Steppin' Stone

This is a companion piece to Stev2244's 750 Word Project story, "Meeting My Ex". His should be read before this. Both stories are exactly 750 words, which was a lot more difficult than you might imagine. I appreciate his generosity in allowing me to jump onto the coattails of his story.

Part of the reason for my title is that I wanted Harddaysknight to know that he's not the only one who can use Beatle's songs.

Steppin' Stone

"Martin, you doing okay?"

I looked over at Jay, tried to smile and sat down as she and her husband walked away. Jay headed up my corporate security.

This had been a bad idea but it was an itch I had to scratch. If anything, Lisa looked worse than I remembered. Jay tracked her down for me and then called when he realized she would be here for a while.

He sat at the table next to her and she never recognized him. It wasn't too surprising, she had been wrapped up in herself for quite a while. Jay served with my brother and had given his eulogy when I was too much of a wreck to do so. She saw him once or twice a year, but I guess he didn't make much of an impression.

"Yeah, Jay. Just shook up a bit. I guess I thought... Shit, I don't know what I thought, but not this."

"It's nobodies' fault, Martin. Sometimes things happen and, well, things happened."

I smiled at him, a bit sadly. "She wasn't completely wrong you know. I ran. I hid in work and tried to make things better with extravagant gifts and vacations. I couldn't... she didn't allow me to do the small things. I couldn't hold her, I couldn't talk to her about anything that meant anything."

The waitress came by. It seems that Jay had ordered for both of us. Glenfiddich. Good choice.

"She was all, I don't know, polite. Polite and plastic, always controlled. After we lost the baby, we just lost each other. She hid in a bottle and I hid in work. I gained 40 pounds and she had to lose 20. You know what's ironic? I suggested she hire a trainer. She was emaciated, and I was losing her, emotionally and physically. So, yeah. I'm the one that suggested and paid for the man she would turn to. It was hard to make love to a woman who blamed me for our son's death. It became impossible after she called me by the trainer's name when I was in her."

I took a sip and the aromatics redolent of peat tickled my nose as the liquid warmed my throat.

"So, she sobered up and got healthy. For him. I lost the weight and was working on selling the business. For her. But it was too late. Not her fault, I guess. We just slipped apart. Another 90 days and I would have been retired and the company would have been sold."

Jay lifted his glass. "To better days."

We both finished our drinks before he spoke again. "So, you want this guy there at midnight?"

"Yeah, that'll work."

I walked into the cavernous warehouse and approached the trainer as he sat in the only chair in the otherwise empty area. All those muscles didn't help against someone like Jay.

"Hey, Chad. You doing okay? You don't mind me calling you Chad, do you Tim? You seem like a Chad. It's a douchebag name."

"What the fuck do you want, Marty? Come to scare me off? Want your woman back?"

"Just the opposite. When she told me she was going to sleep with you, she thought of it as a last ditch effort to get me to wake up. It wasn't. It was Lisa's attempt at salvaging her self-respect. She could pretend she wasn't whoring around if she could twist it into an attempt to save our relationship. Unfortunately, I knew about her reservations, plane tickets and lingerie purchases. You don't make those plans when it's an attempt to get your spouse's attention."

"Look, Marty, we never did anything before that."

I smiled. "You mean fucked? Yeah, not that you didn't try, Chad. But the seduction was in place. You were going to get her, my money and keep your other women on the side. What, you thought I wouldn't have someone look into you? You done fucked up, son. Doctorates in philosophy don't pull in much cash. She got nothing in the divorce. You're fucked."

My grin grew wider. "Here's where it gets worse for you. I still love her. So, you're going to make her happy. You see any of your other women, I'll have you injured in a permanent sort of way. You're going to be the perfect husband. If you're not, you'll find out what I can buy with my wealth. I'll be watching, Chad. God help you if you don't make her happy."

With thanks to costermonger for the edit and to the good people of the Left Foot, Right Foot Society for their support. I apologize for the lack of yeets. With only 750 words to work with, I couldn't fit it in. I greatly appreciate the people that are kind enough to beta-read my scribblings. They invariably make my work better.

As always, this story is dedicated to Pauline French, the one that got away.