Love Letters Ch. 02

As suspected, some of you liked it, others not so much. Such is life. To me, Danny's an interesting guy and so I'll continue writing his fictional tale—yep, it's a story. Artistic license taken. Not real. Not based on anyone I know.

For those that find my style too wordy, sorry, but it's not going to change anytime soon. I enjoy storytelling, in building characters, exploring their thoughts and emotions. I like layering the plot, slowly building to a climax, not merely reporting a set of actions and reactions.

WARNING: Still no Rambo-cum-Arnie-cum-nuclear BTB or willing cucks on Danny's horizon.

One thing I'd like to address as it was mentioned in a couple of comments and emails is the point of Danny changing the locks. My research was based solely and purely on my own one-off experience.

In short, I'd been out of town (as in a one hour flight out of town) on business at the same time as my partner was across the country attending a two-week training seminar which still had ten days to run and I foolishly left my toiletries bag containing my house keys at the hotel.

Ever since being burgled several years ago with the burglar using our hidden key (he'd cased us and several other homes in the area) we don't keep one hidden, nor do either of us have family in the area to leave a spare with.

So, there I was with no way, short of breaking in, of getting into my home so I called a locksmith. Before he'd pick the lock I had to produce two forms of proof that I lived in my home. One could be my license but the other had to be something like a recent council rates notice or utility bill. On top of that I had to fill out and sign a form which had the two following questions (I can't remember the exact wording but this is the gist). Had I been arrested in the last twelve months and did I have any outstanding matters in the Family Court. In other words, was I going through a divorce or custody battle and did I have any history of beating up or stalking my spouse.

I don't know if this is standard procedure for locksmiths in Australia, or whether this locksmith was particularly vigilant.

Oh, and about rational behavior. What's rational to you may not be to the person sitting next to you; we're all individuals and it's our differences that make us interesting. It would be a pretty bloody boring world if we all liked the same things and thought, acted, and reacted the same way. Sometimes we even surprise ourselves by not reacting to something in the way we thought we would, like the time I laughed in the face of what I thought was my imminent death instead of crapping my pants, but that's a whole other story...

Anyway, enough chit chat, here's the rest of Danny's story. Read it, don't read it; the choice is yours.

# # #

I reclined on the chaise, shaded by a huge umbrella, beer in hand. The only thing separating the motel from the beach was a small stretch of lawn shaded by pam trees and an in-ground pool. Both were inviting and the weather was warm, but I was oblivious to the appeal of either.

I was frustrated.

Plan after plan, idea after idea rejected. Some brilliant. Others not so much. All brimming with revenge, with humiliation. I could take out a big double-page spread ad in the local newspaper and publish Zack's letters; names, dates, and all. I could bide my time, put a private investigator on them and have him catch them in the act and make public the video. I could make the pair of them a hit on a bunch of porn sites. I could set myself up with an alibi and beat Zack to a pulp, maybe nail gun his balls to some park bench, or superglue his cock to one of the goal posts at the sports field down the road from his apartment. I could pay for a hooker to infect him with some STD that he, in turn, could infect Claire with. Hell, my tenth wedding anniversary was only a week away. I could organize the party to end all parties. I could put it all up on the big screen for our family and friends to see.

Each and every idea appealed to me on some level. I wanted them to hurt, feel shame, to be humiliated. I wanted them to drown in regret for what they'd done. I wanted them to pay, and pay dearly, for their betrayal.

But I had a dilemma.

I wanted to achieve it without lowering myself to their level. When it was all over I wanted to be able to look at my reflection in the mirror and see a good man looking back at me. If I was to recover and move on from this, I needed to know that or I'd become an empty shell of a man. If that happened, they'd win and I'd lose. They'd metaphorically be holding me to ransom for the rest of my life. I'd never be able to trust or love again, and I did want to love again. I wanted a family of my own. I wanted to be to a son or daughter what my father is to me—a hero. He was the type of man I strived to be. If I acted on any of the plans I'd come up with thus far, as satisfying—and justified—as they would be to enact, I wouldn't be able to do or be that. I wouldn't be a man that either my father or child was proud of.

And if I visited any of those plans upon them they'd know exactly how deeply they'd wounded me. I might have been able to live with that knowledge if I sincerely believed my pain would shame them and fill them with remorse, but why would they care how they'd hurt me? They'd been betraying me for twelve years. They clearly had no regard for me and my feelings whatsoever. Letting them know the depth of my hurt may even provide them with yet more satisfaction. I couldn't give them that.

I made my way to my room, disheartened. I needed to be alone. I couldn't be around anyone. Not even strangers.

Despite having no appetite, I listened to my commonsense and ordered some early dinner, and, while waiting for it to be delivered, I showered.

I ate without tasting. I looked without seeing and heard without hearing. Bitterness and frustration consumed me, blinding me to my surroundings.

I paced the room, but it was too small to contain my overflowing emotions, so I took my need for movement to the long stretch of beach practically on my doorstep.

There was something satisfying in hearing the crunch of the sand under my feet and the steady crashing of the waves on the shore.

I took my torment out on the beach, kicking the sand, picking up and hurling out to sea chunks of driftwood and shells. Outwardly, I was silent, but internally I screamed. It was unfair. Why was life so unfair? So unjust? It felt like the perpetrators would come out practically unscathed, while, I, the innocent party, would pay in every aspect—physically, mentally, financially, and emotionally.

The injustice was like poison in my gut, its acid coursing through my veins, eating away at me. They were the wrongdoers but unless inspiration hit me the best revenge I was going to be able to exact on them would be to succeed and live well. It didn't seem enough. Not anywhere near enough.

# # #

After letting myself back in my room I realized I'd had my phone off all day. As soon as it powered up it began ringing with the new ring tone I'd set for Claire. Eamon's Fuck It (I Don't Want You Back) was a satisfying change from the old ringtone I had for my faithless wife—John Legend's All Of Me. Yes, the new song was definitely a much better fit for my feelings and our situation. I guess, I'd have to agree with the experts—there's a song for every occasion.

Acting quickly, I switched on the in-room radio which I'd previously adjusted so it wasn't on a station, instead making a loud and irritating crackling sound. As back up, I grabbed the scrunched up sheet of paper I'd also prepared not long after checking in and then hit the speaker phone on my cell.

"Danny? Where are you? I can't get in the house."

"Claire?" I began manipulating the paper near the phone.

"Danny, what's that noise? I can hardly hear you and the static is terrible."

"What—you—? I—hear—. —breaking up," I replied, saying only every second word in a sentence. I had to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing.

"Danny, can you hear me? I can hardly make out what you're saying. You're breaking up. I can't get in the house. My key won't work. Where are you? When will you be home?"

"What? I—understand—word—said. —reception. —charger—home. Phone—to die. Will—home—Friday. —you—. —you.

As I extended my hand toward my phone as it rested on the bedside table I heard Claire yelling for me to not hang up. I smiled and hit the end button. I knew Claire. She'd be pissed. My darling wife was spoiled and wasn't used to being kept waiting. I couldn't stop smiling as I pictured her frustration.

Was what I did petty? Yes. Childish? Yes, again. Did it feel good? Bloody oath it did.

Still smiling, I checked my messages and texts. Sure enough, Claire had left a dozen or more. I happily read and listened to them all. She'd even emailed me a few times. They were all along the same lines as her call with the tone showing her increasing exasperation at not being able to get a hold of me or into the house. If anything, seeing and hearing her escalating aggravation made my smile widen. I gloated over her frustration, even whistled as I took a leak.

Of course, I could have called her from the in-room phone or booted up my laptop and replied to her emails, and under normal circumstances I would have, but as I was pleased to find, there's nothing like pissing off a slut wife to improve one's mood.

# # #

My days were busy, intentionally so. I did what I'd told my father and brother I was going to do. I scouted for opportunities and accommodation. I met with builders and architects and left business cards all over the place. It would save me time when it actually became time to quote the fit-out or any other job I picked up out of my scouting efforts.

The nights were tough and even my satisfaction in Claire's increasingly frustrated texts and emails was hollow. Despite my resolutions, unanswered questions and the hurt and rage over how I'd been used and betrayed by Claire and Zack nagged at me. The beach took the brunt of my frustration. I walked for miles.

Part of my anger was directed at myself. There'd been hints; I could see that now. Hindsight is definitely 20/20. Zack being Zack hadn't been able to resist dropping a few. Why had I never noticed before his tendency to brag?

I stopped and turned, staring out to sea. The waves lapped over my ankles, my feet sinking a little in the wet sand. It felt cool and welcome, unlike the memory from shortly after my fifth wedding anniversary. I could clearly picture Zack's face as he teased me with snippets of information after I'd teasingly asked about his love life.

'She's really cool. Loads of fun and drop dead sexy.' 'No, I'm not ready to introduce her to everyone.' 'I want to keep her to myself a while longer.' Were just a handful of his initial hints.

And then came the doozies.

'She's married. Her old man doesn't do it for her, but she feels sorry for him, so she stays.'

My disapproving look must have spoken volumes because he commented on it. He had the hide to tell me not to judge until I'd walked a mile in his lady's shoes. And then he'd smirked and said if a bird offered to do to me what this woman did for him I'd leave my marriage vows behind without a second thought. He even spouted off a few of the kinkier things and I'd had to ask him to stop because I was worried Claire would walk in and hear him.

He was wrong, of course, I'd never have been unfaithful to Claire, regardless of how sexy or kinky the woman making the offer had been, but I hadn't argued at the time.

He'd stopped, but not before asking me to keep his news to myself. Said he didn't want Claire and the rest of the family coming down on him for screwing a married woman.

I remembered the expression on his face, the look in his eyes. Amused, and, yet, somehow malevolent, or was it victorious? Gloating?

Now, with the wisdom of hindsight, I understood his amusement better. He must have found it beyond funny to secure my promise to keep the secret of his affair, an affair he was having with my wife.

# # #

Another evening. Another walk on the beach. And I was worried I'd developed a new habit, one that was an obscene counterpoint to Claire's. One where I replayed my life with her, studying every memory through an entirely new filter.

In my mind, I examined everything—her hair, her make-up, her clothes, even the way she walked. Were her clothes wrinkled? Her hair disheveled? Lipstick fresh? Smeared? Unfamiliar perfume? Shampoo? I scoured each memory for evidence that, ironically, I didn't want to find, as much because it would be one more confirmation of her betrayal, but also of my stupidity, my blind faith in my faithless wife.

Trying to analyze something unanalyzable through unreliable memories was gut-wrenching. Soul destroying. I'd been such a fool, a huge, dumb as a brick, fool. My self-belief was lower than a gnat's belly. Never had I felt more insecure about myself in every aspect—as a man, a lover, as a friend. Not even as a teen had I felt so unsure of myself.

Normally, I had what I'd always thought of as a healthy sex drive. Claire and I'd had sex—I could no longer call it lovemaking in my mind—three to five times a week, and usually more than once per session. Now, my dick seemed to be permanently as soft as a strand of overcooked spaghetti.

And still I searched my memories.

I was sick to my stomach with self-loathing that, like a scab that itched to be scratched, I couldn't control the urge to torture myself looking for answers, for the clues I'd missed.

# # #

Usually, I enjoyed driving. Something about the way the scenery flashed by my side windows, or perhaps it was the satisfying way my Toyota seemed to gobble up the road ahead of me and spit it out the back. Whatever the case, I'd always enjoyed long distance driving.

Not today. Today it was torture. Each mile that brought me closer to home felt like part of a drawn out walk to the gallows.

Today I was at war with myself. Again.

One half of me wanted answers, wanted explanations. Wanted truth.

The other half didn't want to have to listen to her lies, to her bullshit, self-serving excuses. Nothing she said could possibly make up for what she'd done. No word or apology was going to make one iota of difference to the outcome so what was the point?

# # #

At the last moment I changed my mind and swerved, changing lanes without indicating, which earned me a few honking horns and single fingered salutes, as I turned left in the direction of my parents' house.

I pulled up out front and stared at their front door, mentally apologizing to them for the quagmire I was about to include them in. Technically, the issues were mine, but our family was close. Mum, Dad, and Shaun, as well as Shaun's wife, Mel, would be no more able to distance themselves from my problems than the Earth could stop orbiting the sun. Mum, in particular, I knew, would be devastated—Zack's mother was her younger sister.

I glanced at the passenger seat, at the display folder I'd slotted Zack's love letters into and snorted. A display folder, like the life-destroying letters were some school project or some valuable office report. Personally, I'd rather have pissed on them, but, commonsense dictated that, at least for now, they be protected.

Grimacing with distaste, I picked it up and let myself out of my car, and with a determined stride that was more bluff than genuine, I strode up the path to the front door and knocked.

Mum answered. She leaned forward, grasped my bicep, and kissed me on the cheek at the same time as she spoke; talk about multitasking.

"Sweetheart, what's going on? We've had Claire calling and visiting every day saying she can't get a hold of you and that she can't get into the house. We've been worried sick. Why haven't you been answering your phone or checking your emails?"

"How about you let me in, call Shaun and Mel, give me one of Dad's beers and we all sit down together and I tell you all what's going on. I'd rather explain just the once. I don't want to have to repeat myself."

"Oh dear, that sounds ominous." She stood aside, looking concerned. She knew me. She knew it had to be something extreme to make me act so out of character.

I followed her down the hall, continuing on when she stopped by the hall table to make the call to Shaun and Mel. I helped myself to a beer before heading out to the back patio where I knew I'd find my father. Mum always joked that they should live in a tent for all the need my father had of a house—unless it was pelting down rain, he always preferred to be outdoors. Having spent his life as a bricklayer, I guess, the preference for fresh air and sunshine had become part of his DNA.

In our youth, Shaun and I had both wanted to follow Dad in the trade, but he'd insisted we find trades that weren't beholden to the weather. I liked to design and build things and so I'd opted for becoming a carpenter-joiner specializing in internal fit-outs, Shaun was fascinated by lightning—he still regularly camped out on his veranda in storms, taking a mile of photos of lightning over the water—and all things electrical and so he became an electrician. Many had been a time we'd all worked on the same house, at least until Dad had retired a little over a year ago. Shaun and I still, of course, recommended each other's services to our clients.

Dad stood, evaluating me as he reached out to greet me and envelope me in a firm man-hug. Untangling ourselves, we sat and I placed the display folder on the low coffee table before taking a hefty pull on my beer. Dad continued to look at me, eyebrow raised in silent question.

"It's a long and difficult story I have to tell you all, Dad, so I want to wait until Shaun and Mel get here so I only have to tell it once."

My father reached out his hand, huge and rough from a lifetime of manual labor, and patted my knee, just as he had when I was a child. "Okay, Danny. I'm a patient man, I can wait."

This was one of the reasons I loved and respected my father; he knew when to push and when to bide his time.

We were soon joined by my mother who had prepared a pot of tea. That in itself told me she knew I was about to confess a tragedy—hot, sweet tea was her answer to all of life's woes. She silently offloaded the pot, along with two cups before passing Dad and I fresh beers and setting aside another for Shaun's imminent arrival.

And imminent it was. No sooner had Mum emptied the tray when I heard a knock at the front door. Shaun and Mel only lived a few streets away, but even so, they must have left as soon as they hung up the phone. I hoped they left the kids at home with Emily, who was their regular babysitter and conveniently lived next door to them.

The next thing I knew I was being hugged and cuffed to the side of the head at the same time by Mel. More displays of female multitasking...

"Oh my God. Where have you been? And why weren't you answering your phone or emails. We've been worried sick. We were going to call the police if we didn't hear from you today."

Mel was crying, and managed to look angry and relieved at the same time. I opened my mouth to reply, but Mel wasn't finished with me yet.

"You scared the crap out of me. Out of all of us. How could you be so irresponsible? If something happened to you how would we have told Maddie and Declan? Your niece and nephew adore you. Can you imagine how devastated they would have been? God damn it, Danny, you can't pull shit like this. No one knew where you were staying. All we knew was it was a few hours north. Have you any idea how scared we were? You better have a good explanation or I will personally cut your nuts off! Sorry, Mum, but it's true."