As part one of my unsettling journey concluded, I was on the verge of confronting Alex but ultimately restrained myself. Witnessing how divorce had shattered the lives of close friends and their children, including older ones, convinced me I didn't want that fate for our daughter Emily. The potential impact on her weighed heavily on my mind, creating an inner turmoil that was hard to ignore. A sense of urgency gnawed at me; I knew something had to change, but at that point, uncertainty clouded my path forward. I needed to find something to occupy my mind, to keep me from spiraling into despair and losing myself completely.

Upon moving to Florida, adjusting to life as a stay-at-home housewife took some getting used to. I had imagined a much busier lifestyle but suddenly found myself with an abundance of free time. Apparently, raising an eighteen-year-old daughter wasn't as time-consuming as I had pictured it in my head. While visiting theme parks, occasionally joined by Emily, kept me occupied most days while Alex worked, I eventually grew bored. After receiving several newsletters from the country club about beginner tennis clinics, I decided to give it a try within the first couple of months of our move. I found it enjoyable but never took it seriously. Unfortunately, I was terrible at it, and it highlighted just how out of shape I had become. Despite my lack of skill, I managed to get to the court once or twice every couple of weeks for clinics, which at least helped me stay active.

Amid the recent turmoil at home, I desperately needed something to occupy my mind beyond endlessly fuming about what Alex had done and continually plotting if and when I would confront him. Tennis at the club suddenly became my sanctuary, offering a much-needed distraction. I immersed myself in the sport, transitioning from random introductory clinics to playing multiple times a week. During this time, I discovered that the club had leagues catering to different skill levels, which was a delightful surprise. It was reassuring to know that I could play with other women who were just as inexperienced as I was. This newfound commitment to tennis seemed the perfect solution to channel my energy and emotions away from what had now turned into a miserable life for me at home.

Coincidentally, Alex’s efforts to destroy our marriage came at the perfect time in the world of country club tennis. League season was just about to kick off, and the club was conducting its grading sessions to assess players' skill levels and assign them to appropriate leagues. The classifications ranged from A to D, with D being typical for beginners. After my assessment, I was placed in the D league, which was no surprise given my limited experience. I soon realized this league focused on doubles play, unlike the singles I had become accustomed to during the clinics. Despite the adjustment, I eagerly anticipated the upcoming league starting the following week.

As practice started, three weeks removed from my horrific discovery, I found that the D-league was relatively small, consisting of only four ladies, myself included. Among us were three women who had already formed a close bond from playing together for multiple seasons. Despite being the newcomer, I quickly found common ground with these ladies and immediately began to bond with them. They were wonderful and, like me, primarily out-of-shape stay-at-home housewives from the neighborhood who had turned to tennis to stay active and fill their days.

Each league was assigned a coach from the club’s tennis staff, and ours was Tommy, the junior-most staff member at no more than twenty-one years old, who seemed more suited to a beach lifeguard station than a tennis court. While kind, Tommy came across as a bit naïve and not the sharpest knife in the drawer. He came off as the type of guy just going through the motions to collect a paycheck, showing an obvious disinterest in coaching the least experienced league at the club. This didn’t bother me much, as my main priority was building camaraderie with a circle of ladies, of which I desperately wanted to become a part.

As league play kicked off, life at home remained unchanged. Alex continued his nightly retreats to the office, likely absorbed in writing his next disturbing story. Checking his profile on lushstories.com became a nightly ritual, each visit validating my anger as comments from complete strangers who derived pleasure from Alex’s stories based on our passionless marriage began to pile up. The fact that Alex even interacted with these people in the comments, engaging in discussions that only deepened my sense of betrayal and resentment, added to the turmoil I felt. Tennis and my newfound group of ladies became my refuge, keeping me grounded and offering a temporary escape from the chaos at home.

We weren’t exactly shining stars on the court; In fact, we downright stunk. Our matches were scheduled every Saturday, taking us to different country clubs across the city to compete against other women in their respective club’s D-league when we weren’t playing at home. Despite suffering clear defeats in our first two matches, I surprisingly found myself enjoying the experience. Weekday practices, if you could even call them that, were laid-back and practically non-existent, overseen by Coach Tommy, whose indifference toward our improvement couldn’t have been more apparent.

What immediately stood out was how these women valued socializing on the veranda, sipping pricey cocktails, and exchanging neighborhood gossip rather than focusing on actual tennis practice. Although it seemed tennis was merely an excuse for socialization, I didn’t actually mind; their constant cheerfulness and smiles that never seemed to leave their faces were infectious and provided the uplift I desperately needed at that time.

Despite our diverse backgrounds, we shared a common bond as stay-at-home housewives with ample free time. More than that, we were all determined to fill our days with tennis despite our less-than-stellar skills. Recognizing the potential for our friendships to extend beyond the tennis courts, I enthusiastically embraced my place within this already close-knit group of friends.

Jill, a youthful thirty-year-old who bore a striking resemblance to Amy Schumer, had a radiant face and a figure that echoed the actress’s curves. Chubby and tanned, she still carried baby weight from having recently had a baby. Juggling motherhood with a six-month-old and a husband who traveled frequently, she found solace on the court, supported by a full-time nanny, and viewed tennis and spending time at the club as a source of relaxation and joy.

Beth, at forty years old, shared both my age and red hair, affectionately dubbing ourselves the “freckle twins.” With our nearly identical body types, it was almost as if we had actually been twins. She bore a striking resemblance to Bryce Dallas Howard from the later Jurassic World movies. Coincidentally, like me, Beth was also navigating life with a husband who worked remotely and an eighteen-year-old still living at home. Our shared similarities outside the tennis court quickly cemented her as my strongest bond in the group.

Gloria, nearing sixty years old, embodied the classic look of “I hope I look like that when I am her age.” Remarkably fit, though not particularly athletic, she stood tall at 5’10” with a slender build and a deep tan that made you question how her skin looked so good for her age. Her long black hair added to her striking appearance. Naturally, she assumed the dominant, almost motherly role within our group, and it was apparent that both Beth and Jill looked up to her with admiration and respect.

The veranda overlooking the courts had become my sanctuary after practices. Conversations flowed as freely as the overpriced cocktails, providing an escape from the turmoil at home. Gossip about the neighbors we all shared, which I never would have known or cared about, now intrigued me, adding a sense of normalcy to my chaotic life. The nightly social hour was more than just idle chatter; it was a lifeline. Listening to the ladies' complaints about their husbands and home lives, which seemed trivial compared to my situation, often made me laugh inwardly. "At least your husbands aren’t closeted homosexuals writing erotic tales about their twisted fantasies," I would think to myself, finding a bitter sense of humor in the absurdity of it all. Despite the superficiality, these conversations provided the distraction I desperately needed.

As the weeks went on, my friendship with the ladies continued to blossom. Although we still struggled on the tennis court and hadn’t actually won a match yet, these ladies had quickly become my best friends. One evening, during drinks on the veranda, Beth asked me if I had an application called Signal on my phone so she could add me to their group chat. I had never heard of it before, but I quickly learned it was a chat app similar to WhatsApp or something along those lines. While I was a little confused at the time about why they hadn’t just used regular text messaging to communicate, I quickly downloaded the application. I signed up, and Beth added me to the group almost immediately.

The ladies’ chat was a blast from the start. Beyond just coordinating practice sessions and travel plans for our away matches, it was the first sense of friendship I had felt since moving to Florida. Boy, were they chatty Cathy’s, but I didn’t mind. It distracted my life with Alex when I was at home and not playing tennis.  The neighborhood gossip we shared on the veranda spilled over into our chat, along with topics ranging from fashion trends to fitness tips. Then, one day, something strange caught my eye.

There seemed to be a lot of chatter about tennis lessons in the group chat. The ladies discussed them constantly; in fact, it was their most frequent topic. Each of them seemed to be taking lessons at the club every week, unbeknownst to me. However, something didn’t add up. Not only had I never heard the word “lesson” mentioned during our post-practice cocktails on the veranda, but their performance on the court showed no semblance of professional instruction. Besides, I felt like I had spent every waking moment of the day with these ladies. Where would they have found the time?

“You guys take lessons?” I asked on the chat one evening, lying in bed.

“lol,” Jill soon replied, receiving a laughing emoji from Gloria and Beth almost immediately.

The chat suddenly stood a standstill as I pondered what had been so funny about my question. The vibe changed, making it feel as if they had completely forgotten they had added me to the conversation. I decided not to push it, as I was still getting to know them. Asking, “What’s so funny?” might have rubbed them the wrong way, especially since I was meeting up with them in eight hours to carpool to Pine Ridge Country Club for our weekly tennis match. 

Saturday morning arrived as usual, but something felt off as I went through my typical routine. I got dressed, stretched out my unathletic body, and applied my sunblock. As I prepared, I did my best to avoid Alex, a practice I had perfected since discovering his secret life. My mind kept drifting back to the awkward silence in the chat last night. The unease lingered, making me wonder how the ladies would act today and if the strange vibe would carry over into our car ride and, eventually, our match.

As I descended the stairs, I lingered in the foyer momentarily, watching through the front door and waiting for Gloria’s arrival. It was her week for carpool duty for our away match. Before long, Gloria’s silver Lexus SUV appeared, smoothly pulling into the driveway. I quietly muttered a half-hearted “see you later” to Alex, whose office door remained closed as usual, ensuring he didn’t know I was even there. I opened the door and quickly headed towards the SUV already occupied by Beth and Jill, with me being the last stop before we departed.

“Hey ladies,” I said, getting into the back seat behind Gloria, where I was met with a wall of pungent designer sunblock. Jill, the mother of the six-month-old infant, occupied the front seat, while Beth, the one with whom I shared many similarities, occupied the back seat next to me, behind Jill.

Although the three of them cheerfully greeted me, something again felt off, as it had since Jill’s “lol” response to my inquiry about them taking lessons. As we pulled out of the neighborhood and headed toward I-4, the main interstate in Orlando, we began the trek to Pine Ridge, a country club about ten miles from our neighborhood. The car was much quieter than it had typically been on previous trips. There was tension in the air that I didn’t like nor felt was warranted, and I was determined to break.

“So, what was the response to my question about lessons last night? Am I missing something?” I joked, turning to Beth beside me in the back seat.

A sustained awkward silence met my question as Beth suddenly shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Almost as if sensing her discomfort from the front seat, Jill, riding shotgun, quickly broke the silence and chimed in.

“Well,” Jill said, followed by another awkward silence.

“Unfortunately, that slipped out, and I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” she followed.

“Wait, what?” I replied.

“You may as well tell her,” Gloria chimed in from the driver's seat.

“But we finally have a fourth we like,” Jill said, with a playful plea directed at the motherly figure of our group, who was thirty years her senior.

“Shit, ok,” Jill begrudgingly replied, followed by another ten-second awkward silence.

“We don’t take lessons,” Jill said with a nervous laugh.

“Huh?” I responded.

“Ok, technically, we pay for lessons, but we don’t actually take them,” Jill laughingly shot back from the front seat, not even bothering to turn her head to address me. Another silence followed as I tried to piece together the puzzle she was presenting.

“We are fucking the assistant pro,” Gloria jumped in abruptly, seemingly annoyed by Jill's beating around the bush, looking in the rearview mirror almost as if needing to see my reaction firsthand.

My heart dropped to my stomach the same way it had when I first saw that “bi-curious male” next to my husband’s name on lushstories.com a few weeks back. I didn’t know what to say. I was absolutely shell-shocked.

“What?” I exclaimed in shock, looking toward Beth next to me, who hadn’t said a word up to this point. She shifted in her chair and turned away, almost ashamed.

“Wait, Tommy?” I asked in a concerned tone as I collected my thoughts.

“The one and only,” Gloria laughed, met by a giggle from Jill.

My head was spinning. What in the hell was happening in Florida?  Was there something in the water? Not only had the South seemingly transformed my husband into a closeted homosexual erotic author within a matter of months, but it had also plunged me into the middle of an insatiable cesspool of infidelity among tennis-playing housewives I now called my best friends.

“Tommy, our coach?” I hesitantly asked, seeking clarity to a rhetorical question I already knew the answer to.

“Yep,” Jill confirmed from the front seat. Finally injecting herself into the conversation, Beth nodded and looked at me.

Another awkward silence filled the SUV as the three ladies likely waited to see how I would handle the shocking news I had just received. Before I could fully process it, we were already pulling into Pine Ridge, almost as if the timing of the conversation had been meticulously coordinated. The sudden arrival felt nearly too convenient, giving me no time to react or process what had just been thrown at me.

It was a tense day at Pine Ridge Country Club. My mind was consumed throughout the entire match, distracted by the weight of the impending ride home. I found it hard to focus, my thoughts constantly drawn to the ladies and, more specifically, my partner Beth, whom I had always seen as a mirror image of myself. I struggled to process what I had just learned, impacting my already non-stellar play. Beth and I, as usual, faced another resounding defeat, adding to the familiar pattern of weekly losses. Within just an hour, both teams endured straight-set defeats. Packing our tennis gear, we made our way back to Gloria’s Lexus, the engine barely having had time to cool.

As we pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the interstate, lingering scents of worn sunblock and subtle hints of activated deodorant added to the claustrophobic cabin, again filled with silent tension. I noticed Gloria peeking at the rearview mirror every few seconds, clearly trying to gauge my demeanor from the bombshell they had dropped on me just an hour before we hurriedly left for the court.

“I hope that didn’t make you uncomfortable or mess things up for the group,” Gloria said, breaking the awkward silence. She glanced at me in the rearview mirror, her expression almost pleading for my response.

“I’m good,” I replied, even though I hadn’t been in that moment.

“How long has that been going on?” I casually asked.

“About a year for Beth and I,” Jill chimed in from the front seat.

“All of you?” I responded hesitantly, with each exchange punctuated by what felt like a three-second awkward silence.

“Yeah,” Jill responded, met with the giggle of a woman old enough to be my mother.

I was in complete shock, glancing over at Beth, who had barely spoken a word, offering only a few nods during the ride to and from Pine Ridge, still seemingly embarrassed to look at me.

“But…,” I began, attempting to finish a rhetorical question.

“But you guys are married,” I awkwardly noted.

“It’s nothing personal, girl; it’s just fun,” Gloria chimed in from the driver's seat.

“A lot of fun,” Jill injected.

“Yes, a lot,” Gloria replied, emphasizing the word “lot” as she glanced over at Jill. Despite their three-decade age difference, the two women shared a giddy laugh like teenagers.

Turning to Beth for some solace, whom I had previously assumed was as uncomfortable as I was, I was surprised when she suddenly looked up at me. She raised her sweat-coated freckled arms, using her hands to insinuate a measurement about a foot apart, and mouthed the words “a lot”

As the ladies giggled like a trio of schoolgirls, I found myself in a daze, my mind suddenly flashing back to the porn star Alex had written about in his story, though his name escaped me at that moment. Their voices faded into background noise as my thoughts raced a million miles an hour, trying to process what was happening.

“Salami,” I suddenly heard from the front seat, snapping me out of my haze.

“Huh?” I replied, gathering myself again as we suddenly passed through the guard gate of our neighborhood.

“Tommy Salami,” Jill stated firmly, turning around to look at me.

“Huh?” I replied again, confused, as we turned down my street.

“That’s his nickname, sweetie,” Gloria giggled from the front seat.

Pulling into my driveway, I remained in a daze. Listening to three married women openly discuss their affairs with the twenty-one-year-old tennis coach wasn’t something I was prepared for. For a split second, I had even forgotten about my own turmoil with Alex as I sat in the still-running Lexus, trying to collect my thoughts.

“Better luck next week,” Gloria chimed in, almost signaling for me to get out of the car that had been sitting idle for nearly thirty seconds.

“See you guys later,” I responded, grabbing my bag and opening the door, smiling at their farewells.

It felt like I had just emerged from a dream, abruptly snapping me back into reality as I quietly snuck into the house, escaping the Florida humidity into the air-conditioned foyer. I tried not to alert Alex to my presence, avoiding a conversation I didn’t want to have. The office door remained closed, seemingly untouched since I left. The sound of Alex’s keyboard clicking away immediately reminded me of the bleakness of my home life, a stark contrast to the conversation I had just encountered in Gloria’s car.

Heading upstairs to take a shower and clean up, I realized how quickly the evening had snuck up on me. Although short, tennis matches wore me out, especially in the Florida summer heat. With Emily staying at a friend’s house that evening, the house was quieter than usual. Alex managed to break away from his office long enough to throw something on the grill for a quick dinner. He almost seemed impatient in his desire to return to his office, more so than usual, as he went through the motions of asking about my day, seemingly forgetting that I had even had a tennis match. Before I knew it, I was brushing my teeth and getting ready to crawl into bed, feeling the weight of the day’s events settling in.

Upon lying down, I continued the nightly regimen I had followed almost automatically since the night of my marriage-shattering discovery, bringing up Alex’s profile on lushstories.com, now set as the homepage on my phone browser. Surprisingly, there hadn’t been much action from Alex over the past couple of weeks. Despite his usual online presence, he hadn't added a third part to his hall pass story, which I had expected to come by now. Nevertheless, it was as if I needed to see that “online now” next to his name to keep the flame of my newfound resentment for my husband ignited.

Upon accessing his profile, the green "Online now" indicator appeared next to his name, as it had been consistently for weeks. My attention immediately fixated on the red badge displaying a "3," a number that had remained a "2" for several weeks prior. My heart raced as I realized that all those hours of hearing his keyboard clacking from behind his closed office door had culminated in a third installment of his hall pass story. Clicking over to the "Stories" tab, my finger instinctively moved to select "The Hall Pass: Part III," only to find it conspicuously absent. In its place was a story titled "The Adventures of Footlong Frank: The Bucket List." What in the hell was this? And who the hell was Frank?

Little did I know then that the next hour would likely alter my life as I knew it. Just as I was poised to click into the story to see what kind of demented scenario Alex had created this time, my phone buzzed with an alert from Signal. It was a message from Gloria, popping up in our group chat and abruptly bringing me back to the reality of my day that I had briefly forgotten while engrossed in the website.

“Hope you aren’t mad at us,” the message preview read on the top of my screen, followed by a smiley face clearly directed at me.

I was at a crossroads. I couldn’t abandon these ladies despite my moral disagreements with their actions. They were my only friends, a sanctuary away from my new normal at home. They brought me joy and made me smile. If I ended these relationships, I'd be isolated at the club. What would I do then? A million thoughts raced through my mind as I considered my response.

“I’m good. I don’t judge,” I responded with a smiley emoji, immediately loved by the three.

“Ok, great!” Gloria shot back, quickly liked by both Jill and Beth.

“Tough day out there, ladies. We will get them next week!” Jill injected.

A pause in the conversation caused me to jump back to Alex’s story, which immediately floored me from the beginning. The title alone was disturbingly suggestive. I felt like I was in a matrix as I began to read about a fictional man named Frank, whom my husband had conjured up in his demented brain, sporadically interrupted by push notifications from Signal breaking my concentration.

“I took a lesson a few hours ago,” Beth chimed in, met with a surprise emoji by both Jill and Gloria.

“You lucky slut!” Jill responded, immediately met with a laughing emoji from Gloria.

Between following the group chat and now fully understanding the implications of the word “lesson,” I attempted to engross in a story about a twenty-one-year-old boy from a trailer park who had experienced a superhero-like puberty, gaining a twelve-inch penis. My thoughts raced, and my concentration scattered as I reflected on my “freckle twin,” too embarrassed to look me in the eye in Gloria’s car, now cheating on her husband with the tennis pro almost immediately after our match. 

The lines between Alex’s fantasy and my reality began to blur as he used the word “Salami” to describe Frank’s oversized penis, immediately taking me back to the nickname Gloria had used to describe the assistant tennis pro and our D-league coach, Tommy.

“How many?” Gloria replied, the message again breaking my conversation from the story.

“Only three!” Beth immediately shot back with a smiley face and met with “laughing” emojis from both Jill and Gloria.

My head spun. I could barely focus on my husband's story, now delving into vivid descriptions of the fictional anatomy of a young trailer park resident whose sole purpose seemed to be wrecking marriages with his gigantic penis. The level of detail, with its underlying homosexual undertones, surpassed even his narratives about the porn star in his hall pass stories.

“Wow, I guess we tied this week,” Jill responded, met with two laughing emojis.

My mind raced as it became evident that they were referring to the number of orgasms our rather unintelligent tennis coach had brought them. It seemed as if they had some sixth sense in detecting a faltering marriage, as though they knew about my situation with Alex, even though I had never mentioned it. All the while, they casually compared orgasm counts like a trio of drunk college girls at a bar.

I began to lose control of myself and my thoughts. It was difficult to minimize the chat and return to the story, eagerly anticipating what would unfold next from the ladies. It felt like I was trapped, held hostage by an invisible force. Eventually, I fought through and returned to the story, where Alex now detailed an online exchange between Frank and a very wealthy couple, setting up a rendezvous. As Alex vividly detailed the picture exchange between Frank and this couple, it felt as if Gloria had an uncanny ability, almost like a devil in disguise, exploiting my weakness, reading my thoughts, and anticipating my every action before I could.

Two simultaneous push notifications from Gloria on Signal suddenly appeared at the top of my phone, once more disrupting my focus on Alex’s story. As I opened the chat, I involuntarily lost my grip on the phone, causing it to slip from my hand and fall onto the bed, prompted by what I saw.

To be continued...