When my phone buzzes on the island, it’s a text from Taylor—Imani's personal cell number and her office location.
Looking up the address, I see that it's about an hour away, nestled in the city. Scanning her website, all I see are positive things her clients say about her work.
Imani is compassionate but firm, and she'll go to battle for her clients to get them what they deserve.
Imani Lloyd, Esq., is Taylor's favorite aunt, so I've known her since I was a kid—though only the bubblydrive-us-to-the-mall-and-spoil-us-with-a-shopping-spreeversion of her. I've never met the attorney version, though I have no doubt she's good at her job.
It's just the thought of having to contact her to start untangling from Atlas—from my Atlas, my husband, the love of my life—that makes me hesitate, feeling sick to my stomach.
I place my phone down on the counter and breathe through the nausea, running through my mental checklist.
Employment, done.
Bank account, I can do that here.
I grab my tablet—a Christmas gift from the boys—and freeze at the lock screen photo.
Our last family picture, three years ago at the beach. The boys are running ahead in white shirts and khakis, Atlas and I in the back, me in a sundress, wrapped in my husband’s big arms, all of us smiling.
It looks perfect.
Once, it was.
But things change. Atlas changed, and I think I did too.
Entering my password, I pull up our credit union website, and in ten minutes, I have a bank account in my own name. I transferred $50 from our joint account, since I needed a minimum to even open the account in the first place.
Atlas will probably get the transfer alert; who knows if he'll even check it.
When that's done, I reset my house to keep my hands busy, which is what I tell myself because I know I'm just trying to delay the inevitable.
I've shoved leftovers in my mouth for lunch, cleaned the kitchen and bathrooms, and am working through my second load of laundry when I check the time again and see it's approaching 4. I need to go pick up the boys soon.
Checking my phone once more, I see one text from Atlas sent an hour ago:with Trace. be home late.
That's it.
With Trace.
On aSunday.
A slow panic overtakes me as my mind goes haywire.
Is he actually with Trace? Or is he with someone else?
I think through the different options I have in front of me.
I could call Trace to confirm that he's actually with him and then... what? Demand that my husband come home like I'm calling in one of my sons from playing with his friends.
I call Atlas, who doesn't pick up my calls or answer my texts, so that goes nowhere.
I call his mother and finally have to admit to them that theirson has been completely absent for the last year.
Or, the worst one, I drive around like a psycho wife and track down my husband and catch him cheating on me.
No. I thinkthatwould actually kill me.
The fact of the matter is that there is no final shot for Atlas. The couple's therapy appointment that he didn't show up forwasthe final shot. And him asking where I was was the final nail in the coffin.
