Page 30 of Marriage and the Midlife Crisis

The vanity was pristine, as always, except for the bottles of shampoo and conditioner that were setting next to her sink instead of on the ledge in the shower as they normally were. I took a quick look through the drawers and noted that her basic toiletries were gone. The face serums that she religiously applied morning and night. The body lotion that I loved, the one that smelled like she’d rubbed my favorite sugar cookies all over her skin. Her makeup bag was also missing, as was some of the hair stuff she used. Her toothbrush holder was setting empty.

All of it was gone, packed away with at least a few days’ worth of clothes, in the suitcase she’d taken with her.

I stumbled back into the bedroom and sank down onto the edge of the bed as I absorbed the shock of what had happened tonight.

She hadn’t just left in the heat of an argument. She’d packed her things and left me.

She hadn’t tossed out a demand for a divorce on a whim. It hadn’t just slipped out in the heat of anger. Sometime between finding that fucking thong and my arrival home, she’d decided we were finished. She’d packed. She’d planned. She’d executed her escape, and if I hadn’t come home a little early, she would have been gone without a word.

She left me.

Melanie left me.

The sick feeling of dread that had been simmering in the pit of my stomach since Saturday night boiled over, and I swallowed hard as the bile rose up into my throat.

A jagged pain in my midsection had me almost doubling over, and I realized I was going to be sick. I staggered for the bathroom, dropping to my knees in front of the toilet. Since I’d only had a muffin and a protein bar all day, there wasn’t much there, but dry heaves racked my body in a seemingly never ending wave of well-deserved misery.

After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I made my way back into the bedroom on legs that felt too shaky to truly support me. My mind was racing in a dozen different directions as I tried to make sense of everything.

My gaze fell on the scrap of purple lace on the floor, and a shudder of revulsion tore through me.

How in the hell did that woman’s underwear end up in my suitcase? Now that my initial shock was wearing off, the answer became glaringly obvious.

Mitch.

“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” I seethed, patting my pockets for my phone. Realizing I’d left it on the couch, I charged down the stairs and snapped it up, glancing at the screen in the vain hope that Melanie had responded.

I pulled up Mitch’s contact, then connected the call. As soon as he answered, I tore into him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” My voice boomed as it bounced off the walls.

My questions were met with dead silence, and I dragged in a ragged breath. “Why? Why the hell would you put that thong in my fucking suitcase?”

“Oh, shit,” Mitch said, and had the balls to laugh. “I forgot all about that.”

“You forgot,” I echoed in disbelief. “Melanie found it, Mitch. She thinks I cheated on her, and she left me. My wife left me,” I snarled.

“Damn, man, I’m sorry. That Tangie chick couldn’t find it yesterday morning and had to take off commando. I found it right after she left. I figured you would see it when you unpacked and we’d get a laugh.”

“Melanie left me,” I repeated, working hard to keep my voice from breaking.

“Look, I’ll call her and explain that it was just a joke. She’ll get pissed at me, as usual, and you’ll be off the hook.”

I dropped my chin to my chest in utter disbelief. He couldn’t possibly be that fucking clueless.

“No, don’t call her,” I demanded. I didn’t trust him not to make things worse, if that were even possible. “I’ll explain it myself and beg her to forgive me for being friends with a stupid, motherfucking asshole.”

With that, I ended the call and flopped back down onto the couch. I ran my fingers through my hair and took a deep breath, trying to control the anger surging through my veins.

Once I’d talked myself off the ledge, I picked up the phone and tried to ring Melanie again. It immediately went to voicemail again. I hesitated for a second, then reluctantly scrolled through my contacts to find Jen’s name.

Odds were that Mel had gone to stay with her and Mark. Even if she hadn’t, she had likely already called Jen to fill her in on the implosion of our marriage.

Jen answered after two rings, and I braced myself for the barrage of insults I was sure would be coming my way.

“Ryan.” Her greeting was brusque, but nothing like what I’d feared.

“Uh, have you talked to Mel?” I wanted to smack myself for my uncharacteristic hesitancy, but I was in unchartered territory here. I’d never had to try to track down a wayward wife before.