Typist #4 - Every Romance is a Revenge Fantasy
If a close friend would have known to ask, David would have said the deal with Brynn was simply sex, no strings attached. In the dark, secret part of his heart, though, he looked forward to one day seeing her left hand without that tacky little diamond ring.
The secret, poetry-writing part of him believed she would one day be his.
In September, he’d just started college, and though his parents had suggested he drop riding to have full focus on his studies, he’d continued the riding lessons, “for stress relief.”
On their final session, he noticed the ring with a dull thudding in his heart—disappointment. She still wore the diamond ring, along with a new, thick band. Brynn, the woman he was fiercely in love with, had married a man whose name David didn’t even know.
The ride itself that day was a nightmare. When his horse wasn’t stumbling, the gelding was ignoring him, obsessed with a prancing mare in heat, over in another pasture. The poor gelded horse had no idea what he couldn’t do to that tantalizing mare.
After the ride, David confronted Brynn in the saddle room.
“How could you go through with it? How could you get married?”
Her lips pulled into that angry rosebud that drove him hard with desire.
She spat, “You don’t know anything about my life.”
“I know I love you.”
Her mouth dropped open. There it was. His heart on the floor, in the dirt and the hay and the horse manure.
“I don’t love you, David, and I never will.” She twisted her rings and held up her left hand. “I love my husband, Marcus.”
Marcus. The man’s name stunk in the air between them.
“I must have been mistaken,” David said coldly, backing away. “I could never love a whore with no loyalty.”
He pushed the door and ran from the saddle room, not slowing until he got to his car, in the open parking lot. The late September sun was relentless overhead, and he’d left his sunglasses in the barn, but he wasn’t going back.
Brynn came running, trying to catch him at the gate. Her tightly-curled red ringlets bounced as she ran.
He stopped the car and rolled down the window. “Now what?”
“Marcus was in an accident,” she said. “He can walk and everything, but sex is nearly impossible. We have an understanding.”
“Good for you.” He had other words, other feelings fighting to make their way to his lips, but he had a stronger desire to hit the accelerator.
Gravel spat up behind his tires, and he drove away, allowing himself only one glance back in the rear view mirror. Brynn had her face in her hands, and he imagined she was crying. He hoped she was crying.
Without riding lessons and Brynn, David threw himself into studying, and excelled at school, though the science and engineering courses did not evoke any passion. His only act of defiance was to grow out his hair, mostly to annoy his father. His golden locks fell in soft waves to his shoulders, but he mostly wore his hair tied back in an elastic.
He was more careful about the next girl he gave his heart to. She was smart and even-tempered, a brunette with dark skin that always smelled of cinnamon.
He lost himself inside her, and their love was never terrifying.
They were together seven years, much of that living together. She had no issue with his economic status, because she came from Old Money. In fact, before they moved in together, her parents had David sign an agreement to not pursue her assets when they broke up.
They always talked about their breakup as a “when,” not an “if,” and he was fine with that.
She let David be himself, and carried on with her own life when he joined his father at the company. When the patents went through, and the new Wittingham Money made his girlfriend’s Old Money look like pocket change, they both laughed and visited the lawyer together to amend the agreement to protect his assets.
The “when” happened one spring, when she moved to France, to “shake up” her life.
“You’ll still be you,” David said. “Just with different scenery. The sky is still blue and the trees are still green over there.”
“The pastry is better,” she said, and he couldn’t argue with that.
Her eyes were contrary. They asked him to beg her not to go, or to beg her to take him with her.
He had obligations, though, so he put on his sad-yet-resolved face and hugged her goodbye.
“I’ll miss you,” he said as he inhaled the spicy scent of her freshly-washed black hair.
“You need to follow your dreams,” she said.
He pulled away, worried she was going to ask him to come with her after all.
“Your writing,” she said. “You don’t owe your father nearly as much as you think you do. Put it all on hold and go back to school, to a creative writing program.”
“I’m done with school.”
She looked exasperated now, which was about as angry as she ever got.
“David, nobody knows you and loves you like I do. I don’t care how you do it, but promise me you will pursue your passion. Maybe you should buy a cabin out in the mountains, and don’t tell your father where you are. Then just go, and write one of those detective novels you love.”
He snorted. “Those aren’t exactly great literature.”
“You’re right. Detective novels, even the best ones, aren’t going to prove anything to the world. Do it for yourself.” She stood close to him, amidst the cardboard boxes full of her things, and placed her hands on his chest.
He covered her beautiful dark hands with his, enjoying the calm feeling her touch always gave him.
“I’ll dedicate my first novel to you,” he said.
She smiled up at him, tears glistening beneath her thick, dark eyelashes.
He considered, for the first time, begging her not to go. But he still had his pride.
Kissing her ruby-hued lips now, he unbuttoned her blouse.
They made love for the very last time, and when they were finished, he excused himself to his study, where she wouldn’t see him cry.
Extraction from the family business was not a simple task. He was thirty-two by now, but in his heart, he was seven years old again, running away. He thought a policeman had found him and was hauling him back home for the beating of his life, but it turned out he was just being pulled over for speeding.
The police officer was no man, either, but a buxom woman with equally voluptuous lips, her short haircut doing nothing to diminish her sex appeal.
He stammered an apology as she looked over his license and registration. Those gorgeous lips of hers were curving up, and she was warming to him with every utterance of the word sorry, as though the word was an aphrodisiac.