One Way Love

Britney, who hadn't done any type of workout since she gave up cheerleading, raised a red flag with me. So one day I took my lunch hour to go and see her at the health club she'd joined.

Several of my friends told me that when a woman turns thirty, she changes. I knew that Britney's looks were an important part of her self-image. I thought that might be why she wanted to work out all of a sudden.

She didn't even have the sense to hide what she was doing. I walked into the large room filled with exercise machines and saw my wife engaged in a full lip lock with the same giant steroid abuser I'd seen her talking to at my award ceremony.

From looking at the way they kissed it was obvious that they had done much more than kiss. The level of comfort they had with each other's bodies loudly proclaimed their level of Intimacy.

To say that I was heartbroken was the understatement of the century. But then they were both adults, and neither of them seemed to give a damn about anything except each other.

I loved Britney with all of my heart. If the guy had been attacking her, or forcing himself on her, I would probably be dead or in jail right now because I would have given my life, or taken his, to save her. However, Britney was clearly giving as well as she got. They were both so into what they were doing that they didn't notice me at first.

I would fight FOR Britney with my dying breath, but I'd never humiliate myself by fighting OVER her. I also wasn't going to finance her cheating.

The manager of the club was very helpful. He gave me a full refund and promised to take care of the matter. When we settled on the amount of the refund, I reminded him that I hadn't actually paid the full price. I'd gotten a discount from my company's health plan. His eyes got huge when I told him which company I worked for.

I went back to work as if nothing had happened. As usual, when I had a problem, I locked myself in my office and worked. Working was a great way for me to think. I decided, that afternoon that as usual I should give Britney what she wanted. What I meant was that she obviously wanted the steroid king.

Who was I to stand in the way of true love?

Even at thirty years of age, I had to admit that I was no lounge lizard. I wasn't a gigolo, a lothario, a Casanova, or any of those other smooth European lover types. I was not an expert on women or the art and science of love. Although I'd had a few relationships in college and before, Britney was my first and only true love.

So in dealing with Britney's betrayal, I turned to what I knew. I looked at our marriage like the design and manufacturing of an automobile or like any modern engineering project.

I broke the situation up into separate components and assigned different degrees of urgency and importance to each component.

I needed to stabilize myself emotionally first. The best way for me to do that would be to isolate myself from the source of my pain while I tried to heal. That meant that I needed to be away from Britney for a while.

I guess it was as if Britney was a disease in a third-world country. The first step the medics took was to remove the sick person from the conditions that allowed them to become infected. They did that by taking the person to a hospital. Then they could begin to treat the person without the danger of re-infecting them before they built up an immunity against the disease.

So that night when I got home, I avoided Britney like the plague. I had originally decided to tell her to get the fuck out of my house. As far as I was concerned, she could go and live with Steroid the barbarian. She was his now. She wanted him; she could have him. On the other hand, he could have her. But I couldn't do it.

So I pressed pause. I went out to run and thought about the problem while I put more miles on my running shoes. I learned a lot of things during that forty-minute run. I learned that there are all kinds of instruments in a band. Most of the time when I listen to music, I listen for the guitar riffs. That makes sense because I used to play guitar. However, during those forty minutes, I realized that everything didn't have to be up front and in your face like a flashy guitar riff. I also learned that Myron Grombacher is a God.

Myron Grombacher is the Drummer behind Pat Benatar. And I mean Drummer with a capital D, because everyone knows that there are drummers and there are Drummers. A drummer is kind of like a metronome or a click track. They keep time; nothing more, nothing less. They make sure that all of the other instruments stay on the beat. However, a Drummer actually adds to the song. They are so much a part of the music that without them, the song becomes ... lessened dramatically.

While I ran I listened to my usual eclectic mix of rock, pop, country, classical and metal. I found myself skimming through some of the later Pat B. catalogue and remembered seeing some of her videos on YouTube. Myron Grombacher is the first and only stand up drummer that I remember, and as I listened to the music, I realized that I didn't have to get up in Britney's face to get my point across. If she wanted a man who would beat her or dominate her ... maybe that was why she needed Captain Steroid, but I wasn't that guy.

Maybe that was it. Maybe we had just grown apart. Maybe she wasn't wrong in what she did. Maybe it was just the way she went about doing it was wrong. Perhaps Britney was just acting on a deep-seated need that I could never supply. Perhaps many years on down the road, we could get together and talk about it. I hoped so, very much. But at that moment, it wasn't what I needed.

For all of our life together, like any good husband I put Britney's needs first. However, in this situation, I needed to be a little bit selfish and attend to my own needs and my own pain. My biggest need was to end my pain. And Britney was the source of my pain. For the first time since I met her, my pain was stronger than my love. But taking a lesson from Myron, I decided to be less confrontational.

So instead of marching in and beating on my chest, I waited for her to come to me. And then I, without raising my voice, suggested that she should spend some time with her parents, because we needed, or I, needed some space.

It worked. With Britney away, I could further compartmentalize my problem. I needed to decide if what she did was bad enough that we couldn't stay together. I needed to get over the pain I was feeling, and I needed to decide what to do about my decision on the former of the two statements. If we couldn't stay together it was quite simple. We'd get a divorce.

If we did stay together, was even worse. I had to figure out whether just to forgive her with a stern warning, get counseling, or set up some sort of post nuptial agreement with a stiff penalty if she ever repeated the incident.

Getting over the pain was harder than it sounded. It's like having a headache. You can't just think, "Stop hurting." It usually takes a combination of time and some concoction to numb the pain while its ongoing.

My numbing agent was a particularly powerful chemical. It was one of those three-letter drugs like THC or HGH. I used JFD. JFD is available over the counter and even in some supermarkets. JFD stands for Jack Fuckin' Daniels, and for those first few days I practically ran an IV of it.

Although I'd never been a drinker, during those first few days, I got drunk every night and felt like shit every day trying to let my body get over the previous night's drunk. After a couple of days, I showed up at work to find my secretary, Christina in emergency rescue mode.

"What did the bitch do?" she asked. It was the first time that she had ever said a single bad thing about Britney, but I could see for the first time that she didn't like my wife.

"I don't want to talk about it," I said. "It's personal."

"I'm a person," she snarled. Then she turned on one of her high heels, and went and got me a cup of coffee. As she put the cup down she looked at me. "I'm giving her this one. But if she EVER causes you ANY pain again..." I could see the flecks in her green eyes changing colors with her anger.

Christina was consistently upbeat and she always cheered me up and made me feel like everything we did was great. If a supplier was unhappy with a modification we had done, Christina was always convinced that THEY were stupid, because WE were perfect.

Just that little bit of interaction with Christina was enough to make me realize that my form of treatment for my Britney problem was not good for me.

"Christi," I said quietly. Her eyes gleamed because without understanding the minutia of the situation, I had crossed a border.

"That's the first time you used anything other than my whole name," she said.

"I'm sorr..." I began.

"Don't be," she blurted out. "I liked it. Now what do you need?"

"I just wondered; you were always so upbeat. What do you do when you get down?"

"I turn to you," she said quietly. Her slight smile after she said it warmed my broken heart.

I was so busy running my thoughts and plans through my head that I almost forgot about lunch. Christina brought in Domino's pizza.

My thoughts kept going around and around in the same circles. I loved Britney with all of my heart. Up until recently, I really believed that she felt the same. However, the evidence didn't seem to bear that out.

Over our time together I had met lots of attractive women, but none of them had ever turned my head. I guess that I was so in love with Britney that other women didn't register.

Apparently, Britney didn't feel the same way. I have no way of knowing if this was the first time she had cheated on me, or if she'd been doing it all along.

The main red flag for me was the fact that she was capable of doing it. I couldn't get over it. The thought of having sex with another woman just seemed foreign to me. I knew that it would hurt Britney, so I found myself gagging at the thought of it.

Britney was not only capable of doing it; she'd done it. So in my mind, she just didn't love me the way that I loved her. I guess in modern society, the concepts of love and sex aren't always connected. But for me, they still are.

There was also the matter of trust. How the hell could I ever trust her again?

And if I couldn't trust her, how could we be married? I hated the idea of running around trying to keep tabs on her every second of every day. It would just be exhausting. I'd be better off alone.

Just as I began to contemplate how my life as a carefree divorced guy would be different, Christina came back into my office.

She dropped a magazine on my desk. "Build a car," she said. The way she said it made it seem like a challenge. "Instead of drinking your life away, do something constructive."

"Whah?" I asked.

"You don't like the new Mustang, so ... build an old one." The magazine she'd dropped had several listings for older Mustangs for sale. The one that really caught my attention was a 67 Fastback. Even as I looked at the car in its less than pristine current state, I began to imagine the possibilities.

That was when I stopped doing my imitation of an alcoholic and started designing my mods to the car. I threw myself into it, and it helped.

The next thing I did was started my search for an attorney. I realized, while she was away, that things between Britney, and I would never be the same again. I'd be better off starting over. I thought that we would both be happier in the end. I met several times with my attorney before having him draw up the papers. He outlined all of the positives and negatives about the divorce procedure for me. He also wanted me to take some time before making any final decisions.

On the day that Britney left to go and stay with her parents, the 67 arrived. My imitation of an alcoholic ended. At first, I thought that it was good that Britney hadn't noticed I'd been drinking so heavily. It was then I realized that if she really cared about me she'd have noticed.

I worked on the car every night for most of the night. I had bought so much liquor that I did take a sip every now and then, but it was nothing like I'd done those first two nights while I ignored Britney.

A couple of days after Britney left I had a visitor; my father in law dropped by. He wanted me to believe that he was just passing by. However, it's hard just to pass by when you live three hours away by car.

It didn't matter. I liked my father in law. We spent a pleasant couple of hours talking. He was amazed by my plans for the 67. I can talk cars with anyone. So talking about my car with a person that I both respected and cared about was actually fun.

Somewhere in the conversation, we talked a bit about the rift between Britney and me. I didn't tell him the cause of our troubles. I thought that was Britney's cross to bear since she had caused the problems. But I think he got the idea that since I was the one who needed to be away from her for a while, she was the one who'd fucked up. I also don't think he'd have to work very hard to figure out what had gone wrong.

And sure enough, a couple of days after our talk, I came home to find Britney had returned. I hadn't told her that she could move back in, but according to my lawyer, I didn't have the right to kick her out of our home.

That was the day that I gave my attorney the go ahead to print the papers and have them served. My attorney also suggested retaining the services of a good PI. I had to tell him that I was a step ahead of him in that regard. I already hired a PI to wire the house with several cameras and a no-nonsense system for recording everything in the house.

My PI assured me that I would have plenty of evidence, and I needed it. My lawyer had gotten my case assigned to a judge who was very sensitive to the needs of people who'd been cheated on. The problem was that I had no proof. And as much as Britney claimed she loved me, I was sure that she wouldn't just walk into the court and admit to everything.

Every time Britney and I had spoken; she refused to even discuss the divorce. I tried everything. I made offers to her. But she just seemed to be unwilling just to give up. I hated to do it, but I had the PI turn on the surveillance system a couple of days after Britney returned.

Even though I owned the house and had a full right to install a surveillance system, Britney also by right of marriage could be considered an owner of the property and therefore, had a legal right to expect a certain degree of privacy. So despite what they show on TV, you can't always get away with bugging your own home. There's also the case where even if you do get away with it, some judges simply won't allow it to be used.

It was a legal gray area. My solution was to lie just a bit. I turned the security system on and two days later, told Britney that I'd installed a security system. I could always fudge the dates. Britney only smiled at me. And told me it was a good thing that I was concerned for her safety. It gave me the idea that she somehow already knew about the system.

The next day after getting home, I went into the office and checked to see what I'd gotten over the three days the system had been active. I had nothing. And I mean literally nothing. There should have at least been hours of video showing nothing but empty rooms and a Britney and I walking around the house. But there was nothing but electronic snow filled screens. Even the audio mics had nothing.

The PI concluded that either the system had been improperly installed or there was some sort of natural RF interference in the house or the surrounding area. He also told me that there might be the possibility that Britney had someone working for her who had set up some sort of electronic jamming field that had negated the system.

So Britney and I were at a standstill. I couldn't really go into court without any evidence. And Britney was getting nowhere convincing me to drop the divorce. The bad thing was, that although she always told me that it would never happen again, she had not once actually admitted to having sex with the imitation Arnold.

If I went to court with what I had now, the only thing I could claim was to have seen her kissing the guy. According to my lawyers, with just that, we'd probably end up in counseling for six months and then have to pretty much start all over again.

My attorney decided, with my permission to go after the steroid king. We figure if we threw a lot of charges at him, he'd convince Britney to wrap things up quickly just to get the pressure off of him. We figured if we lit a fire under him; he'd light one under Britney. It would also prove that they were still in contact.

In the meetings between my lawyer and Britney's lawyer, we always spoke as if the security system had given us a lot of evidence. In short, we bluffed. We really had nothing on film or tape, but they didn't have to know that.

Over the next few days, I tried to keep my contact with Britney to a minimum. However, it was hard. I spent most of my time in the garage working on the 67. I had stripped most of the trim and was beginning to remove as much of the body as I could. I intended to take the car down to the frame and check for damage and rust. I intended to stiffen the frame for better handling by adding sub frame connections in all the critical spots. Then I'd have the frame powder coated and start to rebuild it.

Britney started trying to talk to me as much as she could. She was also doing pretty much all she could to tease me. I felt that her antics in that respect were below the belt because I still wasn't over her yet.

But as is so often the case, things took a turn for the bizarre just as it had seemed that we were settling down for the long haul.

I was determined to get my divorce and Britney was fighting it with every breath she had.

For some reason, she seemed to believe that everyone was allowed to cheat once or twice. She kept giving me completely ridiculous statistics about marriages that survived infidelity. She also made a list of all of the couples, we knew that were happy, even though one or both partners had cheated.

The morning that our stalemate was broken seemed like any other morning. I got up early and went in to work much earlier than I had to, so I could avoid Britney. As I stepped onto the driveway, briefcase in hand, I broke into a smile.

That was the thing about my car. It was one of those things that only a car lover can understand. Every time I saw that car I smiled. Then I noticed it. If I had flat black rims, I'd never have noticed it. However, my rims were a very high gloss black. So I noticed the smudge from five feet away.

I thought that it was just road dust, or maybe even brake dust, but as I got closer, I noticed something that shouldn't have been there. There were two telltale drops of fluid near my driver's side front wheel.

I started the car like I always did and drove very slowly down the street and around the block. I pulled into the parking lot in the strip mall around the block from my house. I drove at only just ten miles per hour so I barely made it up the incline into the lot. Once on the lot, I coasted around in a huge arc until the car stopped. As I suspected the brake pedal went all the way to the floor.

I made two phone calls. The first was to my brother Ray. I told him what I suspected and what I'd done about it. He told me he'd be right there. My second call was to Christina. I told her that I'd probably be late to work that morning.

When my brother got there, and we spoke, he told me that calling Christina was probably a mistake. "We have no idea who allegedly did this," he said. "You may have inadvertently notified the suspect, that we're on to him or her. We have no idea what his or her motivation may be. Christina may be pissed off at you because you didn't give her a raise. Hell, you may have missed her birthday or failed to notice a new haircut. You can't just go around giving people information. You can't trust anyone until they've been ruled out. Until we figure this out, everyone is a suspect."