The Apple of My Eye

Free Bird

Life goes on, right? Sure it does. Especially when you're busy, when you've got a lot of things to do, a lot of stuff on your mind. You don't have time to sulk, to feel miserable, to feel sorry for yourself. (Well, you always find time for those, I know. As the man once said, when all hope is gone, you know, sad songs say so much.)

But I was doing okay, really. Even though Natalie wrote a couple of times and even insinuated I had given up on our "love" too quickly, too easily, I still managed to convince myself it was for the best. I wanted to have that girl like I wanted to suck in air, that's for sure, but I could very well see my future without her in it. And if you can see your future without that particular someone in it, then it's not the end of the world now, is it?

Plus, I had been keeping myself busy outside of work, too. Keeping my mind busy, that is. I had just gone and bought myself the Rolling Stone magazine 40th anniversary collection, and I figured I had more than a lifetime supply of interesting reading material to keep my mind off Natalie. I know it seems silly, but that was my rationale at the time. And I had friends, too. I kept in touch with Michelle, one of the interns who had been on my team at the old agency—this sweet, sweet 19-year-old, who looked a lot like a less angelic version of Emma Watson, but, most importantly, looked up to me like I was her father. You see, on my way back home from my new workplace, around ten o'clock at night more or less, I always drove by this particular bus stop where she'd always be standing, waiting for her bus. Naturally, because I knew she worked where she worked and what time she'd leave work and be at the stop, it was no big deal. I just knew she'd be there every night. The first few times I caught a quick sight of her there I just drove by unnoticed and thought nothing of it. After a few nights, I thought it would be nice to sound the horn and wave. Whenever I'd do that, she always seemed happy to see me and waved unreservedly, so it wasn't long before I was deliberately pulling over, picking her up, and driving her home. Before long, almost every night. We didn't really have a covenant, like I'm her official ride home or something, but I had a feeling she'd always be there waiting for me anyway. Even on those nights when I was late by twenty, sometimes thirty minutes, in which case she could have taken the bus and made it home already, she'd still be waiting all the same.

I honestly and truthfully wasn't planning on doing anything inappropriate with Michelle. This was someone I had worked with for almost two years. There had never been any sexual tension between us, and there still wasn't, really. I respected her and she respected me in return. What it was is that I simply enjoyed her company and genuinely liked to be driving her home late at night. For one, she felt protected, and that made me feel good. And what could be wrong with that, right? Win-win situation, anyway you slice it.

We soon became closer, though. We'd often stop for an ice cream at McDonald's or something unpretentious like that. She'd tell me personal stuff, like how she had only just broken up with her immature boyfriend, and then I'd tell her personal stuff, real personal stuff, like my story with Natalie, let's say.

By the way, here's something I must say: Let the records show that I never ever told anyone, least of all Michelle, that I was married to some bitch who made my life miserable or any of that nonsense. I find that to be one of the most despicable things a man can do. And I find that unattractive as hell, too. So if a guy does this in hopes that some broad will feel sorry for him and simply put out, then I feel sorry for him. Actually for both of them, if the strategy actually works out in the end.

But back to Michelle and I, shall we? Our little late night pick-up-and-drive-home routine went on for a number of weeks. Of course I couldn't really tell anyone, especially not my wife, that Michelle and I had been developing this attachment of sorts. Chloe would freak out, obviously. And I was so overwhelmed by years of her freaking out that I wasn't so sure I really wasn't doing anything wrong. I knew I wasn't, see, but I kept it a secret anyway.

Then there were times when I couldn't give Michelle a ride. Either I managed to leave work a little earlier or I had to leave a little too late, for whatever reason, and when that was the case, it wasn't uncommon for her to text me something sweet the next morning, like "Miss our talks," or flat-out "Missed you last night."

As luck would have it, it so happened that one of those mornings, Chloe picked up my phone and saw one such message. And yes, you guessed right: she freaked out. Big time. She was hysterical. She was shouting so loud my ears rang. Calling me all sorts of names. Calling Michelle even worse names. She didn't even know Michelle. She had only seen her in the photographs taken a couple of months earlier, when my team at the old agency got together to bid me farewell. Regardless, she was certain Michelle was "the reason why I'd been acting so weird lately."

I really had been acting weird lately, I'd give her that, but Michelle was definitely not the reason.

Picture this: I'm sitting in my car, with Chloe sitting right next to me in the passenger seat, and she's doing all this shouting and ranting and hitting me and whatnot, and I'm trying to keep it together so we don't crash or anything. The whole thing lasts half an hour, maybe less. She alternates between bouts of fury and uncontrollable crying. Luckily, Victoria is not in the car to witness all this.

I mustered up the courage I hadn't had in years, and finally said to her, very calmly, very together, "All right, Chloe. This is it. I want out. And I'm moving out."

She'd heard it before, so she didn't believe I'd have the guts to pull it off this time. She demanded to know whether her suspicions were justified, and I kept denying the whole thing.

"What? I can't have a friend who sincerely likes my company? Someone who's not out to get fucked by me?" I'd counterattack.

And I meant it, too. I didn't think of Michelle as somebody I'd ever have a romantic involvement with, let alone one of a sexual nature. But I was so sick and tired of all the tension, all the crying, all the falling-outs, that I just wanted out of that relationship. The time was here. It was do or die. And I did. I almost didn't. But I did.

A couple of days later, I'd be moving into an apartment not five minutes away from where Chloe and I had lived together for more than ten years. I wanted to be close to my daughter, to be able to see her every day, all the time. I wanted her to be able to spend nights with me, in my apartment. I wanted things to appear unchanged in her eyes, as much as was humanly conceivable. Of course she'd notice her old man was living somewhere else—I mean, she wasn't stupid, right?—but I wanted it to feel like an extension of her home. And I think I actually succeeded.

Needless to say, Chloe didn't want to let me go. She resisted the idea with her traditional promises that she would change her ways, but I was having none of it. She talked and talked, but I just kept saying it was over. For the first time, I was determined to go all the way. After a while, she caved in. Of course she nurtured hopes that I'd eventually change my mind and return home, so, in her eyes, all things considered, it wasn't a bad idea that I was living so close. That is, as long as I didn't have women over, spending the night, ever. So she made sure our little girl spent as much time in my place as possible. Especially nights. That way, she thought, there would never be room for another woman in my life. And you know what? I was okay with that for now. As long as I had some peace of mind, I was okay with that rationale.

A couple of weeks later, she even managed to get the keys to my apartment, seeing as she had to pick up Victoria in the morning or drop her off there at night. Why couldn't I simply drop her off at school myself? Why couldn't I go pick her up myself after work? Why couldn't I just get out of bed and open the door for Chloe, you ask? I know. But this was a bold move for me, you know? I felt like it was okay to let Chloe preserve some sense of control. I had to take it in stride. One day at a time. Slowly but surely. Baby steps. And my daughter seemed unaffected, so it was all working according to plan.

I was a free man. At last. Well, sort of.