My husband.
Gone are the traces of the wild girl I once was. The one who felt too much, laughed too loud, ate too much, while juggling work and college. Her hips were a little too large, her mouth a little too wide, and her curly hair had a life of its own. She was broke, lived in a shoebox, yet couldn’t have been happier. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and cheap box wine kept her fed and sane.
I chuckle sadly. I didn’t have much other than my dreams, but it was enough for me. Because in those dreams, I would finish college with a kick-ass job that would pay me enough money to get my own apartment, nice shoes, and great wine. I would also become the next Mrs. Brad Pitt.
My arms outstretched, I’d danced to the vibrant music of life.
I prayed for romance, adventure, the unknown. I wanted to fall in love and love to the point of no return. I wanted the turmoil, the stress, the upheaval, and chaos—the Sturm und Drang. And my God wasn’t deaf. He, with his almighty ways, granted me all my wishes. While crying over lattes with my best friend, Sailor, about my latest break-up, I met him. Halfway through my sob story, I heard him chuckle behind his newspaper.
“Excuse me,” I said affronted. “What’s so funny?”
The man lowered the newspaper and placed it on the table next to him. At the sight of his handsome face, I felt my cheeks grow hot while forgetting why I was so offended. He stood and made his way from the couch area to our table. Older than me, the man walked like a king, an emperor. Larger than life, he seemed to know his worth. With his expensive suit, tall form, perfectly wavy combed blond hair, and even more perfect features, the man radiated power and wealth. I couldn’t have looked away even if I’d wanted to.
He gave me his card while his bright blue eyes took in my tear-stained face. “If you call me, I promise not to make you cry.” He smiled dazzlingly, turned on his feet, and walked out of the store, leaving Sailor and me with our mouths half open.
I lasted a week before I gave in and called him.
It was a whirlwind romance fit for the movies. The kind you dreamed of when you were a little girl playing with dolls. It was surreal, breathtaking, and it was happening to me. We had a lavish wedding on my twenty-second birthday with celebrations that lasted for days.
I never got that dream job I wanted so much. Instead, I tried to become the perfect wife. I tossed my old clothes and went shopping at Bergdorf’s for new items worthy of my life with William. And if sometimes I mourned my past life, I reminded myself that there was no room for the old Valentina in this one.
“Valentina?”
Lost in thought, I hear William saying my name. I give my head a tiny shake and turn towards his voice. All it takes is one look from my husband, handsome in dress slacks and a white button-down shirt, to bring back hundreds of memories, good, bad, and ugly. And the love I felt—the love I still feel—for him comes rushing back like a tsunami. And like a tsunami, its strong current continues to pull me down repeatedly.
How I fell for him. William Alexander Fitzpatrick IV. He was polished and with a pedigree that could rival the Kennedy’s. Princeton grad. Walking Ralph Lauren ad. Hedge fund whiz. Trust-fund baby.
He was everything that I wasn’t, and he wanted me. He chose me.
Me.
Valentina. On a scholarship at my dream university in New York City. Savvy concession and thrift store shopper. I was comfortable in my own skin and knew my own worth. Yet I couldn’t help but be surprised that William wanted me, and that he returned my love unconditionally. In a world built on dreams, he became my one truth.
“Hi.” I turn to face the mirror, looking at my reflection. Dispassionately, I notice my hands shaking as I try to put a diamond stud on my left earlobe. “I thought you’d already left?”
“Did you forget what today is?” he asks softly.
“Monday?” I look at the Rolex on my wrist, noting the time. “I’m running late for breakfast with the girls. They must be at the club already.”
“Valentina …” William steps behind me, his front touching my back, and runs his hands over my arms, leaving goose bumps in their wake. “It’s our anniversary, my love.”
My lower lip quivers as I look up to see my husband in all his golden, virile beauty. In the mirror, his blue eyes meet mine, and there’s sadness and sorrow in them. And guilt. So much fucking guilt. I’m surprised we’re both not drowning in it.
But it wasn’t always the case.
At the beginning of our life together as a married couple, we fought hard, fucked harder, loved hardest. And when our eyes met, I saw life, tenderness, and a bright future ahead of us.
Little did I know, little did I understand, that in the balance of life, happiness can’t exist without sadness.
“Oh. We can celebrate tonight. I promised the girls—”
“Stay,” he says hoarsely as he spins me around to face him.
He gets down on his knees between my legs and showers my stomach with slow kisses that burn me from the inside out. I would love nothing more than to run my fingers through his hair, feeling its softness, its warmth, but I can’t bring myself to touch him. Not today. His large hands cup my ass from behind, pushing me closer to his mouth. He breathes me in. Swallows me whole. His lips taste through the fabric of my skirt the flavor that belongs to him. My body screams I am his, I am his.
But my heart hasn’t forgotten.
One day, right before our tenth anniversary, I decided to surprise my husband with an impromptu lunch at our townhouse in the city.
I got take-out from our favorite sushi place, flowers from the deli next door, and sped to our place on Park Avenue. My plan was to give him a call and ask him to meet me there. Maybe, after lunch, we could spend the rest of the afternoon naked in bed.
I laughed at myself as anticipation and excitement ran freely in my veins. I couldn’t remember when was the last time I did something so spontaneous. It didn’t matter. It felt great.
I was married to the love of my life.
We were in love.
Life couldn’t get any better.
Turns out it was me who walked into a surprise. There, in the middle of our newly renovated kitchen stood my husband, hands on his intern’s head as she took him in her mouth.
I wish I could say that I divorced his sorry ass, but that would be a lie.
I loved him too much—too blindly—to walk away.
I had given him twelve years of my life. Our marriage was everything I had—it was an extension of me. My identity. His breathing was my breathing. His dreams were my dreams. His happiness was my happiness.
Who was Valentina without William? I no longer remember, and the thought of finding out terrified me. So I made lemonade out of lemons. I forgave him and tried to pretend it never happened.