Through an Opaque Window

By Kelly Ann Gonzales

Sienna and Declan are young high-profile NYC executives with an opaque marriage. Neither closed nor open, their mutual arrangement has been left to a laissez-faire interpretation. The rules are simple: never bring a lover to their home, and never fall in love with their affairs. Sienna feels trapped by the own rules she agreed to with Declan when she realizes shes fallen in love with her best friend from college.

What follows is an affair of the heart and mind, their permitted sexual lifestyle against the unsanctioned emotional infidelity. Sienna must choose between emotional stability and marital security versus passion and excitement. Through an Opaque Window takes a solid view through the open windows of marital life, looking at what happens when we leave our lives ajar.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543475937

Kelly Ann Gonzales

Born in the Philippines, raised in New Jersey, and currently living in New York City, Kelly Ann Gonzales works in the hotel industry. She is also the Editor-In-Chief of ALPHA FEMALE SOCIETY. She an insatiable passion for travel, hospitality, and all things written and to be read.

Book preview

Chapter One

In Boxes

January

Marriage, like war, is for the brave, hopeful, and stupid. Monogamy, like chivalry, is dead—although still appreciated. Declan and I married, like every other postmodern couple with all the choices in the world, with every initial desire and intention to love each other and only each other. We kept this contracted promise to each other, never once falling into that real, blissful marital love with another person as a violation of our marital pact. That didn’t stop us from having purely sexual affairs.

We considered our arrangement to be the new way of making matrimony work. We both went to our respective jobs. I cooked, always, and he did our laundry, sometimes. We spent almost every weekend together when he wasn’t traveling for work, which as of recent, was 80 percent of the time. He swears that the job description advised of only 20 percent traveling.

I came home like clockwork, from Monday to Wednesday. On Thursdays, I would go to hotel bars. W e would come home to each other, and we wouldn’t have to say a word to know exactly what the other did. We’d shower off the previous hours’ deeds, ready to press the reset button for the evenings and to start fresh for the new morning. He’d climb into bed. I would roll over. We would fall asleep, his head nuzzled in the crook of my neck, smelling the scent that was no longer his.

Our marriage isn’t purely an open marriage. We’re not thrilled by the idea of having sex with other people we meet at neighborhood pubs and faraway conferences. Our marriage is opaque. We walk carefully on a paper-thin tight rope, on the same paper that we inked our wedding vows. It helps to keep our relationship from going stale. An affair a week keeps the midlife crisis away.

We did this for four going on five years with no major issues. Then, in the New Year, a few months before my thirtieth birthday, I woke up. It was a Tuesday night, and in the middle of the night, I woke up in a feverish state from a dream. It was a dream about Ian.

In the dream, Ian and I sit on a bench overlooking the East River. We remain a foot apart, only the tips of our fingers touching. He whispers something inaudible into my ears. I had woken up in a cold sweat in bed, looking at Declan, still fast asleep—snoring the night away.

Before Declan, there was Ian. Ian and I went to college together, and we met the summer before our freshman year. We were both in our college’s honors program. We bonded over a love of obscure films and greasy pizza. We were close our freshman year, but then we went our separate ways during sophomore and junior year. During our senior year, we ended up studying abroad for a semester together and rekindling lost friendship. Ever since graduation, we still kept in touch on a monthly basis.

Declan and I also went to college together, but he transferred to our school during our junior year. He and I were Just Friends for a few months until we started dating the last semester of college—right after my semester abroad. Declan was the ideal boy next door, perfect to bring home to my family. My parents adored Declan, so when Declan proposed after two years of dating, they were supportive and constantly checked in on us to see when they would finally get grandkids. Oh, the woes of an only child!

Declan represented responsibility and stability. He was the perfect family man. He had never raised a hand to me, let alone his voice, and people couldn’t believe how nice he was to me. I would always smile and nod. I assured them that, yes, he actually, really was that nice all the goddamn freakin’ time. I looked like a ticking time bomb next to the guy.

I was embarrassed that I had just had this random dream about Ian. A part of me wanted to shake Declan awake and tell him, "Honey! I just had a dream about sitting on a bench in Gantry Park—with IAN! I mean, we didn’t kiss or anything, but we sat very romantically next to each other." I wanted to laugh about it, but all I could feel was the bile rising in my mouth. Panic was setting in.

I stepped out of our bedroom with my cell phone in hand. I called my therapist because what working person in New York City didn’t have their shrink on speed dial?

Deb?

Ah . . . y-yes, Sienna?

Deb—it’s me, Sienna.

Yes, Sienna. I have you saved in my contacts. Is everything all right?

I’m sorry I’m calling you in the middle of the night, but I think I’m having a panic attack. I know our appointment was scheduled for next week, but I’d really like to see you tomorrow,—I looked at the microwave clock, a dim and green 4:00 a.m.—today, I mean. If you have any availability at all, I would super appreciate it.

I’m going to double-check my schedule for you in a few hours, and I’ll give you a call by 10:00 a.m. if I can fit you in later this afternoon.

Yes! Thanks so much, Deb. OK, I’m sorry. I’ll let you go back to sleep.

Thank you, Sienna. I’ll be in touch.

Deb wasn’t the happy-pill-prescribing psychiatrist and was far from Freudian, although she had an extremely comfortable green couch in her shared office with the Eastern-inspired day spa. Deb was a holistic LCSW focused on all aspects of her clients’ mental well-being. We had a standing Monday night appointment, but she was kind enough to squeeze me in for a Wednesday afternoon session.

I left work early and just told everyone I had a doctor’s appointment. Most people didn’t question it, and if they asked, I usually told them the gynecologist. They don’t tend to probe further after you so much as hint at the word VAGINA.

Thank you for meeting with me, Deb. I grab a tissue from the tissue box next to me. I dab at my eyes, more so to wipe the oil from my makeup. I know it was unprofessional for me to call so early this morning, but it’s the first time I’ve ever woken up and felt this painful tug at my heartstrings.

Deb was nodding, writing notes on her yellow notepad. Behind her was my folder, labeled Rivera-Simmer, Sienna. It was slowly growing. There were sticky notes jabbing out along the edges. From the couch, I could see them clearly labeled Background History, Marriage, Family, and Childhood Trauma. The four main topics we covered each week, a table tennis match of confessions about anything from perceived parental misgivings and my aversion to the smell of amber. Mostly a millennial safe space to moan about my marriage.

Can you tell me more, Sienna?

Well, it’s a bit embarrassing. Declan has no clue about my dream last night, but I had a dream about my best male friend from college, Ian.

Ah … Deb flipped through my folder. Yes, that’s what I thought. You mentioned him a few times when we talked about your college years. OK, go on.

Right, Ian. As a refresher, I had known Ian before we even started college. We met during freshman orientation. I’ve known the guy longer than I’ve known my husband. He’s probably the closest thing to a childhood best friend, besides my other best girlfriend.

What happened in the dream?

Nothing really. That’s the weird thing. I’m not sure why it trigged something so deep within me and got my heart racing faster than most sex with Declan does. Sorry, I know that’s a tad graphic.

You never have to apologize for being honest here. This is a safe space.

Thank you, Deb. Well, so Ian and I were just sitting on a bench by Gantry Park. I currently live in one of those high-rise apartment buildings overlooking the East River.

By the Pepsi-Cola sign?

EXACTLY! We were closer to Vernon Boulevard before, but Declan just got a raise, and the hotel’s been doing really well for me, so we were able to move to a nicer apartment on Center Boulevard.

How are you liking your new apartment?

Oh, we love it. Still an easy commute for both of us, but the view is much nicer.

And it’s a view of . . .

"The East River and Gantry—oh, I see. Are you going to ask me how this ties into my dream about Ian?"

That’s the beauty about our sessions. Most of the time you’re doing the work for yourself. I’m just here to guide you and open a few doors along the way.

Well, I don’t know. I wouldn’t say I’m particularly unhappy with my marriage. I wouldn’t say I’m really happy either. I’m pretty neutral about it.

And your arrangement is working well?

Yes. I think so. Declan and I used to only have sex twice a month. Ever since we’ve entered into an ajar marriage, we have sex at least three times a week now. Even in between our other, um, arrangements.

Deb nods. She tells me that while our sessions are normally anywhere between forty-five minutes to an hour, she has to cut this last-minute one down to just twenty-five minutes. I’m a bit surprised, but of course, I understand as it was my idea to squeeze myself into her schedule at the ass crack of dawn today. We agree to meet again next week, and I head back home.

I grew up in New Jersey, so my idea of New York prior to actually working in it and moving there was all Manhattan. Manhattan was the end all, be all, the Mecca of all New Jersey ex-pats. When Declan and I were able to grab a small studio in Long Island City, I told him that I didn’t want to move all the way out to Long Island and schlep the commute. He laughed at me and explained that it was actually Queens and only fifteen minutes away from midtown on the 7 line.

I fell in love with the neighborhood. It was bustling. It was safe. All yuppies, dogs, and babies. We fell into the yuppies category. Declan joked that we should get a baby, or a dog at the very least. His jokes about expanding our tight duo were quickly dismissed by my cold, hard view on the reality of our situation. He worked all the time. He traveled all the time.

In the hospitality world, while I technically fell higher on the designated corporate ladder as GM of a hotel, he was a salesperson with real clients and real places to see. I was either stuck in my office or consoling a bridezilla. My job wasn’t glamorous, but all things considered, it was stable. It helped pay our bills.

If we got a dog—hell, if we got a goldfish—guess who would end up taking care of it? Me. I was paid more, but I was still the woman in the relationship. My maternal instincts would take over, gobbling up the little thing like a baked calzone. I guessed that Declan may have very well been able to take care of our pet or our baby eventually, but I couldn’t bring myself to trust that he would without setting our apartment on fire in the process.

When I got home after meeting with Deb, it was barely six o’clock in the evening. Declan was still in the office. He usually took the seven o’clock ferry home from downtown. My stomach rumbled. I wasn’t sure if it was the falafel sandwich I had for lunch or if I still felt uneasy even after talking with Deb.

Searching the depths of our closet, I found a blue branded notebook. I kept these vendor gifts around simply because they were gifts, even though I had no particular taste for or attachment to the people that gave them. I grabbed the nearest pen, also from a vendor, and began to write. It was a letter to my mother-in-law, and I thought about changing her name for the sake of privacy, but I had a creative license to transcribe.

To My Dearest Suze,

I have known and loved your son for years. Some would say I have loved him from the moment that I met him, although I know that would be a bit dramatic. His shaggy, beach blond hair caught my eye. He looked like a wild surfer boy that needed to be tamed, so I told him to get a haircut before he met my parents.

It turns out that I was the one who needed to be tamed. Your son is a wonderful man. He has been a wonderful husband to me, often more than I deserve. We’ve been married for five years. We’ve hit a rough patch, but I’m not sure if he knows it. He knows I’ve been going to therapy. He knows it’s one of the topics I discuss with my therapist.

What he doesn’t know is that I had a dream about my best friend the other day. The other best friend. The other man in my life. In another life, I know I would be lying in bed with Ian, not-so-happily married, and dreaming about Declan in the middle of the night. At least that’s what I like to think.

I know it’s wrong to think what I think. Either way, Declan and I have gotten ourselves into a real mess. I intend to see that I get us out of it. I’m going to work on it. I’m sorry, Suze. I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I’m happy that you let me call you Suze.

Love always,

Sienna

I put the notebook back in the closet. The chicken wasn’t even defrosted and was sure to disappoint. I could probably salvage it with some sauce, a lot of sauce, mixed with some surprise red wine. That could fix things. I set a cup of brown rice to a low simmer, crossing my fingers and praying that the chicken would be remotely edible by the time Declan gets home. I pour half of the bottle of the red wine into the red sauce and stick the chicken in the oven. I drink the other half myself, straight from the bottle.

Declan comes home past ten. He tells me that he had a client dinner that ran much longer than expected.

Oh! You had dinner already? I stare at the chicken, still in the oven. I don’t bother to ask if he was with a client or a client. Well, probably better off. I just had a session with Deb. I got home and realized that I didn’t even defrost the chicken this morning.

That’s all right. He pokes his head into the oven and starts preparing a Tupperware for himself. It will make for some nice lunch tomorrow. He kisses me on the cheek and hops into the shower.

While he is in the shower, I reread what I wrote a few hours earlier. I keep going. I start writing chapter names. I start writing a synopsis, shortly followed by a full-fledged outline and basic character development maps. The character development part is easy. They are all based on people I know: me, Declan, and Ian. I’m not sure where I’m going with this, but I’m confident that these fictional characters would.

Chapter Two

Take Your Face Off

February

Life continues to roll on—continuous, stable, and ultimately uneventful. Declan continues to work extensive hours. I start picking up hobbies to keep myself busy and try to expand my palette. I continue to write this horrible confessional novel. Is this what OJ felt like?

I wonder what Ian would think if he ever found out that I was penning an allegorical love note to him. I’m not sure if he’d be intrigued and flattered that I mentioned him in these private notebooks, or completely creeped out. It didn’t surprise my therapist that I was talking about Ian, or the ideal version of him, the window into the world that I was longing for.

Adventure with an old friend? A different kind of passion to reignite a spark? It had been a long time coming, but that dream was like an epiphany. The final clue I needed to tell me how unhappy I really am in my marriage.

I sit in Deb’s office with the proverbial tissue box in my lap, sobbing about how lonely I am. She would nod, assuring me that it made perfect sense that I am resorting to some far-fetched fantasy about my best guy friend—whom I just so happened to be painfully and god-awfully attracted to. Emotionally. Mentally. Physically.

In all the areas that should have been dedicated to my husband, in the blank spaces of my awareness that should have been filled with affection and adoration to the man who promised me forever, images of Ian kept popping up. Some were innocent, like our college years spent talking and laughing with our friends. Some were E. L. James fantasies that I had just wished happened in college so I would have closure of some sort.

I remember what our marriage was like before the affairs. People had always said that the first year of marriage would be difficult, and it was difficult. But most people just left it at that and said that we’d get through it just like every other mildly content, successful couple. We’d fight and make up. The cycle would continue over and over again. It was all very normal.

By the second year, we weren’t even fighting so much as just avoiding each other. That’s when he’d start toiling through the seventy-hour work weeks. I’d find excuses to grab drinks with girlfriends after work. On weekends I’d book solo trips to remote resorts in upstate New York. I thought if I devoted attention to myself that it would fill in the inescapable voids of my marriage. Happiness was a skill, right? And skills can be taught, refined, and practiced until one became a master at it.

One Saturday in the summer, instead of joining my girlfriends in the Hamptons, I wandered Manhattan. They were having the summer street festivals. I sauntered up and down Broadway, looking for food to eat and little tchotchkes to catch my eye. Two ladies sat smoking cigarettes in a silvery covered tent.

Their full palm readings were normally twenty bucks, but she liked my outfit so she only charged me five. I would have spent $20 on a cocktail at a lounge in Columbus Circle, so I figured I had little to lose.

I laid my palms out flat