So when I told Mitch that he needed to pack up his things and get out tomorrow, I’d been well within my rights.
Because it wasmyhouse.
At that thought, I looked up. Rachel’s basement room had taken on a gauzy glow courtesy of a glass of wine on an empty stomach.
I could use another glass of wine, truth be told, but I wasn’t about to pick something out of Rachel’s cellar. With my luck, I’d accidentally choose the most expensive bottle in the room.
But I had a bottle of not so fancy but perfectly serviceable merlot inmykitchen, and it was beginning to seem like a “velvety texture” kind of evening.
A glance at my watch told me that it was past eleven. As I tiptoed upstairs, I realized that all the Panickers had gone to bed. No need to wake them. I would simply let myself out and lock the door behind me.
But first I grabbed Rachel’s copy of my house key because Mitch had already locked me out figuratively, and I sure wouldn’t put it past him to lock me out literally.
Chapter 7
One glass of merlot later, I found myself sitting in front of my laptop. If I wanted to entertain women, little could be more entertaining than my being tipsy. If I wanted to educate women, then nothing could be more important than telling them about my impending Divorce Badge. And what about all the women out there who already had their Divorce Badge? I would be letting them know they were not alone.
Lord knew it made me feel better to knowIwasn’t alone.
I opened my laptop and readied myself for recording. Before I hit the button, I took a good look at the woman staring back at me. She might be older. Pretty sure she had crow’s-feet when she smiled. She definitely swayed a bit from all the wine.
But all in all? It wasn’t a bad face. Fairly symmetrical. Maybe the blue eyes were deep set enough that she smudged mascara, but they were usually happy eyes—at least they had been up until yesterday. Blond hair with only a glint of gray—nay,silver—here and there, but in a picture-perfect messy bun. Double chin not too pronounced—especially if she remembered to sit up straight.
There was nothing inherently unlovable about my face.
I went to take a sip of wine and noticed my glass was empty, but the bottle next to it was half-full.
That was just as good a place to start as any.
I started recording.
“Tonight we’re going to have a very special bonus episode of Mom Scouts. This episode has been brought to you by my duplicity ... duplic—oh, my lying liar of a husband, Mitch.”
I poured more wine for dramatic effect.
“Gah. I probably shouldn’t have told you his name, but I want you to know that he does not love me anymore. Wait. Wait. No, he’ll”—here, I employed finger quotes—“‘always love me as the mother of his child,’ which somehow seems worse than not loving me at all.”
Another sip.
“Whatever. So, this Mitch. He proposed to me after we’d been dating for only three months. Should’ve been a clue, right?”
I stopped to think about that night in the Italian restaurant. “But then he said the sweetest thing, y’all. He said—”
I burped. Somehow, the belch didn’t feel as mortifying as it should have. “Excuse me. He said he wanted us to grow old together and to have matching rocking chairs. Then he promised to take care of me forever.”
I looked straight at the red-faced, used-up woman who stared back at me from my laptop. “Spoiler alert: we ain’t there yet.”
Another sip.
“Oh, he’s just full of revelations tonight. He doesn’t love me anymore. He wants a divorce. He hates my chicken salad. My chicken salad is ah-mazing, y’all. I make it with thinly sliced Granny Smith apples and just a smidge of curry. Who the heck wouldn’t like that?”
When no one answered me, I finally continued, “Anyway. Mitchell Quackenbush is a liar. He says I’m bad at sex. Maybe he’s the one who’s bad. Did he ever think about that? Heck, he taught me everything I know. Or don’t know, as the case may be.”
Remembering the mortification of stripping in the hallway and then being caught by my son made me shiver. “And do you know how I found out? He had a manila folder full of paperwork about how we were gonna divide things. Who does that and then hides the papers in a freaking sock drawer? Who premeditates divorce like that? I’d beenthinking about taking a special anniversary trip to Hawaii, and he’d been thinking about how much the house had appreciated?”
Two sips of wine this time.
“Maybe if he’d spent more time appreciating me, we wouldn’t be in this position. All I know is he’s going to have a heck of an awakening when he has to do his own laundry and make his own meals and pay his own bills and mow his own lawn and wash his own dishes.
