A Second Chance in Paradise Read Free Page B

brushed past her, I shouted so loud that the fogged-up windows vibrated, “NOW, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!”
    I stormed down the hallway, into the bedroom, and started packing everything except my business suits. Those I would leave behind.
    “That’s it, I’m finished with these!” I muttered to myself, realizing I needed to do something else with my life. But still, as I struggled to lock the two overstuffed suitcases lying on that tainted bed, I felt like I might vomit. Strengthened by my rage, I managed to close the luggage and snap them shut. There would be no coming back and I knew it.
    On my way out the front door, I stopped to look at her one last time. Still stark naked, she looked so pitiful. Slumped down on our plaid sofa; streams of tears and mascara networking down her cheeks, she sobbed, “Sonny ... I am so sorry.”   She then hung her head and shook it as she reflected,  “It’s just ... just that with you working evenings and weekends all these years and with all the money problems we’ve had, we ... we’ve drifted apart, somehow.” 
    It was true.
    Outside, with the snow still falling, I loaded my belongings into the van. I opened the garage door, grabbed all my fishing rods, threw them in the back of the van, cleared off the windows, cranked up the engine and, for the last time, drove away from 902 New Bridge Street. Looking into the fogged-up rear-view mirror, I watched my home and my past life shrink out of sight.
    Then I lost it. I wept profusely, tasting the saltiness of my tears as I drove on.
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 2
     
     
    I didn’t confront Steve Silverman. I knew if I did, I wouldn’t have been able to contain myself. I’d have gone absolutely crazy. Probably would have killed him, gotten locked up, who knows what after that. In modern society, repressed emotions and actions may be considered signs of mature male behavior, but that didn’t mean a thing to me. My instincts sent me different signals. I didn’t like holding back. Deep inside, it didn’t feel natural. The only thing that kept me from paying Silverman a visit was the consequences I would have paid.
    I didn’t talk to or lay eyes on Wendy for three solid months. Oh, there were times, plenty of them, when I thought, Damn it all! I don’t want to go on another minute like this. I can’t. Without her there’s nothing in front of me. Ten minutes from now, tomorrow, a year from now – none of it means a damned thing without her. If she’s truly sorry; if she wants to get back together, who knows, maybe I could eventually get over what she did to me. Maybe things could someday be the same again.
    But, bad as I wanted to, I never did jump into my van, speed out to Smithtown, bust into 902 New Bridge, and take the love of my life into my arms. Bad as I wanted to, I knew I couldn’t. Because every time I reached the end of that reoccurring thought – the part about eventually getting over Wendy’s infidelity – I’d listen to my heart. What was left of it told me, Forget it Sonny, things can never be the same. You and I will never get over this thing, but we will learn to live with it .       
    During the course of those first few months, I’d taken a temporary job painting apartments back in Queens. Bobby Slap, a divorced buddy I grew up with and my closest friend not only put me to work but opened his apartment to me as well. Then, on the last afternoon of my stay, after we’d knocked off of work early, I thanked my good friend one last time.
    It was just a few days before Memorial Day weekend, a Tuesday, a glorious Tuesday with a perfect sky and mild spring weather. I was sitting opposite Bobby in his bare-bones living room, sipping Miller-Lite with my lifelong friend. On the opposite wall, above the television’s black screen, two pennants hung. White letters on the navy-blue one read “Yankees”, the royal-blue and orange one shouted “New York Mets”. Between the two was a framed photograph