The next morning, I go through the motions as if I’ve just woken from a bad nightmare that I can’t shake yet. My vision is clouded with everything that I can’t bear to admit. That my marriage is in an even worse place than before. That it might be truly over. Some dark voice is whispering that stupid saying on repeat in my head, be careful what you wish for.
But I don’t have the luxury of falling apart. Not when two little souls are relying on me to keep my shit together. And none of this should burden them; none of this should trouble their fragile hearts any more than it might have already.
“Let’s go, guys!” I call out as I grab my keys and purse off the counter and walk into the garage.
Their shoes slap against the tiles of the kitchen behind me then come to a skidding halt, Greta’s face colliding with my ass when I stop dead inside the garage.
“Ooof.” She grunts. “Mommy, you’re lucky your butt’s soft or I might have broken my face.” She giggles.
Charlie stops beside me and stares at the opposite wall where my eyes are fixed. “Mom … why are there holes in the wall?” he asks quietly, a hint of fear in his voice that puts yet another crack in my already broken heart.
“Hey, wow. Did Daddy do some painting?” Greta asks. No fear at all as she rounds my car to the wall on the other side.
I walk over to find paint cans on the ground. The noise I heard Leo making in here yesterday. There are obvious holes from his fist, but it also looks like he’s launched the paint cans at the wall. Gray paint runs down the bottom half of it onto the cement floor below, forming a gray puddle that’s probably still wet.
I close my eyes and force myself to breathe.
Just breathe.
In and out. In and out.
I count to ten then open my eyes.
“I’m not sure what he was doing, poppet, but we’ve gotta go.” I move to the trunk and open it for them to toss their bags in. “Come on,” I encourage when I see Charlie still frowning at the mess.
Greta opens the passenger door, climbing inside. “Maybe he got mad when it fell and spilled everywhere.” She shrugs and closes the door.
“Maybe,” I mutter as Charlie finally puts his bag in and gets in the car.
Greta talks my ear off about both of their grandmas coming home from their holiday tomorrow, and the big sleepover they’re all going to have this weekend. I’m grateful for her chatter, not only because it seems like I’ve forgotten—yet again—about something else, but I also need to keep busy. I need to try to think of anything other than this debilitating fear and heartache that’s vying for my attention every second of every minute.
Charlie’s noticeably quieter than usual when we pull into the school. I get out and pass Greta her bag, kissing her head then watch her walk off.
“Hold up, Charlie,” I say when he grabs his bag and is about to walk away, too.
He halts, chewing on his bottom lip and looking so much like a little Leo that my heart hurts even more.
I bend down in front of him. “You okay?”
He shrugs, averting his gaze to the car for a few seconds before asking, “Dad wasn’t mad at the paint, was he?” His eyes narrow on me.
Damn it. I shake my head. “No, he wasn’t. But you know it has nothing to do with you guys, right? He loves you both.”
He stares at me for a minute, his blue eyes studying and searching my face. Aware.
He finally nods. “When will things go back to the way they were?”
Tears blur my vision, and I roll my lips between my teeth, trying to keep them at bay. “I’m not really sure, buddy. But just know that we’re working on it, okay?”
He nods again and I stand, wrapping my arms around him and whispering into his hair, “If you need to talk, to me, Daddy, your grandmas … anyone, make sure you do. Okay?” I kiss his hair and step back. “Love you.” I smile softly at him.
He gives me a small one in return. “Love you, too.” He runs off to join Sophie who’s waiting for him at the gates.
My eyes stay glued to him until he disappears inside the school doors then I move back to the car to grab my sunglasses. I slip them on as Lola walks over and pats my back. “Hey, you okay?”
I give her a weak smile. “Not really.” I exhale a shuddering breath at the remorse in her eyes. “My fault, though, right?”
She frowns. “Yes and no. Hey, you told him. You’ve tried. He can’t keep shutting you out and expect you to just deal with it.”
She’s right. “What if it’s really over now?”
She looks away for a moment. “Trey said he was a wreck last night. Would hardly say a word to him, just kept staring down into his drink like he was waiting for it to talk to him or something.”
The sad part is that doesn’t really surprise me.
Lola sighs. “Look, I can’t promise you anything. But personally, I think now is the time to really try to sort through this with him while his emotions are running wild.”
She has a point. “Yeah, I guess.”
“What are you going to do about Jared?” she whispers.
I have no idea. I haven’t thought that far ahead yet, not with my emotions so entwined around everything going on with Leo.
“I need to talk to him, but I just don’t think I should yet.”
She smiles, but it’s full of pity. “Be careful.”
I nod. “Have you seen Fiona?” She hasn’t been at the school since last Friday’s bake sale.
Lola shakes her head. “No, but I’m kind of worried. She seemed a little …” She scratches at her cheek. “I don’t know. She doesn’t seem to be taking the separation well, though.”
“I might go over there today to check on her,” I say.
“I’d come, but I need to get a crapload of stuff done at home. Call me and let me know how she’s doing?”
“Sure. I’ll talk to you later.”
We say goodbye, and I make the short drive home, deciding that I’ll clean the kitchen up and put a load of laundry on before I go over to Fiona’s.
When I get out of the car, I stare at the holes in the wall and the paint, not knowing what to do about it. I guess there isn’t much to be done. I’ll have to call someone to come repair it. Tearing my eyes away, I walk inside and load the dishwasher, starting it before cleaning the kitchen. I head upstairs, collecting the dirty clothes from the hamper in the bathroom then walk down the hall to our room to check ours.
Putting the basket down, I walk over to our hamper and grab the few items in there then make my way back downstairs. I shove them all in the machine, but then I find Leo’s dress shirt he was wearing yesterday. It needs to be washed separately, so I put it on the ground. After I’ve put the liquid in and turned the machine on, I pick it up, laying it over the top of it so that I remember to wash it. I go to leave when I finally see it. Brown smudges on the cuff of his shirt. Frowning, I pick it up and rub my finger over it. It looks like blood. Like dried blood.
The tap running for ages in the bathroom last night.
My face drains of color as I realize what he might’ve done and race to my phone.
Dialing his number, I pace the kitchen, listening to it ring out before hitting redial and trying again. On my sixth walk through the kitchen, he finally answers, “Blondie.”
He sounds like he’s half asleep.
“Jared, shit. Are you okay?”
He laughs, the sound husky with sleep. “You mean did your husband and his friend find me last night?”
“So they did?” My eyes widen.
“Yeah, but look, it’s not a big deal. The other guy, he just watched while your husband got his hits in. Only intervened to pull him away when I’d had enough and started fighting back.” He yawns. “I’m fine, had worse.”
Shit. Holy shit.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, struggling with disbelief and my inability to keep up with all the dominos that keep falling.
“Dahlia?” he asks.
“I’m here. I’m so sorry. Fuck …”
“It’s fine. I deserved it, I guess. That’s the only reason I let him do it. Fair is fair, right?” He snickers.
“No, it’s not fair. He shouldn’t have touched you. How the hell did he find you anyway?”
“Probably the same way he found us. I was at the Westbrook bar, waiting for a buddy of mine when he found me, and we took it outside.”
“Why the hell are you so calm over this? My husband beat you up!” I almost yell before stopping myself.
He laughs. “Nobody beats me up unless I’m severely outnumbered or I let them, Blondie. Like I said, I deserved it, so I let him.”
I lean back against the counter. “How hurt did you get?” I feel like getting in the car and going to check for myself, knowing he’s going to downplay it.
“Jared,” I snap when he doesn’t answer me.
He sighs. “Just a shiner, bruised nose and jaw.”
“Just?” I laugh like a madwoman. “This is insane.”
“It’s not. You’re his wife. If you were mine, I’d have left the guy half dead.”
God, this is all so crazy. “I’m sorry,” I repeat.
“No need to be. Just tell me when I can see you again.”
I start choking on a laugh. “Did he injure your brain? We can’t …”
“No, we can. I don’t give a shit about him,” he says heatedly.
I can’t do this right now. “I have … baggage, Jared. You can’t possibly still want me.”
“You have kids, Blondie, and a dickhead for a husband. Nothing I can’t handle.” His tone lightens. “Besides, I love kids.”
I burst out laughing, wiping a few tears from underneath my eyes. “You’re a good man, trouble.”
“I’m sensing a but coming, and I’m gonna ignore it. Take a chance on me, Dahlia. You won’t regret it.”
I know I wouldn’t. But I would because that dickhead I have for a husband? I still love him with every fractured piece of my heart.
“I have to go,” I finally say.
“Wait, just … promise me you’ll think about it?”
The desperation in his voice is hard to ignore, and it makes me feel like the biggest bitch in the world.
So like a coward, I lie—yet again. “I’ll think about it, but you know—”
“Stop,” he says roughly. “I’ll speak to you soon, Blondie.”
He hangs up, and I scrub my palms over my face. What a mess. What a great big stinking mess. I used to listen, gasp, and watch as drama unfolded for other people and their families. Which in this town, happens a lot. And like a fool, I never thought it would happen to me. To us. But I guess that’s what everyone thinks.
Never me. Thank God, it’s not me.
Until the other shoe drops, and suddenly, it’s your turn.
I head to the pantry and reach up to the top shelf, grabbing a block of my favorite milk chocolate. Then, tucking my phone into my dress pocket, I grab my keys and make my way over to Fiona’s place. We can be miserable together.
Pulling up outside her mini-mansion by the bay, I can’t help but notice how quiet it is as I step out. How the only noise to be heard comes from the shrieking of the gulls flying overhead, heading out to the ocean. The two cream-colored cement lions who sit on either side of their porch steps seem weathered and fragile now, instead of imposing. I use the knocker and wait. When I don’t hear anything, I try the doorbell. Okay. Worried, I lean in to try to see through the frosted glass that sits on either side of the huge double doors. But it’s too blurred to make anything out.
I turn around, thinking I’ll just go home and try to call her later to let her know I stopped by.
But then I remember last Friday. Not only what she wore, but how she behaved. The attitude that screamed of imminent self-destruction.
Fuck it. I turn the handle, not surprised to find the door unlocked, and walk inside. I close it gently behind me, calling out, “Fiona?”
I hear music coming from somewhere and walk down between the sprawling black staircases, making my way to the kitchen. Which is destroyed. Dishes, pots, and pans are everywhere. Flies buzz around food-crusted utensils and plates in the sink. I have no idea how long they’ve been there, but the smell is pretty bad, so I leave and walk down the hallway that I remember leads to the living room.
And that’s where I find her. Sprawled out in a pair of panties and a t-shirt, sound asleep. I round the corner and take a seat on the opposite couch, looking at her usually perfectly styled brown locks that now fall in a greasy heap over half of her face. I chew my lip, unsure of what I should do. Pulling the chocolate out, I put it down quietly on the coffee table then lower the volume on the TV. Deciding to let her sleep, I go back to the kitchen. May as well make myself useful.
I grab a trash bag and toss out the pots and plates that look beyond saving and fill the sink to soak the rest while I grab some old food from the refrigerator to chuck in the trash too. After I’ve scrubbed everything, I put it all in the dishwasher and start it before wiping down the counters and making us some coffee.
While the coffee cools on the counter, I take the trash out through the laundry door to the side of the house where the trash cans are. They’re overflowing. Damn it. I don’t know if I can lift it, either. I remove some bags and hold my breath from the smell as I quickly rush it out the side gate and down the driveway to the curb. Then I grab the other bags and take them down, trying to squash them in. I end up taking one that won’t fit back up to the house so that the animals don’t tear it apart over her front lawn.
I’m washing my hands at her kitchen sink when she finally wakes up. “Dahlia?” she asks croakily from behind me.
I turn around, grabbing a dishtowel to dry my hands, and give her a weak smile. “Hey, sorry to barge in. I was worried.”
She shakes her head. “No, no.” She looks down, realizes she’s half naked, and cringes. “Shit, I’m sorry.”
I scoff. “Don’t be. If I had the house to myself, I’d prance around in my pajamas all day long. Makes sense to do what you please, I guess.” I try to make light of it.
She spots the coffee. “Oh, you’re a gem.” She picks hers up and takes a sip while eyeing the kitchen. “Seriously, you cleaned this disaster?”
“It didn’t take long,” I lie.
She laughs. “Don’t be stupid. It probably took you forever. I’d hug you, but I don’t know when I last showered.” She frowns. “God, I’m a train wreck, aren’t I?”
“Kind of, but hey”—I glance at her legs—“at least you’re a hot one.”
She laughs, and we move into the living room to finish our coffee. She dives for the chocolate, moaning while she chews. “You know, I don’t know what I’m so upset for really. I still have money, and I can do whatever I want.”
But her eyes glaze over with sadness anyway. I see it and ask, “Have you seen the boys?”
She shakes her head, her brown hair falling into her face. She leans forward and snags a hair tie from the coffee table. Tossing her head forward, she throws it all up into a messy bun and sits back. “Not since last weekend.” She rolls her eyes. “He’s giving me supervised day visits with them. How dumb is that?”
My nose scrunches with confusion. “So, what, they’re staying with him at the hotel?”
She nods. “He’s waiting for me to move out.” She grabs another piece of chocolate. “Good luck with that, douchebag,” she mumbles around the chocolate.
“Have you talked to him about it? It doesn’t make sense that he’d just make all these decisions and cut you out.” I know Dylan. Not overly well, but I’ve known him long enough to know that this isn’t him. He wouldn’t treat her this way. The man I know is a workaholic, but he’s also a family man who loves his wife and boys.
She sinks back into the couch. “Tell me about it. None of this makes any sense to me.”
We finish our coffee, and I grab our empty mugs to take them to the kitchen.
“I need to go. I have to get the kids in a little while. Will you be okay?” I walk back into the living room to find her still sitting there, staring at the TV screen that’s playing music videos. She leans forward to grab the remote and flips through the channels.
“I’ll be fine. Just going to try to wake up a bit more before I take a shower. I think it’s time I get in touch with my lawyer.”
I nod in agreement. “Sounds like a good idea. I’ll lock the door behind me.”
“Thank you, Dahlia.” She finally looks up at me. “You’re a good friend.”
As I drive home, I realize that maybe we’re all a little broken.
Some of us are just better at hiding the missing pieces.