“Lore,” she says, “that is girl-code for wanting another shot.”
I let out a frustrated breath, not everything is code. “Maybe I do.”
I meet my own eyes in the mirror. My hair is curled, makeup soft. I’ve lost almost all the baby weight from Agnes.
“I just…” I say quietly, “I don’t want the divorce to be another one of my regrets.”
Gen sits up straighter. “What do you have to regret?”
I start gathering the makeup scattered around the floor, picking up brushes just to have something to hold. “I can’t help feeling like this whole mess wouldn’t have snowballed the way it did if I had just talked to him back then. Instead of… lashing out.”
“Lore,” she says, her tone gentle but firm, “he may have gone drinking because of a bruised ego, but he didn’t end up with a drinking problem because of it. That wasn’t on you. That was something he had in him long before any revelation.”
I stare down at the compact in my hand. “How didn’t I see it?”
Gen tilts her head. “Because you’re not a mind reader. It’s not like your job is easy. And you were raising Milo and carrying a baby at the same time.”
She sits cross legged on the bed. “Come on, Lore. You’re human.”
I nod because she’s right. I am human. I know that.
But it still doesn’t take the sting away.
My self-righteous anger has bled into anger at myself, and that’s somehow worse. Because now I feel guilty for still feeling guilty.
How does that even happen? How do you get mad… at your own feelings?
I press my palms into the carpet, grounding myself, but it doesn’t stop the churn in my chest. “I shouldn’t still care this much,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t still feel responsible for things he did.”
Gen shakes her head immediately. “You’re not responsible. You never were.”
“I know,” I say, but it comes out thin. “I know that logically. But then I look back at everything and think… maybe I could’ve asked the right question sooner. I could’ve pushed him to talk instead of pretending everything was fine. I could’ve seen him slipping, stopped it.”
“Lore,” she says gently, “you can’t control someone’s addiction. All you can do is be there, which you were.”
I let out a shaky exhale. “Was I?”
Gen opens her mouth, probably to snap something comforting-but-aggressive, when the doorbell rings.
We both freeze.
Her eyebrows shoot up. Mine shoot even higher.
“Oh,” she says, tone sharp and amused. “Well. He’s early.”
Panic spikes up my spine. I look down at myself, still in my robe, no clothes on except the tank top under the robe. Not fit for public consumption. Definitely not for a date.
“I’m not ready,” I hiss, scrambling to my feet.
“No shit,” Gen mutters as she slides off the bed.
I practically sprint to the bathroom, nearly tripping over the hair dryer cord. I slam the door behind me and lean my back against it, breathing like I just ran a marathon.
Through the door, Gen calls, “I’ll let him in, I guess.”
“Thanks!” I yell back, already yanking open drawers in blind panic.
What am I doing?I need clothes not a toothbrush.
