When I finally stand to leave, Mom walks me to the door. We linger there, awkward in the way only two women raised to suppress our own wants and will can be. And then she wraps me in one more hug, tighter this time. Tighter than she used to.
“Call me when you get home,”” she says.
“I will.”
“And if you need anything, anything at all, you come here. Understand?”
“I know. Thank you.”
Driving away, I glance back at the porch. She's still there. Watching. Arms folded over her chest like she's holding herself together. But she's there.
And maybe now, she's holding space for me too.
On the drive home, my mind wanders back to something I said during our conversation—something I hadn’t realized fully until the words left my mouth this evening: that I feel lonelierwithChase than I do by myself.
I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to get over thatrealization, but I can already envision thousands of dollars of therapy bills in my future. And to think, Ichosehim. I chose to stay. I chose to love him. Nobody forced me into a relationship with him. Nobody guilted me into loving him. The hollow, empty feeling at the core of my being is the result of my own, conscious choices.
I’ve been so focused on building up my nerve, believing in what I deserve, that I haven’t stopped to think about the fact that I put myself in this situation to begin with. Throughout the years, all my complex feelings about staying have focused on Chase and his need for me. Until tonight, the only complex part of my new perspective was coming to the realization that it is not selfish to prioritize my needs.
Now, however… now I’m faced with the realization that I’m not only angry at him; I’m angry at myself. How might my life have been different if I hadn’t held on so tightly to him?
“Was it love when you latched onto the broken foster kid because you wanted to fix him? A little project for you to heal and patch up with your sunshine and spreadsheets?”
I don’t know. I don’t think so. Was it?
“Was it love when you decided your perfect life would look better with a tragedy in the prom pictures? When you told yourself I just needed stability? That you were the answer to all my fucked-up questions?”
I didn’t think my life was perfect. Did I? I didn’t think I was the answer to all his problems and questions. Did I? Is that why I kept choosing him? Because I thought I was the answer? Like I could fix him? Do I have a savior complex? Am I the problem here?AM I THE PROBLEM?
Take a deep breath, Tori. Deep, deep breath.
This is why I need to leave. I can’t do this anymore. I need space. I need a new life. I need a new… everything.
I don't know what the next few weeks will look like. I don’t know how Chase will react. I don’t know what grief still lies ahead.
But I know who I am. I think. And I know I deserve better than what I've lived the last decade of my life. I’m pretty sure. Yes. I do. I deserve better. Even when I don’t feel like it, I know it, intellectually. So I’ll keep saying it until I believe it at my core.
And for the first time in years, that feels like enough.
FIFTEEN
TORI
The apartment is doingthat thing quiet does—pressing in from every corner like soundproof foam. The heat kicks on and off in little breaths, the Betty Boop clock above the TV ticks one second at a time like it’s proud of itself, and my brain—mashed potatoes. I’m in my comfiest leggings and an oversized hoodie with a hole in the left cuff, hair in a messy bun that’s more a metaphor for my current state of mind than an actual hairstyle. On the coffee table: a legal pad from Jacob Sterling’s office; my neat, anxious handwriting; a capped pen I’ve been uncapping and recapping for the last two hours. Fairly certain the tiny circle imprinted on the tip of my thumb is permanent.
I can still hear Mr. Sterling’s voice. Measured. Even. Exactly how you’d want a man to sound if he were holding a sharp knife and cutting your life in half—careful enough not to sever a finger, steady enough not to slip. I left work at lunchtime today so I could meet with him this afternoon. I had planned to attend this one solo, but once again, my trusty, blue-haired—nay, now purple-haired—sidekick met me at the stairs to the building just as I was about to enter.
“I’m not here to destroy your husband,” he said, sitting back inthat too-perfect leather chair, palms flat on the desk as if to sayno tricks here.
“Thank you, Mr. Sterling.”
“Please,” he said, “Call me Jake.”
I nodded. That definitely made everything feel less formal, less stuffy and uncomfortable.
“Destroying someone else is not the point of this process, and it’s not how I practice. I’m here to ensure you’re taken care of and this is fair. We will be firm where we need to be and humane where we can be. You shared real years. I won’t pretend they didn’t happen.”
Humane. Firm. Fair. Words that feel like a level surface after months of walking on marbles. During our first meeting I got the impression that Skye was not the biggest fan of Jake, but she is not in the habit of making decisions for me and refused to offer any opinions or guidance after we left. She simply asked questions about what I wanted, and had me answer whether or not Jacob Sterling fit the bill. He did. She asked if I wanted to meet with anyone else or if I felt comfortable with him. I felt comfortable. That was that. Jake was my guy.
