Is this really too much to ask?It's seeming like it.
I drive home in complete silence, lost in my thoughts. Determining that I'm just going to cease trying to date, or force anything romantic or physical for a while. I want something more than just special. I want primal love. Magic. It's out there. Has to be.
Maybe it's just not in Connecticut. Is that the problem? Perhaps I should consider a move.
Pulling through the wooden gate and up my driveway, I park outside my home and take a deep breath as I glance at the front door of my house. I scrub a hand down my jaw and settle deeper in the seat, not quite ready to journey into the lonely four walls of my home just yet. Not able to help myself, I pull up my work email on my phone, arching a brow when I see I missed an email earlier in the afternoon from Sarah B. Johnson.
Groaning in annoyance, I tilt my head back on the rest and close my eyes briefly, praying for peace.
"This woman," I sigh.Majorpain in my ass. Probably an old, stuffy woman with nothing better to do than try to emulate being a psychiatrist because she couldn’t financially afford what it took to become one, so now I get to deal with the fucking attitude that follows that.
Not even bothering to get out of the vehicle, I message Sarah about our mutual client. Forcing myself to go back through weeks of emails worth of correspondence to make sure I'm up to date regarding the client we're communicating about. Sarah and I have shared various clients throughout the past two years, andshe always, without fail, pushes my buttons. Making me work harder at my job.
Thank God I love my career becausedamn.This woman has sent me some things before that's made me want to join my son in Spain, and say, "fuck all, sayonara."
There are times that I know she's right regarding our clients, though, and it's forced me to go back to the drawing board to reevaluate either their diagnosis or the clients’ plans. Either way, she presses a nerve inside of me that I wasn't even aware of. One that even Hannahherselfhadn’t been able to reach, ironically.
For the next fifteen minutes, I sit in the dark and painstakingly read through our email chain before thoughtfully typing out a reply I hope touches a nerve that Ms. Johnson didn’t know she had either. It's only fair.
Exiting the car, I slip my phone into my back pocket and spare the behemoth stone building that has been my home for the last sixteen years a hard look and curl my lip at the reminder of Hannah. This place hasn't ever felt like a home to me. I only bought the house becauseshewanted it. Craved the status that came along with being married to me. Can you imagine how awful it feels to dump countless thousands of dollars into a place you never even wanted?
I tighten my lips at the sight of the starkly modern exterior made of glass and stone, with fancy exterior lights showing off the place to admitted perfection. To some, this home might look like the epitome of success and the accumulation of two decades of hard work. To me, the enormous structure is a painful reminder of all the sleepless nights I'd spent in the beginning of my career, staying up all hours of the night slaving over notes and evaluations. Tediously pouring over the necessary documents to keep my new practice going.
Teaching myself how to start my own business, and not get sued while I was at it.
Truthfully, I'd bought the house well before I could financially afford it. I borrowed some of the down payment from my father thinking it would make Hannah happy enough to actually want to mother our son, Tyler. But I found out too late that the more I gave, the more shetook.And took. And took. And took. Then it turned intoTylertaking. Until I felt like a sieve, merely a tool for someone to wrap their mouths around to suck dry.
I twist my lips, thinking that maybe our marriage would have been a bit more tolerable had she ever tried to suck something else to make me happy for once. But no, she never could because she was always recovering from lip surgery. A tuck here, a nip there.
Couldn't hardly touch her because she kept slicing and dicing herself up. And when she cut out half of her stomach for no real reason other than vanity, I'd lost it and stopped trying to touch her completely after that. Didn't even try. Moved into a different bedroom and the whole nine yards. She'd become almost unrecognizable over the course of our marriage.
She drained my bank account to afford the procedures so badly that I'd been forced to start boxing lessons in order to get some extra income. Which is how I met Johnathan, who had turned out to not just be a generous benefactor, but a dear friend throughout this lonely time in my life.
I walk inside the eerily quiet house and head straight to the kitchen, my safe spot, to throw open the double-door refrigerator. My eyes peruse quickly, flicking over the ingredients until I see the ones I want. Needing something sweet to make me feel better, I work fast, grabbing my mixer and the bowls I need.
I turn the sound system on to chase away the deathly quiet of the house, desperately trying to ignore the pinging coming from my phone. Already knowing it'shernow, requesting the money I wouldn't send to Tyler. Neither one of them thinks I know, butshe'd been using him to continue to leech from me well past the time her alimony and child support dried up.
It makes me sick to think I spent all those years sacrificing my emotional well-being for what felt likenothing.For two individuals who don't care for me other than what they could glean off me. To come home to this empty house with nothing but memories of my failures when all I would have killed for was the chance to be a father to my son, and now it's too late. I'll never have the chance again.
In a rare moment of self-pitying, I begin to work, making the dough for homemade chocolate chip cookies. I'm painfully aware I'm making way too much for one person, but I can't force myself to halve the recipe. Somehow, the thought makes the hurt even worse and makes my solitude more final.
My eyes flicker around the kitchen. There's no life, no movement except myself, and that amplifies my desolate state of being to even greater heights. Hot tears prick as I work to fight it back, and my chest tightens as I try desperately to lock down my emotions, but it's no use.
What was it all for?
Failing to be strong enough to keep up this icy façade, the internal cracks mercilessly deepen and lengthen. I shape the cookies and place them into the oven even as my traitorous body does anything and everything to punctuate how alone I am despite having two dozen cookies currently baking. I can't help but see the one plate and glass in the sink left over from my breakfast. And as I snatch a towel off the rack to wipe down the island, I also can't help but notice the breakfast table with only one charger placed in front of my seat.
The bare wall that used to hold the portrait of Hannah and I right behind it.
I put my eyes firmly to my hands working in front of me and clench my teeth.
My breathing comes heavier, disturbing the silence of my kitchen. It's bad tonight. Hitting me harder than normal for some reason. Maybe I'm so emotional because I fucked up and shared my body with someone I had no business with. I bring up a hand and wipe angrily at my eyes and clear my throat hard. Despite my best efforts, my lips tighten as a wave of anger and hurt meets the desolate loneliness and washes over me in waves. Successfully drowning me.
What have the last twenty years been for, if I'm to be this unhappy and unfulfilled?
Dropping the towel to the counter, I break. A hot tear escapes my eye to slide down my cheek.
I'm pissed with myself. Irritated that in almost ten years I still can't seem to get over the emotional abuse I've suffered. Giving up, I fold my arms, turn to rest my hips against the island counter, and bow my head to silently weep with only the sound of silence to keep me company.
