Trophy Husband by Lauren Blakely

Frank.
    I pick up my phone and call him at work. He
answers immediately and I don’t bother with niceties. I launch
right into it. “You have got to be kidding me. The dog is mine, and
you haven’t so much as taken her for a walk in the last year, let
alone a sleepover.”
    “And that needs to change,” he says.
    My mother lioness instincts kick in. I’m the
one who trained the dog, walked the dog, fed the dog, took her to
every vet appointment, threw tennis balls to her in the water. He
didn’t want the dog when he left me for Amber. He doesn’t get the
dog now. “The dog stays with me.”
    “I figured you would feel that way, and
that’s why I hired the best attorney, so perhaps you should take it
up with him. I believe you have his number on the legal
papers.”
    Then he hangs up on me.
    I slam the papers down on the credenza and
huff back into the kitchen, practically ripping the fridge door
open. I need a Diet Coke and I need one now. I grab one from the
lower drawer and angrily pop it open, taking a thirsty first
gulp.
    I savor it because I find few things in life
as singularly satisfying as the sound and feel of a can opening.
The Diet Coke trickery should have been my tip-off that things with
Todd wouldn’t work out. I’d be working or paying bills at the
kitchen table and ask him to please bring me a Diet Coke. He knew
about my first sip fixation, he knew I derived uncommon pleasure
from the very first bubbly sensation, from the taste of the virgin
cold metal on my lips. Yet, he would always ruin it for me by
opening the drink himself and taking a sip while he mosey-ed on
over to the table to deposit the can in front of me with a devilish
little smirk. He’d give me this look, this “Aren’t I cute for
taking the first sip when I know you love it” look. And he’d think
it was endearing. I tried to explain every time that I was serious
about this. I really wanted my own first taste.
    I know it’s not a big deal. I know that
disagreeing about the first sip of a soda isn’t the reason he
left.
    I can enjoy every single ounce of this soda
all by myself right now. I can enjoy the money from the sale of The
Fashion Hound. I can enjoy the silence in this house.
    But I can’t always. Because tears now roll
down my face as I look at this legal letter, this cold,
business-like language that we have been reduced to. We used to
spend nights tangled up in sheets, and lazy afternoons only with
each other. We used to be each other’s rocks and each other’s
lovers, a potent combination of reliance and passion that would see
us through all our days.
    Then there was one night in Vegas, and
everything shattered. Right down to the dog. We adopted Ms. Pac-Man
three years ago from the San Francisco Humane Society, picking her
out at that same jinx-you-owe-me-a-coke moment when she tilted her
blond head to the side and won us over with those big brown canine
eyes. We were a threesome, a little family unit.
    Now, she’s some pawn to him.
    My chest heaves, and I bring my hand to my
mouth, shaking with sadness. Embarrassed that this is who I am
now.
    Alone with a soda and a letter from a
lawyer.
    I try so hard to be tough, to be impervious
to the whole fucking world.
    But moments like this?
    I miss, and I miss, and I miss.
    I miss being cared for. I miss being loved.
I miss being considered. I wipe a hand across my cheek, my mascara
streaking. I used to love him so goddamn much. I didn’t stop loving
him the second he took up with Amber. And now he’s with her, really
with her, and I’m here in my kitchen, with only the first sip for
comfort as he tries to take my dog from me.
    As if she’s some sort of toy for his new
wife, his new kid, his new life without me. Ms. Pac-Man hears me
and ambles on over to sit at my feet, looking at me as if to ask if
everything’s okay. I tell her yes, even though it’s not true.
    I sniffle, reach for my
iPod, and pick Sailboat in the
Moonlight by Billie Holiday. I might as
well