So, what if that applied to bigger problems? Was there a conversation we’d forgotten to have? Were we misunderstanding each other?
Ash responded just in time for me to get stuck before an on-ramp.
On my way. You have enough time to change your Mclean status to single if you want.
I blinked and stared at the text.
Hello, numbness. I missed you.
I was okay. I could do this.
I blew out a breath and straightened the notepad on the kitchen table.
My phone was charging, and I had my calendar app ready.
Things were about to change drastically, but the children weren’t allowed to suffer. This was my mess—and Ash’s. We’d do the suffering. Actually, I hoped he suffered more, because he was such afuckingasshole.
I took a sip of my coffee and straightened my pen too.
I was ready.
Ash was going to do Ash things. He acted out. He’d likely try to push for reactions by throwing shit at me to see what would stick. The text had been the beginning. He might accuse me of wanting to move on too fast, he might twist things to make it so that I was the one leaving him, and he might change tactics inthe middle of a fight if his current approach wasn’t working for him.
He’d never been like this before. We’d actually been great at fighting. Yeah, we could get loud and heated, but the end goal had always been to solve whatever problem we’d had. Followed by fantastic make-up sex.
The past couple of years had shown me a new side of Ash. He’d become defensive because he felt cornered. He said hurtful things because he was in pain. He was angry because the very foundation on which we’d built our family was shaky. And he threw out insults instead of lifelines because he was terrified.
Understanding him had allowed me to shut down easier, but that was a defense mechanism of mine he didn’t like. It pissed him off. Then again, what could I do? I’d tried to approach him in different ways, and never when he was already upset. I’d suggested couples therapy. I’d spoken to colleagues in an attempt to see things from a wider perspective, because I was constantly wondering if I was missing something, if I could do this better, and if I could help Ash somehow.
In the end, I had to practice what I preached to my own patients.There’s only so much you can do.
I’d never worked in couples counseling, but I had met my fair share of grieving widows and widowers who’d struggled with guilt about moving on. Especially when the marriage hadn’t been good. I’d had wives in tears telling me they were relieved that their husbands had passed—because now the healing could begin—which made them feel terrible.
I was nowhere near ready to see the light at the end of the tunnel, but God, I hoped I would one day. Because the last year and a half had almost broken me. I was so fucking tired and hurt.
One day, I hoped to wake up with a sigh of relief to have all this in the rearview.
I glanced over my shoulder and out the kitchen window when I heard Ash’s truck pull in.
Deep breath.
I wasn’t going to take the bait when he got started.
I had my priorities in order.
Frazzled nerves tightened my gut as Ash opened the front door, and I counted the seconds. He’d shrug out of his jacket, he’d kick off his shoes…
He locked the door again. He cleared his throat and dropped what I assumed were his keys in the bowl on the hallway table.
Then he appeared in the doorway, first with a look of trepidation, but that only lasted a second or two. He steeled himself and joined me at the table, not saying a word.
The sight of his bloodshot eyes was a good kick in the gut, but I pushed past it.
“You look like you have an agenda, so go ahead,” he muttered.
I swallowed and nodded once.
I cleared my throat too. “At the risk of pissing you off, I have a list of demands for how we’ll handle our separation,” I said.
