My Time in the Affair Read online

  My Time in the Affair

  STYLO FANTÔME

  Published by Stylo Fantome

  BattleAxe Production, First Edition

  Copyright © 2015

  Editing Aides:

  Barbara Shane Hoover

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

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  Table of Contents

  Mission Statement 5

  Dedication 6

  ~Mischa~ 8

  ~Falling Out of Love~ 9

  ~Mischa~ 14

  ~Italy~ 15

  ~Mischa~ 30

  ~Telephone Speak~ 31

  ~Night Games~ 33

  ~The Affair~ 35

  ~Why Am I Here~ 46

  ~Mischa~ 49

  ~Opening a Door~ 50

  ~What Are We Doing~ 56

  ~Mischa~ 61

  ~Done Pretending~ 62

  ~Mischa~ 73

  ~Letting Go … ?~ 74

  ~The Amalfi Coast~ 76

  ~Boom Boom Boom~ 86

  ~Well, I Didn't See That Coming~ 94

  ~How Do You Fix What's Broken~ 101

  ~Mischa~ 113

  ~Out of Time~ 114

  ~Shots Fired~ 116

  ~Mischa~ 126

  ~The Trouble with Secrets~ 127

  ~Mischa~ 138

  ~Home~ 139

  ~Is Everyone Hiding Something!?~ 146

  ~Tal~ 154

  ~Epilogue~ 155

  Acknowledgments 165

  Soundtrack 167

  The Kane Trilogy 168

  Mission Statement

  I not only write, I read. A lot. Probably more than is healthy. There are a lot of things I love about self-publishing/indie authors, and a lot of things I'm not a fan of. Just personal preferences, no disrespect meant. So when I decided to self-publish, I made some promises to myself to try my hardest to avoid doing those things I didn't like seeing/happening in other stories. Now I would like to make those promises to you, the reader:

  I promise to never leave you hanging. If I write a story with a cliffhanger ending, I will only publish it when the second part is completely written.

  I promise that all cliffhanger sequels will be published within 16 weeks – maximum – of the previous part (i.e., part two will come within four months of part one. Part three will come within four months of part two, and so on, and so forth). You will never have to wait six months, or a year, or years, for a sequel to any cliffhangers that I might write.

  I promise that, while I am an unsigned indie author, I will never raise the price of any part of a series above $2.99. I will not “hook you” with book one, two, and three at $1.99 and/or $2.99, and then suddenly book four is $4.99. I refuse to pay for series that are like that, so I will never do that to you.

  I promise that if I am lucky enough and blessed enough to have fans, I will interact and communicate with them as much as possible – you are who this is all for, after all.

  If at any point in time, I fail to live up to any of these promises, you have my permission to tar and feather me, beat me, leave me for dead, or worst of all – call me out.

  No work is ever really completed, no story ever completely told, but I will always try my hardest to bring you my best.

  Thank you for reading.

  Dedication

  To anybody who has ever felt bad for feeling a way they knew they shouldn't …

  MY TIME IN THE AFFAIR

  ~Mischa~

  I made a conscious decision to cheat on my husband.

  Now, before you judge me, hear my story. Hear how much I'm like you, how similar my thoughts are to your own. Yes, I'm a horrible person. Yes, I've done horrible things. Yes, I don't deserve forgiveness. Yes, bad things happened because of my actions.

  But I'm willing to bet I've done things that maybe, just maybe, you have thought of doing.

  Maybe, just maybe, you're not as innocent as you'd like to think.

  Or maybe I'm not so guilty ...

  ~Falling Out of Love~

  Falling in love is kind of easy. Two people meet. They're attracted to each other, or maybe they're not. But they connect. Friends, a connection, whatever. It leads to something more – flirting, then dating, then sex. Then LOTS of sex. Move in together, live together, love together. Happy wonderful times, and then voilà, marriage.

  Mischa had known Michael for a long time, since right after high school. They had both gotten jobs at Target before college, met while bagging up cheap home décor. They went to school together, stayed friends, hung out all the next year. Then at the end of that following summer, after a drink too many, Michael kissed Mischa. Pause. She kissed him back.

  And they lived happily ever after …

  That's what made her so mad. They couldn't blame it on being young – they had started dating at nineteen, but didn't get married till they were twenty-four. Five years together, that's a long time to get to know each other, and twenty-four isn't that young of an age to get married. That's an adult. Capable of making semi-intelligent decisions, once in a while.

  They couldn't blame it on not really knowing each other – they were best friends. “The Mikes,” as they were affectionately known to their friends. They had started as best friends, and she could honestly say that they were still best friends. Not a day went by that they didn't speak to each other, about everything and anything. Anytime anything happened in her life, Michael was the first person she wanted to talk to about it. Promotion at work, gossip with the girls, the next door neighbor that she battled over parking spots with; all of it. They almost had their own language.

  Worse than falling in love. Worse than hating someone. Falling out of love was much, much harder. How does a person say that?

  “Hey, I love you – I really do. I want you to be a part of my life. I can't bear the thought of not seeing you and talking to you every day, but I just don't want to be romantically or sexually involved with you anymore. I'm not in love with you, and have thus become increasingly less physically attracted to you.”

  What a horrible fucking person. She hated herself. She found herself hoping, praying, that Mike would cheat on her. At least if he cheated on her, then they could break up, and he wouldn't hate her, and of course she wouldn't hate him. It would be her release, she could thank him.

  I just don't want him to hate me. Please don't hate me.

  They had talked about it. Multiple times, so Mike could never claim that she hadn't tried. She suggested therapy. Shot down. She pointed out their problems. Denied. Michael had a rich fantasy life; everything seemed to be fine in his mind.

  But in her mind, there was nothing fine about a married couple not having sex in almost six months.

  “Don't you want more than this?” she would ask him.

  “I'm just stressed, we're both busy,” he made up excuses.

  And being best friends just made it worse, because she knew him so well. She knew he genuinely believed that, that he honestly thought there wasn't a problem with what was happening between them. He didn't seem to notice the time that passed between their sexual encounters.

  Oh, but she did, and the further and further apart their sexual encounters became, the less and less she wanted the
m. She got so used to satisfying herself, it got to a point where she didn't care. She started to prefer sex with herself over sex with him. At least with herself, she didn't have to shave her legs, she didn't care how much weight she'd put on, and she always came.

  A brag that Michael couldn't share.

  *

  “What do you want to do for your birthday, Misch?” Mischa's best friend Lacey asked her, as they jogged down the street.

  “I won't be here for my birthday,” Misch huffed, picking up their pace.

  “Oh, I keep forgetting! How does Mike feel about that?”

  Mischa started jogging even faster.

  “Eh. He's bummed, but he's excited for me,” she replied.

  Once upon a time, Mischa had been a dancer, had even gone to the University of Michigan for dance. Ballet, tap, and modern jazz. Later hip hop. She taught at a studio for a while, but a torn ACL put her out of commission. While recovering from her injury, she put on weight. At first just ten pounds. Not so bad, and she enjoyed the bigger ass. But then a year later, another ten pounds crept up on her. Before she knew it, she was fifty pounds overweight.

  But why should she care? Not like she had anyone to get naked for, not like she could dance well anymore. She left the dance studio, got a job at an insurance office, and it turned out she was really good at it. Filing claims, selling policies, boring shit, but the money was excellent.

  The company Mischa worked for was expanding at a rapid rate. They already had multiple branches all over the United States, and a couple in South East Asia. Now they were expanding to Europe. Misch's boss was being sent overseas to help start up offices in Italy, Turkey, and Armenia. Misch had been asked to go along to assist him. No worries, it wasn't happening immediately – she had a year to prepare. A year to plan.

  So perfect.

  Her friend Lacey was looking to lose weight, too, so the two of them came up with an exercise plan together. Now, a year later, both women had dropped a lot of weight. Mischa was giddy over having her body back, but she kept telling herself it had all been to help Lacey lose weight. That was it, no other reason. No other reason at all. Certainly not to get attention from other men. And definitely not to cheat on her husband ...

  Am I really gonna do this? Am I really gonna do this? Am I really gonna do this?

  Misch's thoughts pounded around her head in time to her feet pounding against the pavement. Most of the time, she told herself no.

  But other times …

  “Hey! I didn't ask last week, but you must have met your goal weight,” Lacey called out. Misch looked down at herself. She had actually hit her goal the month before – she'd lost another five pounds on top of that, and was working on toning up.

  “Yeah.”

  “You look amazing, Misch! I can't believe we did it! Mike must be so proud!” her friend cheered.

  I am going to the worst part of hell.

  They separated at the end of the block, but made plans to go out for drinks later that same night. Misch was flying out on Friday, which was only two days away. This would be their goodbyes – she would be gone for two months, possibly longer.

  At home, Misch went into her bathroom and turned on the shower, letting it heat up while she took off her sweaty running clothes. She stood in front of a full length mirror, looking over her naked body. The same time the year before, she had avoided looking at her body. Now, she was proud of it. She'd taken it for granted when she was younger, because it had seemingly stayed in shape without effort. Now she had worked for it, and worked hard.

  There wasn't anything terribly exceptional about her body, she supposed. She was on the tall side, almost five-foot-eight, with a standard figure. B-cup boobs and hips that were built to proportion, she was lucky in that sense. When she was young, her dancing had given her strong thighs and an ass that defied gravity – she'd gone back to dancing, taking classes and renting studios at night to get that ass and those thighs back.

  She had dusky nipples that matched her lips, and her dark brown hair brushed just past her jaw, teasing the sides of her neck. Her eyes were hazel, usually resting at a honey-moss color. She felt out of place a lot of the time, not quite fitting in with any color, with any race.

  She hopped in the shower and scrubbed up. Washed her hair and body before jumping back out and getting ready. Mike got home while she was still putting on her makeup. He came into the bathroom, talking about his day at work. He walked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, kissed the side of her neck. She leaned into him, wondering if it would go farther, for once. Wondering how she would feel about it, if it did.

  But of course, it didn't go anywhere. He patted her on the butt, like a content dog, then leaned against the counter and babbled on about work, playing with a makeup brush. She laughed and joked with him, booped him on the nose with her foundation. They made fun of his boss, then her boss. When she was done getting dressed, they kissed goodbye and she headed out to meet her friends. It wasn't till she was halfway to the pub that she realized something.

  He never even asked where I was going.

  *

  The “boring shit” at work was what started her snowball of misfortune. Her mind wandered. She thought about different things, possibilities, opportunities. For a long time, Mischa tried to think of ways to fix her marriage – hence the suggestions of therapy. She'd also attempted to spice up their marriage, set up romantic evenings, tried to get dirty and nasty. Nothing worked.

  So her mind wandered further. Would she have sex with someone else if she could? She sort of casually asked Mike what he thought of the idea of an open relationship within a marriage. Maybe she could have the close friendship with her husband in marriage, and seek sexual and physical satisfaction elsewhere! Problemo solved. But no, that idea was SHOT. DOWN.

  She felt trapped. Suffocated, yet alone. This is not a subject a woman can talk about with her friends, especially when she'd already expressed her own distaste of cheaters. Hello, hypocrite. How could she explain that to anyone?

  I get along great with my husband, we're super pals! He's nice, thoughtful, caring, sweet … but I really, really want to fuck someone else.

  It sounded awful, but Mischa found herself feeling guilty – not because she wanted to cheat, but because she'd judged other people for cheating. Now that she was perilously close to being in their shoes, she understood. She understood so much.

  It started small. Just an idea, that she could sleep with someone else. But then no, no, no, she couldn't do that, she wasn't that person. Then … well, maybe she could be that person. But no, no, no, who would want her anyway? She was fifty pounds overweight and hadn't dated anyone else since she was nineteen – she was twenty-seven now!

  Then she thought … maybe she could lose the weight. Maybe she could get her old body back, and if she could accomplish that, something that had evaded her for four years, maybe she could give herself a treat.

  Like a Nordic ice god …

  No, no, no, she couldn't do that. She wouldn't do that!

  Would I?

  *

  “Bon voyage!”

  All her girlfriends screamed and laughed as she entered the bar. Misch laughed as well and sat down at their table, ordering a vodka-tonic.

  They got appetizers and did shots. Most of them had been friends for years – Lacey had been one of the Target-summer-job crew, and had known Misch and Mike since they'd met. They giggled and got loud and got a little drunk.

  “I'm gonna miss you,” Lacey whined, leaning close to her. Misch nodded and knocked back another Lemon Drop.

  “I'm gonna miss you, too, chick,” she breathed, wiping at her chin.

  “But … but … who am I going to talk to?” Lacey continued, pretending to cry.

  “Your husband. These losers,” Misch joked, gesturing to the other girls at the table. She was met with a chorus of boos.

  “But no one talks to me like you,” Lacey groaned, then pressed her forehead to the table.


  “Oh god. Okay, someone call her husband to come get her, I'm getting the rest of us another round!” Misch shouted. There were cheers, and she headed to the bar.

  “Can I get four Washington Apples, and a vodka-tonic!?” she called out to the bartender. He nodded and began assembling their drinks.

  “Hey.”

  Misch jumped a little, startled. A guy had sidled up to the bar next to her, leaning against it. He looked young, or at least younger than her. He eyed her up and down very openly, his gaze lingering on her breasts before moving down to her hips and thighs.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, glancing around to double check that he was talking to her.

  “Oh yeah, you can. You live around here?” he questioned, his eyes finally making their way back to her own.

  Holy shit, am I getting hit on?

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Nice. I noticed you ladies were celebrating. Birthday?” he kept going, chewing on his straw.

  “Sort of.”

  “It's a sort of birthday?”

  “Birthday slash going away party,” she clarified, nervously running her fingers through her hair. She hadn't really been out-out in a long time. The more weight she'd gained, the more she'd stayed at home. Even when she'd started losing weight, she'd just spent all her time trying to lose more weight. She didn't even remember what it felt like to get hit on – she couldn't tell if that's what was happening or not.

  I'm an idiot.

  “Aw, you're going away? Bummer, I was hoping we could hang out,” the guy mock-pouted, but his eyes were smiling.

  “Really?” she laughed. “You don't even know me.”

  “I could get to know you a lot better tonight, back at your place.”

  Oh yeah, he's hitting on me.

  “I'm sorry, I'm married,” she automatically responded.

  “I'm sorry, too. We could go to my place.”