“Side Chick” No More

How to stop settling and leave the jerk, even if you still love him

Devoted to someone who didn’t deserve my loyalty, I felt stuck. I was long past knowing I should get out, but how could I? I still loved you.

It finally occurred to me that I could manufacture an ending so awful that the two of us would never have the stomach to speak to each other again. After that, like it or not, I’d be free.

But did I have the nerve to do that?

I hoped I’d end up too furious, too embarrassed, or, preferably, too finished with you to pick the relationship back up (as I had always done) and piece it back together.

But I’m also afraid if I do something that wild, I might drive you away forever!

Wait! That was the point, wasn’t it?

What if I regret it? What if I find I truly cannot live without you?I think about how to leave open a little back door that will let me into your life again.

Forget the back door! I chastise myself. Let ‘er rip! If I have to go beyond the bounds of good taste, beyond the limits of dignity, possibly all the way to borderline humiliation, I’ll do it. To be free of this misery, I’ll have to permanently close the little back door.

Better that than a lifetime of backsliding and heartache, right?

Let me tell you how it happened, how I was braver than I ever intended to be, and where I ended up.

It can happen unexpectedly Last night, when we were having a normal chat, I don’t know how we ended up in an argument. I’m Jewish/agnostic; you are “born again.” Somehow, we got on the topic of religion, and I wanted to know if your wife had become born again yet. I fully expected her to be, if she had any smarts at all.

Yes, the wife. You were only the second “legally separated” man I’d ever dated. The first had been fast on the way to a divorce, and he followed through. When you told me your status, I asked what “legally separated” meant to you. Your explanation gave me no reason to hesitate to go on that first date. That you had little communication with your ex was another plus.

Five years into it, you could have knocked me over with a feather when you told me the two of you were reconciling.

Reconciling? After five years of just the two of us? Now it will be the two of you?

The world got squishy. Words I barely heard about “complicated finances” and “no simple solutions” swirled around me. You claim you had been about to ask me to make it permanent with you when she threatened to take everything in the divorce. And, you said, she had the pre-nup to make good on the threat.

I had to concentrate not to lose my balance and fall. Mechanically, my mouth wished you the best of luck, as I reminded myself not to punch you in the gut in a public place.

I turned on my heel and walked away as fast as I could manage.

A month passed. The most awful month I could remember. Then, when you finally called me, I saw the number and tried to resist answering. But I missed you, too.

And you begged me. Your voicemails began shortly after that, and they were killing me.

The beginning of the affair

Having an affair with a married man, I told you when I finally agreed to see you, even if it’s with you, was never on my bucket list. I didn’t set out to be a home-wrecker. How can I reconcile the feelings I still have for you when you are actively married now? It doesn’t matter why you got back together if you intend to make it last with her.

My therapist told me to give myself a break. It will never last, she said, if they get back together only because of money. I’m not so sure. She doesn’t know how important money is to you.

My consolation was that I never had to feel like “the other woman.” As far as I ever saw, she hadn’t been in your life the entire time I’d known you. If anyone was “the other woman,” the interloper who broke in on a solid, long-term relationship (five years!), she was!

It is still a dumb idea. I don’t know why I let you talk me into it. To be honest, though, at least half the time since then it has been me talking you back into it as your guilt kicks in, now that you and she are in the same household again.

Why did I stay? Laziness? No, I think it was the fact that you were exactly the type of guy I’d always hoped to meet but never did. Until… I did.

Catch-22

Somehow, we get closer.

Sometimes we get further apart.

After a few years of this, I have to consider giving up my dream. You are never going to leave her, are you?

But where does that leave me? I don’t want to share you, but I had already fallen so hard for you in those first five years that I am helpless to change the way I feel about you now.

I feel tricked, like in a Catch-22. I can’t imagine life without you, but life with you has become dreadful. If I get to see you only once a week, that is the day the sun shines brighter than any other day. On all the other days, the world looks bleak.

And if I am now convinced that you will never leave her, what business do I have still being part of it on any level?

Where is my bucket list that you have no business being on? Where are my principles of not being a home-wrecker? Where is my self-esteem when I’ve finally realized I am (and maybe always have been) no more than just a “side chick” to you?

I try to explain this to you one day, and in reaction, you make your face look stunned and insulted.

How can you think you are just a side chick to me? Is that all you think our relationship has meant to me after all these years?

(Save it for someone who will believe you, I think to myself.)

Last chance for love (a la Donna Summer)

I ask you if you would care if I moved away. Any word from you, any sign at all, and I won’t do it.

You don’t stop me.

Finally, I move an hour away. I want to force myself to let you go.

But as soon as I do, you ask me how I could move so far and make it even harder to see each other.

Moving doesn’t help; I still can’t give you up. You don’t seem able to let me go, either.

Our song becomes Gladys Knight’s “Neither one of us wants to be the first to say goodbye.”

Making it end

I do know how we got into the argument on the phone last night; it was me. I pressed it.

“So, she is a genuine Christian now? You’re sure? After growing up in Japan in the Shinto tradition?”

I didn’t believe it, but I knew it was a smart choice for her. Your entire family had generations devoted to the Black Baptist Church. If she wanted your mother (“the Queen’s”) approval, she’d better toe the line.

“Maybe she is just eager to fit in with the family,” I suggest.

“Don’t talk to me like that about my wife. It’s none of your business what she believes, anyway.”

Ouch! So touchy! Why are you so defensive tonight? It surprises me.

“Oh, now it’s ‘your wife’? You’ve never referred to her as your spouse before, at least, not to me. Excuse me. I didn’t know she had become a forbidden piece of conversation for us. But why haven’t you ever talked about Jesus to me?”

“I already know how you feel. There’s no point.”

“That’s not true. I’m a lot more open-minded than you are. A full bookcase on Jesus and Christianity and Judaism over here tells you I am closed-minded? I would enjoy talking to you about Jesus. It’s actually one of my favorite topics of conversation. Why do you think I’ve read about it so much? I’d love to hear who you think he(He) was or is.”

“Listen, I don’t want to talk to you about Jesus. I know all I need to know about you and Jesus.

At that point, I don’t know what else to say, so I revert to sarcasm.

“Wow, we’ve reached a new level of interfaith communication — a lower one!”

I produce thin, concocted laughter. Not returned.

“Listen, Sharon. I don’t think we should talk about this anymore. In fact, I don’t think we should talk anymore, period. At all.”

Shock.

Long silence.

Finally:

“Am I hearing you right? Are you ending 10 years of love and devotion (at least, on my end) right now, with a 10-second goodbye on the phone?”

(Conversation in the background.)

“Oh, I didn’t realize you weren’t alone.”

(Japanese-accented English in the background.)

“She’s there, isn’t she. I’ll let you go.”

“Yes, you should let me go. In more ways than one. I don’t see us going any further together.”

More sarcasm spills out of me.

“Well, that fits right in with all your promises about how we would break up, if we ever did.

“That long, compassionate, in-person talk you made me promise to have with YOU when I finally decided to leave — the sharing, the kindness I would have to show you?

“Nice to find out that, like everything else, it doesn’t go both ways.”

“Goodbye, Sharon. Don’t call me anymore.”

Click.

Click?

Do you honestly think you can cast me off, shove me aside, break the umbilical cord — just like that?

Clearly, even after all these years, you do not know who you’re dealing with. I am not about to “go gentle into that into that good night.” (1)

Not after everything I’ve given up for you. All the lonely holidays, all the times I wasn’t allowed to call, going through breast cancer surgery alone while you “and the fam” were on vacation. And always, always trying to please you, to make your time with me so much better than your time with her would ever be.

My plans to purposely, strategically engineer a non-refundable break-up completely dissolve. I am operating now solely with the fury of a woman scorned.

Funny how you sometimes end up in the same place, anyway.

I wait 30 minutes, then call the home phone.

“Hello?” she answers. I knew she would.

“Hello, may I please speak to [you]?”

“Who is this, please?”

You told me that lately she accuses you of cheating all the time. I told you she knows there is someone else. Women know. I don’t know how; they just do. I’d know. At least, I think I would. But maybe I hadn’t, for all these years.

I take a deep breath.

“This is the woman who has been having sex with your husband for the last 10 years.

“My name is Sharon. You don’t have to torture yourself wondering anymore. You were right. He’s been cheating on you. Now, you know for sure.”

I listen to the cries and the forced, fake surprise, then hear her scream something at you in Japanese. If voices could kill…

You pick up the phone.

“Who is this?” you demand.

“It’s me. Who did you think it would be?”

“How did you get this number?”

“You honestly think I wouldn’t have your home number?”

Louder, projecting your voice so it could be heard across the room: “Listen, I don’t know who you are, but I want to talk to you about what you are doing. It’s very cruel. My wife and I are going to get in the car and come meet you and talk.”

“How will you know where to go? Do you know where I live? A stranger playing a weird, mean trick on the phone with your wife, but one with an address you already have? How will you explain to her you know where I live?”

“Listen, I don’t know who you are or why you are doing this, but I will not let you get away with it!”

“Oh, give up the act. You’re not convincing. Even if the three of us had this phony talk, then what would you do? Call the police? Put out a contract on me — a ‘hit’ for your Mafia friends to carry out?”

“We’re getting in the car and will be up to talk to you in an hour.”

“So, you also somehow know how long it takes to get here. And that it’s ‘up’ north, not south, or east, or west? She might ask how you know. Have you thought about that? You’re not being very careful.

“But it doesn’t matter; I won’t be here, anyway. I have things to do near where you live. So, you can give me a place to meet you down there in an hour, and I’ll give you 30 minutes when I get there for our little talk.

“I’m not sure if that’ll be enough time to convince her to let you stay in the house tonight, but it will have to be. That’s as much time as I have.”

“You can’t just start up this shit, then disappear,” you proclaim with obvious anger.

“I can’t? I thought that’s exactly what you did.”

I listen to you spew a few more manufactured objections and challenges, along with a couple of threats. Threats of confrontation, threats of payback. More demands, more shrill crying from ‘wifie’ in the background, more bullshit fakery from you for her benefit.

It occurs to me you are becoming ridiculous. This whole situation is ridiculous.

I hang up the phone and drive to San Jose to take care of the other things I had to do.

On the way, as reality slowly sets in, I let my guts spread out behind me all over the freeway and watch my heart bleed out at the red lights on the city streets.

Three hours later, done with my business in San Jose, not having heard from you again (I knew I wouldn’t), I drive through town back to the freeway to go home. I suddenly realize I am passing your street. Was this unconscious or premeditated?

I laugh when I think about the time you told me you had moved into the country club near my house.

Not quite.

What was the reason for that lie? It was probably just more narcissism. You want everyone to think you are wealthier, classier, held in higher esteem than you really are.

I let you get away with it. I knew where you really lived.

Had it all been lies?

My steering wheel turns of its own accord, taking me down your street. Slowing down as I pass your house, I suddenly have an urge to leave a note on your windshield — no, on her windshield.

If I could figure out which was which. His and hers matching black SUVs. Cute.

Stop! Or keep going…

What was pushing me to be so mean to you? Why had I been mean enough to call your home? That wasn’t necessary. I’d never acted like that with you before. If I hadn’t called, we could probably still make up like we always do.

But not now.

Oh, my God. The wish for a back door has returned.

Hmmm. A dangerous thought.

That is when I realize I want to make our final interaction so bad, so ugly, so embarrassing for everyone involved that there would be no chance we’d make up. There would be no chance it could be anything but final. I can’t take this anymore.

If I embarrass you and criticize you enough, and, for sure, if I embarrass you enough in front of your wife, your narcissism would never permit you to make up with me.

Anticipating the consequences, I don’t think she’ll kick you out for good; she loves you too much for that. But she’ll kick you out for a while. Good. I want you to suffer at least a little.

As much as my heart never wants to be free of you, as much as I still want you to leave her to be with me, I know now you will never choose me. I also know I have to get myself free of you if I want any sort of happiness or peace in my life.

The end of the affair

I am motivated.

I park across the street from your house and pull out a piece of paper from my ever-present notebook:

“I’ve ALWAYS known where you live. Just like I’ve always had your home phone number. What kind of fool do you take me for?”

I have to wonder if you ever moved out during your “legal separation” the first five years we were together, as you said you had. Doesn’t matter now.

“Yes, this little street is quite the elegant roadway through the country club. Impressive.

“Impressively fake, I mean. Fake bourgeoisie. I knew where you live. It amused me to watch you pretend you lived in the country club.

“‘Why am I doing this?’ you must be wondering. Certainly not like my usual kind and generous nature.

“Well, hear this: This is way less shit than what you deserve. Way less for trying to shut us off in 10 seconds on the phone after 10 YEARS of my love and devotion to you. But I wasn’t going to stoop any lower to give you what you really deserve after you turned 10+ years of love into a pitiful farce.

“I hope she sees this. And I hope she divorces you and takes ALL the money. Because you knew.

“You knew the entire time you’ve known me that you would never leave her. You knew even during the first five years when I thought it was just us. I can see that now. You knew that a big part of you was still in love with her. You kept letting me love you the way I did, even though you didn’t love me back the same way.

“That story about reconciling due to the finances and the pre-nup? Just another lie, I bet, to keep the door open for you!

“What did you get out of doing that? You needed adoration that much? Or was it just sex? Ego strokes? The thrill of the forbidden? I don’t know. Don’t care anymore. I just hope you get what you deserve now, you selfish bastard.”

Keeping the drama going

Something tells me that if I can keep writing about this, if I can keep focusing on the justice of it, the rightness of it, I can stick to my intentions. And even when tonight’s events are over, I can re-read what I wrote and re-imagine your reaction to it.

I feel almost like the infamous Sarah Winchester, who kept building on additions to her house because a fortune-teller told her that as long as she did so, she wouldn’t die. And the result became the “Winchester Mystery House,” a spooky, oversized architectural monstrosity in San Jose that local little girls love as the destination for their tenth birthday parties and that tourists make a must-see stop on their travels, like the spouting geysers in Yellowstone.

I can do the same thing. I can keep writing and reading and re-writing and re-reading to keep alive this feeling that I am over you. I can cover over the love and the pain I still feel by actively reminding myself why I should hate you.

Choosing the SUV in the driveway, ignoring its twin on the street, I lift the windshield wiper to pop my note under it.

As I let down the wiper blade, slowly and silently, to hold the note in place, the driveway sensor light above your garage suddenly snaps on, and I jump.

Calm down, Sharon. No one’s coming out of the house. Just leave the note and get back in your car. Hurry now. Go!

What will I do when the frenzy of all this drama wears off? When my heart rate resumes a normal speed? When I’m home alone with my thoughts?

I won’t dare think about the good times then, or remember the tenderness, the closeness, the whispers, the lovemaking. Boy, were you romantic. The answer to my dreams!

I hope the regrets that emerge aren’t huge enough to make me want to do something humiliating like try to contact you. I hope I can remember that ending this is the right thing to do — on so many levels.

Trying to face the future without you, I look at the worst case scenario. If it turns out there is not another love for me in this lifetime, as so much of this life has already passed, if it turns out you were the last one, I need to be grateful for the experience of the love I had (as delusional as it may have been). I especially need to be proud of how it ended. How I ended it. And I need to remember what I learned, so that it never happens again.

I learned many important lessons from you these last 10 years, and one very important lesson about myself: As much as it hurt to admit, I had allowed you to use me all this time as just the “side chick.”

Worse things could happen, I suppose.

Like no donuts.

I turn onto Campbell Avenue just before the freeway entrance, having become obsessed with getting a maple old-fashioned from Psycho’s Donuts. It’s 5 am. They should be open. They should be baking already. They’re a donut shop.

But they’re not open. This donut shop isn’t run by normal bakers; it’s run by psychos. (Thus, the name.)

So much for that idea.

Sitting in the deserted parking lot in a not-so-great part of town, staring at the empty, dark donut bakery, I open the liter of Jameson in the bag I’d stuffed away for good measure under the back seat. I hold the bottle in one hand while I light my cigarette with the other. The picture of healthy living.

Good thing New Year’s Resolutions were coming up soon; I probably wouldn’t survive otherwise, the way I figured I’d be drinking and smoking the next few months, if not for them.

Drinking, smoking, trespassing in the parking lot of a business that isn’t open, flouting most of the local laws I can think of, I imagine myself to be James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause.

That’s me. The rebel. With no cause.

I don’t have to be ashamed of what I did with you tonight. I had to do it. I could never have left you otherwise, no matter how debased I felt by your behavior.

I knew I deserve better. You knew it, too. Sometimes you even told me I did. But I couldn’t make that cut to sever the bond unless I did it this way.

Acting on the power of rage worked for me this time. At least I didn’t stop myself from going all the way. Whatever it takes, right? I know you’ll never want me back now. It’s finally over.

I almost cry.

Stop it! That way madness lies. (2)

Leaving psychosis behind

An hour on the freeway takes me back to Berkeley. I go to Rainbow Donuts on San Pablo and University in the heart of downtown. A completely different world from Psycho Donuts. It’s 6 am. They’ve been open and baking for hours.

I ask the cheery 23-year-old behind the counter (no obvious trace of psychosis, I note) if a maple old-fashioned is appropriate when a 10-year relationship breaks up badly.

She exclaims, “Definitely!”

Stuffing six napkins with the donut into the bag,

How did she know I’m such a messy eater? Are there stains on my shirt?

she hands it to me and shouts like I’m deaf,

Does she think I’m that old? Better cover my gray roots soon.

“Have a marvelous, fantastic day!”

Can I? Can I have a “marvelous, fantastic day” today?

Maybe I can.

Worth trying, I suppose.

References

1 Thomas, Dylan. “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night”

2 Shakespeare, William. “King Lear”

— Sharon Turnoy is a writer, editor, and ghostwriter in Berkeley, CA, which was not far enough away at first, but it is now.

*Messaging Maven *Freelance Writer *Ghost- Copy- Speech- Writer *Speaker *Coach *O.G. Feminist *Pool Shark *Jazz Fan *Social Justice Activist *Cat-Owned