“Who fucks you so good?”
“The Earl fucks me so good!”
Give me a goddamn break.I know for a fact those moans are fake. Female pleasure does not exist in my bedroom, and no one with two brain cells to rub together could come while calling outtheEarl. Trust me, I know.
I take a deep breath, white-knuckling the gold-platedknob as I muster the courage to open the door to my room and face what’s waiting for me on the other side.
And then I see it. There in my bed, the Earl lying on his back (because, apparently, he’s too lazy to get on top for his affair partners, too) while Mindy—a woman who had her sights set on my baby brother for years and who I assume is exacting her revenge on his happy relationship by attempting to ruin my shitty one—bouncing on my husband’s dick.
I wait half a second for the rage to hit. For the urge to scream and cry, and throw things to overwhelm me. But it doesn’t come.
Mindy spots me first, and while she has the decency to at least pretend to be embarrassed or ashamed, she dismounts and covers her breasts with my favorite blanket.
Now every time I try to cuddle up in the extra thick gray fleece, I’ll be forced to think of Mindy’s nipples. That may be the most unforgivable transgression of them all.
The Earl is next to notice, cupping his half-hard rod in his palm as he scurries off the bed and starts spewing clichés at me.
It was only this once.
It was a mistake.
I love you, baby.
But I don’t take his bait. I don’t give him an answer. I don’t give him a passing glance. I simply don’t care enough. I walk to our closet, pull out the old weekenderbag I’ve had since college and start shoving necessities in. Panties, a few shirts and pants, my favorite hoodie that I stole from my best friend fifteen years ago that still smells like her drugstore cherry blossom body spray.
The Earl’s apologies morph into rage as I continue to ignore him. His “I’m so sorry” turns into “Well, maybe if you weren’t so frigid” and “Sex is a biological necessity. You can’t be mad at me for not fighting biology” and “I’m a man, and you never treat me like a man anymore”. As if a few weeks is a ridiculous period to go without sex when you’re exhausted and have a child. But I don’t pay him any mind. Sadie already has a bag packed for a sleepover at Nana and Papa’s house tonight. I can come back and get more of her stuff later. I walk through my house, and just like that, it no longer feels like mine.
None of this is mine. I don’t want it anymore.
I’m not sure I ever did.
The urge to slam the door shut behind me is strong, but I keep my composure as I ignore the pleas and insults from the Earl and get back into my car, ready to continue on with my day as though my world hasn’t just been turned upside down.
The sound of knuckles rapping against my window pulls me back to reality, and I turn to find Dad with Sadie on his hip, shooting me a curious look.
“You doin’ okay, sugar?” Dad asks as I open thedriver’s side door with one hand and reach across the passenger seat with the other, where I hook Sadie’s backpack and two small duffel bags onto my forearm.
“I’m perfect. I’m gonna spend the night, if that’s okay. I need to sanitize a million jars and get them filled before the market this weekend. Your kitchen is so much bigger than mine. If I get an early start, I can boil all the jars in half the time.”
“We’re gonna have a Mama-Sadie sleepover tonight?” my daughter asks with hopeful eyes. I lean in and rub my nose against hers, loving that she’s still young enough to be excited by the prospect of spending time with me. I know those teenage years are fast approaching, so I’ll take all the Sadie love I can get before she decides she’s just too cool for me.
“As long as it’s okay with Nana and Papa,” I answer. Dad shrugs.
“You know you’re always welcome, Delilah. Is Earl gonna be good on his own for the night?”
Earl Ellis Booth might have self-righteously annoyed everyone else in the town of Fox Hole, Tennessee into referring to him by his self-imposed professional title, The Earl of Auto—or the Earl, for short—after his father retired and gave him the body shop, but my dad never bought that foolish game. To Dad, my husband has always been Earl, or Sadie’sDad, or—on the days when I’ve complained the most—That Idiot Rat Bastard You Married.
“He’s got a case of beer, a frozen pizza, and a battle royale with his gaming buddies tonight. He’ll be just fine.”
I’m not quite ready to tell my parents about the scene I walked into just an hour or so ago in my bedroom. I’m certainly not ready to tell Sadie, so for now, I’ll let them think the Earl is too busy playing video games with one hand down his pants to care that his wife and daughter are having yet another Friday night without him.
If Mom and Dad catch on to the fact that I’m hiding something, they don’t show it. Dad unloads my jam supplies (a relatively easy task since I’d already macerated the fruit and cooked it with a big of sugar and honey this morning), and then the four of us sit around the kitchen table of my childhood home, listening intently while Sadie catches us up on the trials, tribulations, and drama of second grade. Once we’ve stuffed ourselves full of Mom’s famous chicken piccata, we engage in a competitive round of Mario Kart, followed by an even more competitive round of Uno.
After I re-braid Sadie’s hair and tuck her into the full-size bed in the room that used to be mine, I pour myself a much-needed glass of red wine. Wrappingmyself in one of Mom’s old quilts, I take my Cabernet onto the back porch to sip in the crisp, chilly autumn air.
With nothing but the breeze whistling in the trees and the stars twinkling above to keep me company, the weight of reality settles heavy on my shoulders.
My husband is cheating on me.
