Confession Of A 19-Year-Old Girl – ‘I Had An Affair With The Married Dad I Nannied For’ PART 2

“Ryyyann…” I chirped in the strange falsetto that was bursting from my throat. “How arrrre you? Watching the Jazz, huh?”
Still he sat. Words had left him. That stupid smile still pasted across his handsome features.
“Is that YOUR WIFE Jenna I see over there? Tell her I said hello! Bye now.” With that I continued up the stairs.

When I got to the top of the stairs, I looked back. Jenna, unaware of my presence, was still absorbed in a conversation with her friends. Ryan was staring straight ahead. I turned around, stumbled through the tunnel and fell into Melissa, who was waiting at the other end of the section.

“Let’s get out of here.” I sobbed.

Once home (and a few shots of Jagermeister to calm my frazzled nerves later), excruciatingly painful sobs tore out of my chest and ripped upward through my throat. I curled into a fetal position, clutched my stomach and buried my face into my pillow to drown the howling. I cried so hard and for so long, I began to retch.

I skittered drunkenly for the bathroom and spewed the contents of my stomach into the toilet. I flushed, draped my arms across the toilet seat and dropped my feverish head across them. I hiccupped, gasping for air like a small child who has just finished throwing a convulsive tantrum.

I splashed water across my mottled face and I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. Rage coursed through my veins and I hated myself. I hated the stupid, stupid girl who had tolerated this relationship. I hated her for being too weak to move on.

Then I did something I’d never, ever done before. I slapped myself. Hard. It felt good and I did it again.

“You deserve that you stupid b*tch.” I slurred at myself. I dragged my fingernails down my cheek, inspiring puffy, red welts.

Not able to face myself any longer, I floundered back to my bed and fell heavily onto the mattress.

Moaning, I rolled over and looked at the alarm clock on my nightstand. Nine o’clock. So the game was over. Ryan might already be home. I pressed the power button on my cell phone. It vibrated to life but there were no messages. No one had called.

I heaved the phone against the wall. It exploded, black plastic pieces raining down onto the floor. How could he NOT call? That’s it, then. That’s all I was. Some private trophy girlfriend. A stupid, blonde boost to his already inflated ego.

At that moment, I fissured deep inside. Like an elastic band stretched too far, I snapped and there would be no bouncing back into who I used to be. I was forever altered.

Before I knew what I was doing, I slammed out of my apartment, my bare feet slapping the cement. I was running. Running as fast as I could.

While he was building his new home, Ryan was living in a condominium less than a mile from my apartment. “So I can see you all the time,” he had said at the time.

Within minutes, I was barreling up his front steps. The door was locked. I rocketed through the side gate, into his backyard. Inside, the house was dark. The only light was the ghostly pall the digital microwave cast on the kitchen that lay just beyond the sliding glass door. I tried the door. It slid smoothly open.

Ryan’s back was to me as he sat motionlessly in his oversized leather armchair. I could see that he was holding his requisite three fingers of scotch in his right hand.

“You.” I growled. “You!”

He said nothing. Didn’t even turn around. Not a muscle twitched. I walked directly in front of him, my body quivering with rage. The expression on his face was something I didn’t expect. Lines of despair etched his skin like tree bark. His eyes followed me, but still, he said nothing.

I slapped the glass of amber colored Glenlivet from his grasp.

The glass launched from his loose grasp and shattered against the wall. “I hate you!” I screamed, which quickly turned into tears.

Ryan sprang from his seat and grabbed my hand. Instinctively, I jumped backwards until I realized he was clutching my arm protectively. Blood was spurting from the center of my hand where my palm had connected with the glass, leaving behind a torn flap of skin.

“Oh, Monica.” Ryan was crying now. Silent tears streaked his bleak expression.
“Don’t touch me you liar! LIAR!” I hissed. Still, he clung to my hand, pulling me to the kitchen where he wrapped a dish towel around the bloody mess, pressing the damp cloth into my palm. We stood there in the dark silence, listening to each others’ ragged breathing.

“It’s not what you think.” He finally chanced.
“That is such BULLSHIT!” I yanked my bleeding hand from his grasp and retreated to the other side of the room.
“You lied to me. And I saw you with her!”
“Just listen to me!” I fell silent when, uncharacteristically, he raised his voice.
“I WAS meeting Jenna and her dad about our taxes. He is still very much involved with her finances. She’s a little daddy’s girl. Once he left, she and I were walking out of the restaurant together when we ran into our old group of friends who go to the Jazz games. What could we do? Nobody knows we’re divorcing!”
“After nearly three f*cking years everyone should damn well know!” I spat.
He hung his head dejectedly. “They asked us to go to the game. So I went. I didn’t even talk to her the entire night. We HATE being together. You saw us. She wasn’t even sitting by me. She went to socialize with her uppity girlfriends.”
“You are SO worried about keeping up appearances!” I shrieked accusingly.
“It’s for my kids. If she’s happy, they’re happy. If I can keep her happy throughout this whole ordeal, it will end faster. If there are problems, like me dating our old babysitter, for chrissakes, she will make my life AND YOURS a living hell!”

I leaned against the refrigerator and slumped slowly to the floor.

“I just can’t take it anymore. I can’t. This is all your game. I’m just a helpless spectator, yet the fate of my life hangs in the balance too. You withhold information to keep me from getting upset, but discovering the truth is worse. I can’t do this. I am THAT girl. The stupid girl that dates a married guy who claims he is divorcing. And he never does. And he never will.”

I stood up, cradling my bloody, dish toweled hand to my chest and walked out of his condominium for the last time.