I’m still shaking my head as I reach the top of the stairs of my lake cottage.
Of course Mia’s net worth is more than mine. Her daddy is worth more than you and me and the state of Tennessee combined. So what? Wealth can be measured by so many things: intelligence, social IQ, sales ability and, well, so much else. Intelligence is picking the right suit, the perfect car and the young wife, all designed to make you look your best. Virile. Enviable.
The goal is to find your soul mate, and then convince her that she has found hers, too. That Mia had money was a bonus, that’s all.
Oh, who am I kidding? We know each other so well by now. That Mia came from money was everything to me. I’m good at finding money, attracting money, as you can tell. I’m not as astute at holding money, building wealth. But now that I have Mia, I don’t need to worry about money ever again. That’s why I can screw around with beauty, even though Gretchen is poor. Mia is my golden ticket. So really, this minor weakness has been overcome. Of all the world’s weaknesses, it’s the one I’d choose. It’s not even a weakness, actually. I’m simply overly generous. And now I can afford to be, thanks to my little Pilmer piggy bank.
I stop at the top of the stairs. To listen. The walls of my cottage are quite thin, as I noted.
What did Mia mean by her comments about me not treating her well? I have cherished her, provided for her, given her sons she adores. What is she trying to tell me? I hear Mia sob. Am I the weak one, running away? Perhaps I am, but Buck is to blame.
Why are they together, at what my Apple Watch confirms is midnight? How did I allow my family to get so out of control, out of my control, that my wife is with another man in my family room and my boys are not to be disturbed? How did that happen? And, in fact, now that it has, shouldn’t I, the responsible parent, be the one who returns home to claim the children?
If she abandons me, she abandons them. No one likes a mother who neglects her children, most especially not me.
“Mia, I’m so sorry. Let’s leave the papers. You can stay at my house,” Buck says, his voice quite clear from where I’m standing at the landing.
Nicely played, Buck. Although any man that would want my wife in her gray fatness and sobbing sadness is a weak, pathetic excuse for a male.
Mia says, “I have so much I want to say to him. What kind of man tells his fiancée he is having an affair with a client days before the wedding, but says he still loves her, that it was just a fling? He actually convinced me at the time that she forced herself on him. Who does that? And why did I still marry him? I never should have believed anything he told me.” I can’t see them but I imagine her pounding her fists into his chest, like the actors do on Days of Our Lives.
“How you treat your spouse is who you are. He is a bad man. You deserve to be cared for, supported and loved. Not controlled, deceived and stifled. You know this,” Buck says.
Well, actually, she doesn’t, Buck. There is a reason I selected her. And Lois. And Gretchen. I know their kind. It was as if I was bred with an extrasensory perception of people I can control. Specifically, women I can control. I can smell them, feel them. I know it the minute we bump into each other, the ones I can get. Just as I may be a type, so are they, only they don’t know it. By the way, I don’t tell anyone these things, so please don’t say anything or share my secrets.
Buck’s also wrong about another thing. It’s not how you treat your spouse that shows people who you are. It’s how you treat yourself, how much you care about yourself. Mia became selfless with me. It’s her fault, not mine.
“Paul. Please. I know you are listening from the top of the stairs. We’re over. I need to give you these papers, you need to sign them, and then I need you to leave. Otherwise, I’ll call the police,” Mia says.
For obvious reasons, I don’t want the cops here. Although I’ve never made their acquaintance, and small-town, hick-filled police departments don’t concern me, I’d just rather not have that type of encounter tonight. You know, you start to get on the radar of a police department, even if it’s tiny Lakeside PD, and it could become an issue. Mia’s voice is firm, threatening. Tonight, at this moment, I don’t think she is bluffing.
I have no choice. I start walking back down the stairs. This situation is uncomfortable. Made doubly so by the pretty boy in the corner. Pretty boys have haunted me, always. I was just as handsome, mind you, just not equipped with the right stuff. They seemed to know I didn’t have the right pants to wear for sixth grade dance club, or the money for the best equipment for football in seventh grade. My mom was different than the other mom volunteers, less put together, always nervous, inferior. My family was a step down from the rest of the families in my friend group. I was the poor boy. Even though my parents bragged about making the move to Grandville, buying their first home in what they thought was the best suburb in town when it wasn’t back then, I was acutely aware that we lived in the cheapest house in the neighborhood. I knew we were barely hanging on. With every beating I repeated to myself: I will never be the poor boy again. Never.
I feel my hands clench by my sides. I work to open them by the time I reach the bottom of the stairs. I stretch a smile across my perfect white veneers.