“You should be the one who doesn’t like kissinghim,” I say. “Look at him.” Figuring he’ll watch this one day, I decide to address the scumbag himself. “Look at you, man. You’re a pathetic excuse for a husband, a father, and aman.”
I’m so pissed I want to shoot or strangle the guy, but it’s Trish I’m angriest with. I’ve given her everything.Everything!This guy is not better looking; he’s not richer, and he sure as crud isn’t cooler than me. But even if he was all those things and more, that’s not what marriage is about. We took vows, promised to stick it out, even through the tough times.
I curse under my breath. Now Paige and Parker are going to have divorced parents. I’m going to have to fight for custody. Or maybe I won’t. I don’t know what’s worse—having to divide my parent time with the kids’ mother or having their mother say she doesn’t want parent time at all.
This can’t be real. Inwardly, I start to scramble the way I do when times are tense. When I’m about to lose a close game or a big sale, then come up with something that turns it all around and saves the day. I get the sale. I win the game. I…but there’s no undoing this one. No fixing or changing what is.
My intuition told me we’d get footage like this if we came. It’s why I risked talking to Kirsten and planned the whole operation. I figured I’d catchsomething.I figured I’d catchthisso I could accept the facts once and for all.
So why is it that, now that I’ve confirmed what I’ve probably known all along, it still doesn’t seem real?
CHAPTER15
September
Kirsten
I spin full circle in the refurbished train car, which happens to be Maggie’s newest addition to her beachside coffee shop. She plans to feature different eras or themes and rent the space out for get-togethers. To start, she chose a theme for people, as my much younger sister phrased it, “my age,” adding that anyone who graduated between 1990 and the early 2000s would appreciate today’s theme, which she portrays with the several album covers lined up along the wall, a visual to accompany the tunes playing overhead. Framed articles of significant events from that decade rest in easels on the corner shelf. And in case we didn’t notice how quickly the prices of things like gas, new cars, and groceries have risen, there’s a printout for comparison.
A new song plays, surprising me with a flashback that sends me—not to my youth—but to the past all the same.Kryptonite.I picture the way Beau and I cranked up the volume and shouted along with the angsty song. It’s stupid, but it’s actually a pleasant memory. Mentally, I’ve split that entire day into two parts. Part one was filled with excitement, empowerment, and drive. We were on a mission, and there was no stopping us. We stocked up on snacks, belted out songs, and set up camp to do what needed to be done.
Part two starts around the time I threw up on the squirrel. It all went downhill from there. It was like a game of sorts—doing what it took to secure the missing piece. The proof we needed in order to move past the terrible place Beau and I were in. But once we got it, once we finally had what we needed, what we’d worked very hard to get—I think we both sort of wished we hadn’t gotten it at all.
On the drive home, I remember wishing that my brain could throw up the way my body had. I wanted to purge all the stuff that was causing me so much turmoil and pain. But there was no undoing it. No possible way to free myself from such a burden. I had to move forward, so move forward, I did.
When Beau dropped me off at my car, it was dark out. The drive back was like a funeral, both of us silently grieving what we stood to lose, what we had already lost—our spouses’ affection. Trust in the ones we’d sworn our lives to.
“Hey,” Beau had said as I cracked open the door to exit the car, “this isn’t your fault, okay? It’s neither of ours. Come here.” He motioned for me to come in for a hug. When I did, I sensed the same trapped energy beneath his skin. As if millions of tiny cells were running a frantic race, looking for ways to heal the hurt coursing through him, coursing through me.
As I caught the scent of his spicy after shave, I was struck with an odd sense of vulnerability. And of longing, too. How easy it might have been to clamor for an escape from the pain. Or to lash out. I pictured pulling back enough to look into his eyes, seeing a similar longing there. I pictured him confirming it, rushing in to kiss me the way Greg kissed Trish. I’d have done it, too. To get even. To get away. To get validation thatsomeone, somewhere,would likeme, the rejected woman left behind.
In sleep, I’ve had similar dreams. A handful of them. Beau and I are sitting on a couch, talking about how much it sucks to be single, and suddenly he looks at me like he’s only just then figured out that we’re both free to explore things. There’s an attraction there, on my end. But I know I’m not Beau’s type. Forget the fact that I rarely dated guys like Beau back in the day; it’d be foolish to claim the guy isn’tmytype. It’s like someone saying Brad Pitt isn’t their type.Yeah right.
I’ve spoken to him a few times over the last few months. At the school drop off, parent events, or when I take Jack to see his father since Greg and Trish have—get this—moved in together. According to the decree, they each have the kids every other weekend and on Wednesdays, meaning both Beau and I have them full-time. Jack claims that the only reason he agrees to go is because Parker’s there, and the only reason Parker agrees to go is because he doesn’t want Paige to be alone. And Paige, he says, really misses her mom.
I move those thoughts aside and glance about the charming addition to Maggie’s shop. Maggie, bless her, is stuck behind the counter this morning and probably dying for me to head back and tell her what I think of it, but I decide to take a rare moment to sit a little longer with my thoughts as the U2 song,It’s a Beautiful Day, drifts over the space.
Itisa beautiful day. And boy, is it cozy in here. It smells amazing too, like rich, roasted coffee with hints of spice. I’ve been good all week, so perhaps I’ll treat myself to a caramel macchiato. I’ve been doing things like that lately. Taking time to be nice to myself.
Without Greg around, I actually feel less self-conscious than I have in years. I don’t have to impress him. I don’t have to compete. I can just be me, and it turns out I actually like who I am most of the time.
That’s not to say the insecurities don’t come back. I have scars. Deep ones. But as I give myself space, as I meditate, pray, and stay focused on the good things in life, like Jack and Maggie, I sense the wounds slowly healing. I’ll never be who I was before all of this happened, but I’m okay with that. I’ll be a new me. A wiser, more compassionate me. I am determined to grow, and thrive, and live a happy life.
First order of business—get the coffee I’m craving.
I shoot a text to Maggie, telling her how much I love the new addition and add how much better it would be if I had a mug of macchiato warming my hands.
School started last week; Jack drives while I sit in the passenger seat, and then we switch places, and I tell him to have a good day. In a matter of months, he’ll get his license, and I won’t get that time with him.
Just as I’m about to get into my feels over it, Chantel, Maggie’s shift lead, shuffles in with my drink. The mug is a rustic-looking red, like a weathered barn or a crisp autumn apple. Specks of cinnamon decorate the gorgeous dollop of cream on top, tempting me to lean down and take a taste.
“You are an angel straight from heaven,” I tell her.
“Or the devil herself,” Chantel says with the lift of her pierced brow. She rests a fist beneath her chin, revealing a thorny rose vine tattoo along her forearm. “How you doing? I heard everything’s final now.”
I nod. Yes, the divorce is now final, and I am, in fact, single. Only for some reason, I don’t get to call myself that. I have to go bydivorcedinstead. There was no saving the marriage, sadly; Greg claimed he was irrevocably in love with Trish. In fact, he almost seemed glad to get caught, like he couldn’t wait to move on with his new, exciting life.
“I’m doing all right,” I tell her, and then add, “most days.” Because let’s face it—Chantel, who’s just a couple of years older than me, has been through it as well.
