Man of My Dreams(17)
She purses her lips, squinting her shimmery, made-up eyes, “Oh silly, those kids are my life. I love our alone time. Don’t tell Phil this,” she leans down closer to whisper, “but sometimes I wish he would stay away a little longer. It gives me mommy-time with my babies. They’re growing too fast. Each day is precious.”
Oh yeah, leave it to Patricia Price, mother and wife of the year—eighteen years in a row. When I was younger, long before Declan and the kids, I had painted a pretty picture of the type of wife and mother I would be too. I envisioned June Cleaver—with edge. Everything would be perfect; I would be perfect. Home cooked meals every night, children with matching outfits and trendy hairstyles, a kitchen floor you could eat off of, and a very satisfied husband. Yeah, not so much. Life got in the way and instead of June Cleaver there are days I swear I’m more like Peg Bundy.
Declan is nothing like Al, thank God, but with these frequent week long business trips, managing the kids, not to mention all of the other responsibilities, alone is something I’m having a hard time mastering. “I don’t know, Patricia, you make it sound so easy. I like my mommy-time with the kids too, but I look forward to Declan coming home and giving me a hand at night. The girls adore him; their faces light up when he walks through that door after work. So when he’s away for five nights it takes a toll on us all.”
She sips her dirty martini with wincing eyes. “Why do you keep saying five nights? I’m pretty sure it was only four this last time. I guess it just felt longer for you, hun.”
Well, yes, it seemed like five months, but I’m positive it was five nights. “No, Patty, it was five. Declan called me the morning he was supposed to come home and said that Robert mandated them all to stay another night for a big presentation. Didn’t Phil have to stay too?”
Patricia shakes her head, squishing her perfectly shaped brows together. Really? This is news to me. I’m seething, thinking back to how Declan works his ass off without the proper recognition. Why was Phil exempt? Or anyone else, for that matter? Something’s not kosher and I just want to get to the bottom of it before I jump to any unnecessary conclusions. Either the company is screwing with Declan, or Declan is screwing with me.
Lucky for me, the guys are on their way over to us with our cocktails. Declan leans down and kisses Patty on the cheek, and Phil compliments me on my dress, but instead of responding with the customary, gracious ‘thank you,’ I jump right in for the kill. “Dec, Patricia here tells me that Phil wasn’t mandated to stay over that extra night last month. You told me the whole department had to stay.”
I’m paying really close attention to Declan’s body language right now. But it’s giving nothing away.
Mercifully, Phil’s does and he looks as confused as I feel. “Nope, I think you’re mixed up. Everyone packed up and went home Thursday night. We put in a lot of hours that week and we all couldn’t wait to get home to our families. Robert included. Declan, I watched you check out, didn’t I?”
There’s the body language I was looking for. Declan glances at Phil with the look of death. If I could read his mind, and I’m almost positive I can right now, he’s telling Phil to shut the fuck up and quit while he’s ahead.
I stand up, unable to hide the hurt that threatens to pour out of me in the form of crying, shouting and overreacting. “I need some air.”
I try to remain calm as I rush out into the lobby, past yet another string quartet and a massive Victorian Christmas tree. Screw Christmas right now! I know I’m thinking the worst, but if the worst is what this is I might have a major meltdown in about five seconds.
I exit the loud entryway through a revolving door, away from all the fur coats, over applied perfume and collagen inflated smiles. I hate every single one of these people right now.
Declan whooshes through the door, right behind me. He grabs my arm and stops me from stalking off. When I’m face to face with him I don’t like what I see in his eyes: Shame. Remorse. Guilt.
“Who, Declan?” I know what this boils down to, I will not dance around the reality that my husband is obviously having an affair. Holy shit, he’s having a fucking affair!
“Mia. Let’s not do this here. Please?”
Okay, so he’s not even denying it then. How can this be happening? This kind of thing was never supposed to happen to me. To us. I’ve never given him a reason to stray. Have I? And even if I did, how the hell could he do this?
My body is inundated with too many unfamiliar feelings. Burning heat radiates through my veins, my stomach churns and flip-flops and I’m pretty sure my heart is beating loud enough for Declan to hear. I can barely stand, my legs and other limbs wobbly and unsteady, but a dominant anger empowers me so I wind up and slap Declan across the face.