I didn’t.
I wouldn’t.
I straightened and went to the sink to splash my face with cold water. There was no way on God’s green earth I would give Mitchell Quackenbush the satisfaction of knowing he’d made me toss my cookies.
Not that he would know, but still. It was the principle of the thing.
My stomach growled again.
Speaking of cookies ...
This time, I paired my white wine with a sugar cookie. Not great, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and I needed to do something with my ridiculous surplus of baked goods.
I had lost my mind.
And who wouldn’t, really?
What was I supposed to think when I found a packet of papers for a do-it-yourself divorce in my husband’s sock drawer?
You should call him.
No way. No way would I call him. He’d bully me on the phone.
So what? He’ll bully you when he gets here.
No, he won’t. I can handle him. I’ll—
Why was I arguing with myself? And did I really see my husband as a bully? Just past the kitchen sink and into the living room, I could see an example of his bullying. I’d wanted a fabric couch and chair, something classy but inviting. Mitch had wanted a leather sectional with recliners on the ends and built-in cupholders.
No matter how many times I told him that I didn’t think the leather was practical with a cat or that I’d prefer to have something a little more traditional in the living room, he’d said over and over again, “But, Vivian. It’sourliving room.Weshould be the ones who are comfortable.”
I’d brought out every argument in my arsenal, every pin from my vision board on Pinterest. Nothing worked. He basically refused to buy a sofa until I agreed to his leather monstrosity.
I hated that damn couch.
If he leaves, then he can figure out how to get it through the front door and take it with him.
Wait. Was I really contemplating my husband’s leaving? I needed to think this through. He wasn’t here to defend himself. No one was going anywhere.
But you’re still not calling him on the phone because he’ll feed you a line, and you’ll buy it hook, line, and sinker.
Why was I having these thoughts about my husband? For heaven’s sake, I’d promised to love, cherish, and—yes—obey him thanks to a Southern Baptist preacher who’d conveniently ignored my request to not have that last bit be a part of my vows.
I was afraid to call Mitch. I couldn’t call my mother. I didn’t want to alarm my son. What was there left to do?
Drink more wine, that’s what.
At some point I stumbled back to the bedroom. Now that the wine had dulled my senses, I was ready for bed. But sleep didn’t hold peace for me.
I drifted from reality back into the past, back to the night I learned that not everyone got a happily-ever-after. Only eight years old and wearing my favorite Garfield gown, I crept to my parents’ bedroom door. I had to get a field trip form signed before tomorrow. It really wasn’t my fault that I’d forgotten about it and forgotten about it and forgotten about it.
Everyone knew I had trouble remembering things.
Maybe, if I were lucky, my parents would let me snuggle between the two of them and watch some Johnny Carson.
Probably not, but maybe.
My hand was on the doorknob when I heard low, hissing voices. Who could possibly be in their bedroom? Mommy and Daddy didn’t talk like that. No, Daddy had a deep, almost Santa-like voice, andMommy spoke kinda low, too. They certainly didn’t hiss like angry snakes.
