I never looked away from her eyes. “Oh, you know, the one who makes out with her on our front porch now and then.”
Mom blinked, wrenching her gaze away and letting them roam our wall-full of happy family photos. Dad sat, dumbfounded, unable to speak or move. Likely using every ounce of strength he had to read me. When I looked at him, tears filled my throat so suddenly I thought I might throw up. My heart ached for him so badly I wanted to tear a hole in the wall and scream.
“I’m sorry, Daddy. Mom’s…” I looked back at her as she placed a trembling hand over her lips. “Mom’s…cheating on you.” I sucked in a breath as tears fell from my face to my oversized sweatshirt. I didn’t stay to witness the truth’s damage. I tucked my thumbs around my duffle strap and said once more. “I’ll be at the Handlebar.”
I never went to the Handlebar. After slamming our front door, I burst into tears and didn’t feel like hanging out with friends. So I drove—anywhere and nowhere—until I found myself in front of Strike Zone, the old bowling alley where Dad used to take me on daddy-daughter dates when I was in elementary school.
A CD with indie-folk music my dance troupe leader, Brit, burned for me vibrated my speakers. Each one had fluid rhythms, long pauses, and lyrics to break your heart. Perfect for a contemporary team or late night heartbreak.
New, hot tears filled my eyes as I remembered my dad finding two of the tiniest bowling balls to make sure I would never have to wait for the ball to return. He always let me play in the arcade and bought nachos with jalapenos and a coke.
Minutes ticked by as I cried, wondering how my life would change. Would Estelle and Jackie ever have bowling dates with Dad? Would the divorce be my fault? If I had said something sooner, maybe they could’ve worked it out or stayed together. But I let it go on for weeks without uttering a word. I cursed my cowardice. I had probably made it worse.
I swiped my sleeve over my nose, dabbing my eyes with the inside of my collar.
When I didn’t think I had any more tears left in my body, I drove around the back of the building to loop into the front parking lot and get back on the road. But behind the building, my headlights washed over a dumpster. The dumpster’s shadow shot up the back of the building, dancing across the wall as I accelerated past.
I hit the brake then reversed, the shadow reappearing and moving the opposite direction.
Holding the car still, I stared at the shadow on that huge illuminated wall.
Then I parked and got out, leaving the door open wide.
Wearing my thin-soled tennis shoes, I strode out and let the headlights wash over my back. My shadow loomed like a dark giant over the ground and wall, jagged where the two connected on earth. Watching my shadow, I lifted my arm over my head and twirled, my spinning toe crunching over the pavement.
I couldn’t put my finger on why that lonely movement made me cry again, but it released my second floodgate.To Build a Homeby Patrick Watson filtered into the night, lifting above the repetitiveping-ping-pingof the car’s door-ajar alert.
And I danced.
Watching myself the entire time.
Her movements, her aches, her hopes. The way she took up space. The way she didn’t need anyone to be beautiful, confident, and purposeful. She moved with the words, even with silences. Every beat had a pulse, a meaning, a reason.
She could be strong, brave.
An anchor for the ones she loved.
I wept as the music moved me—Patrick Watson’s lyrics a painful knife in my chest. But as quickly as I grieved, I recalibrated. As I deconstructed, I rebuilt—bar by bar. In a way, I found strength and courage for the days ahead. But I also found other things—isolation, bitterness, pride. I was strong, but so angry. I stopped trusting anyone but myself.
And even that would eventually be taken away.
ELEVEN
Hollie
Our cabin doubled as a beauty boutique for the day. Estelle, the head overseer of all things fashion and makeup, would stay busy for hours prepping everyone’s faces and hair. Mom had arranged a gorgeous spread of fruits, cheese, and crackers for us ladies to nibble on throughout the day since we would be missing a proper lunch. A pitcher of leftover mimosas from our lavish breakfast sat alongside used champagne flutes.
Mom had gone above and beyond to make today special.
This was what I longed for on my own wedding day—chatting women, dainty decorations, the scent of hot curling wands, and specialty cheeses. But no. My mother-in-law, a complete stranger at the time, was the only person in the quiet, undecorated prayer room inside the stuffy church building that held no sentimental value to me. She threw my hair up in a sloppy bun and tucked in my veil, leaving it lopsided. I wanted my family there, but given everything that happened, Garrett said it was better to only invite people who approved of our marriage.
Bea’s dress hung in the middle of our bridesmaid dresses on a chord against the far wall, where the coming photographer would take pictures before we got dressed. I felt silly being included in the bridal party. I knew I was a pity-add. Even though I loved Bea, our lives had grown so far apart.
Regardless, I was happy to stand with her and support her marriage to Tag.
Estelle, finishing Jackie’s hair, called me over to the cushioned seat positioned in front of the floor-length mirror. I surveyed my face, marvelling that Estelle’s cucumber trick worked to take the swelling out of my eye lids from my late night sob session. I tapped them, giving an impressed hum.
“Told you it would work,” she whispered.
