; like I was friends with Tom and my husband’s buddies. I’d always had an easier time getting along with males than females - less due to a problem with girls than because of shared interests with boys. My best friend all through High School was a boy. When I went to college the first time, I hung around with a couple of guys. Why should Mr. Hot be any different?

*******************

A couple of days later? The next week? Who knows. I was sitting out in front of Corbly Hall between classes with my first tutoring fee in my pocket. Mr. Hot walked by - rushing into the building. He waved. I waved back. He slowed…and then walked back towards where I sat. It was about 2 o’clock.

“I’ve got 20 bucks burning a hole in my pocket, wanna go grab a beer or something? I don’t have class until 6 o’clock tonight”, I asked him.

(Yes, I made the first move. Doomed. Doomed I tell you.)

“Can’t. I have a class - but if you’re still here when I get out, I’ll take you up on the offer.”

At that point, I don’t think a tornado would have moved my ass from that bench. But as he walked away, I wondered what the fuck I was doing. Why did I have butterflies? It was only a beer with a friend.

…to be continued…

—- If you have seen “We Are Marshall”, and you’re at all interested in the ‘un-movie-ized’ story of November 14th 1970, please see “Ashes to Glory” - a documentary that was originally shown in 2000 on West Virginia Public Television. I grew to know and love this town and its people (and yes, one person in particular) . It’s my husband’s and my son’s heritage. I will always be a proud graduate and supporter of The Thundering Herd. —-