“Emzee,” I ordered, using my best big brother voice. “Spit it out.”
She let out a huff of air. “I’m not supposed to be telling you this, but I know why she left. And it’s not because she doesn’t love you.”
“Keep talking.”
As zoomed toward I-55, I listened to my sister explain why Tori had walked out on me. There was no doubt in my mind that I could still fix this.
I was going to get my wife back.
Tori
Chapter 15
“Just hang in there, lady,” Grace said. “I know everything sucks right now, but it won’t be like this forever. And whatever you decide to do, I’m here for you. I’m here for all of it.”
I was sprawled out on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, with the cordless house phone tucked between my shoulder and my ear. Surrounding me were clumps of used tissues and a bunch of little tin foil wrappers from the bag of bite-size dark chocolates Michelle had dropped off outside my bedroom door along with a stack of romance novels. Comfort, delivered.
“Thanks,” I said, wiping away a stray tear. “But I don’t even know where to start.”
“I don’t want to sound like an obnoxious Instagram yogi or anything, but you can start by being kind to yourself,” she suggested gently. “And stop thinking you have to figure it all out in three days. My breakups were always hell, remember? Ryan Evans, junior year?”
“Oh god, I remember,” I said. “That was bad. You cut off all your hair, flashed the entire football team at a pep rally, and cried through first period Latin every morning for weeks.”
“It was a rough time,” she said defensively.
“And then, the last day of school before Christmas break, you shoved an entire pound of thin sliced limburger cheese through the slot in his locker so it would rot in there over the holidays.”
“Tori!” she gasped in mock horror. “You said you’d never speak of it again!”
“That was pretty diabolical,” I mused.
“Well if you feel like a little revenge-cheesing is in order, let me know.”
I laughed. It was probably the first time I’d felt my mood lift since I’d left Chicago.
“Anyway,” Grace went on, “I gotta run to a marketing thingy for my handbags, but let me know when you’re ready for wine and cookie dough and Jane Austen movie night, okay? Just say the word. Ooh, and p.s., I’m sending you one of my purses! You’re going to love it.”
We said goodbye and I went out into the hallway to hang the phone back up on its cradle. Talking to Grace had been good—great, actually—but it was mostly just a temporary distraction from the disaster that my life had turned into.
The deadline Emzee had given me for coming clean to Stefan was tomorrow, but I had no idea what to say to him when I called. If I had thought that a few days would give me time to sort things out in my head or help me become braver, I had been sadly mistaken.
If anything, I felt even more confused and worried than ever about what I was supposed to do. My heart ached for my husband, but my mind kept telling me that leaving him was the best thing to do in the long run. That he belonged with Anja. And his son. That if I stuck around, at best I’d be a third wheel. At worst, I’d have to watch my husband fall back in love with the first woman he’d ever cared for.
Still, I resolved to call him first thing in the morning. Emzee was right, I owed him an explanation. Especially considering all the upheaval he was going through in his life right now.
I’d strap on my emotional bulletproof vest, pick up that phone, and tell him I understood that he loved Anja, and that he needed to try and make it work with her, try to be a family with her and their son. But even thinking the words sent me off on another crying jag. It felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest. I wondered if I would always feel this way.
Exiling myself inside for the past few days had only made me feel worse. More isolated, more trapped. I had to get out of the house. Rifling through my closet, I found some old running shoes, workout clothes, and a thick, down-filled Lululemon vest. After pulling on a knit hat and gloves, I went out for a run.
Technically, it was more of a jog-and-walk. I stretched for a few minutes and then took off, following the same route through the neighborhood that I used to sprint in high school. I quickly realized that my fitness level wasn’t what it used to be back when I was forced to run laps regularly in gym class. Still, I leaned into the familiar burn in my lungs, the ache in my muscles, the hard slap of my shoes against the sidewalk. It was probably forty degrees outside, but by the time I got back to the house I was sweating and had unzipped my vest.
“Why are you so out of breath?” Michelle asked, all dolled up and about to walk out the front door with her purse over her arm.
“Running,” I panted. “Went for a jog.”
My stepmother wrinkled her nose. “If you want to work out, darlin’, just use the home gym. It’s freezing out there. You’ll catch your death of cold.”
“Thanks,” I said, not wanting to explain further. “I’ll do that next time.”
