It’s been thirteen hours since I last felt his touch, but my skins still burning.
My mind refuses to loosen its tight hold on the images of him. It’s like there’s a noose around my mind, squeezing like a vise, withholding everything else.
The tightness in my chest, the constant loop of images in my mind, it’s a reminder of his power over me.
Do you see that girl on the couch in the really white room? I can understand if you can’t; the room is so damn bright, isn’t it? You’re probably blinded by the fact that there’s even someone else in the room.
Since you can’t see, I’ll tell you. There’s a girl on the couch, crying, shaking her head in confusion. She doesn’t understand the last twenty-four hours and the endless orgasms she experienced on the floor, the table, in a two-foot shower and eventually, on a bed.
She also doesn’t understand why she’s here alone when her soon-to-be ex-husband said he’d be on time and guess what? She fucking believed his lying ass. Probably because her brain is on hiatus from the orgasms.
Either way, here I sit, crying, wishing Ridge’s tongue was on me.
By the way. . . guess who’s watching my kids at the moment?
Ridge. Never even had to ask him. I told him I had to go to our parent-coaching session today and he took the boys out for ice cream. And the thought he did that, makes me cry even harder.
Parent coaching. It’s dumb if you ask me because I know how to parent. Austin. . . he doesn’t even know how to be married much less parent. Our divorce proceedings started back in August and here we are the middle of September and shit still isn’t finished. The papers have been filed; we agreed on everything presented. I keep the house, we split the savings we had, and he agreed to pay off our credit cards.
You’d think he’s giving me everything I want, right?
One would think that, but one wouldn’t know what the fuck they were thinking. And I’ll tell you why. In California, it’s a 50/50 state meaning you split custody of the children 50 percent of the time, and debts/money is the same.
Austin being the only one who worked during our marriage thinks our hefty savings account should go to him, and he shouldn’t have to pay child support if he’s getting the kids 50 percent of the time.
I don’t care about the money. I don’t want Brie raising my children. Plain and simple. Austin works long hours, and I know who will have my kids when he’s at work. Her.
So that leads us to parent coaching while we await the finality of our divorce—which by the way won’t be final for five months.
All of this—and the fact that I’m sitting here alone with the parent coach—brings me to tears.
Carol hands me a tissue. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to cry.”
I stare at her. “I know I’m allowed to cry. I’m in the middle of a nasty divorce. My husband cheated on me, with my best friend.” I rip the tissue from her hand. “Oh, and this just in as of two days ago, I had the best sex of my life with my kids’ teacher. Who is also my soon-to-be ex-husbands stepbrother. So yeah, welcome to my life, Carol.”
Carol’s eyes, well, they widen, and her mouth forms a big O of oh my God.
Again, welcome to my life.
If you’ve never been divorced, or in the process of divorce, parent coaching is probably something you haven’t heard of. And if you have, it was probably nothing like this.
Parent coaching sucks sweaty balls in Florida humidity. And that’s putting it mildly.
I understood the mediation process. That was easy despite it being lengthy, expensive as shit and often having damaging effects of a litigated divorce because of the emotional toll on the wife and children. Fuck the husband in my case. Maybe husbands too, but it seems mine couldn’t give a flying monkey shit about it.
The parent coach assigned to us, Carol Shepard—you know, the one in front of me staring at me like I’ve lost my mind—she’s the best in the interests of the children while acknowledging the couple’s pain associated with the divorce without allowing those emotions to affect the wellbeing of the children. At least that’s what her website says. I’ve yet to experience this.
Mostly because she’s still staring at me since I told her I was fucking my kids’ teacher. I’m certain this can’t be the worst confession Carol’s been handed in her years of parent coaching.
When I said “I do” to Austin, I never thought years later he’d be porking Brie. I do know this. When divorce comes along, the kids always suffer. The damage can be mitigated, however, when both parents remain focused on the best interests of the children.
That has yet to happen for us.
I read an article not too long ago that said it’s not divorce that affects children, but the ugly legal battles between parents. I’m calling bullshit on that, but still, children feel responsible for their parents’ divorce.
They naturally blame themselves for the acrimony between their parents. And despite us, as parents, or maybe just me, believing I’m not putting the boys in the middle, they hear the arguing and experience the lack of affection between us, thus creating emotional instability. Sure, I sound like a textbook now, but I know the boys are affected by all this.
Austin doesn’t help the situation by talking crap about me and painting an ugly picture of how bad I am for kicking him out. What he really should be saying is that he’s just a dick and couldn’t keep said dick out of another woman’s va jay jay.
So this parent coaching is supposed to show us how to negotiate, how to stay focused on the issues, and how to listen to one another while co-parenting our children.
None of that has happened yet.
And it’s not about to now when Austin shows up twenty minutes late and Carol starts with, “I want you to give me two words to describe your current situation in the divorce. Two words that describe how you feel things are going from the time you initiated the divorce.”
Austin glares at me, smoothing his hands down the front of his suit. He’s quiet at first and I think he’s going to remain quiet. But, as usual lately, he surprises me and pops off with, “Assumptions and control.”
Eat a dick. A big fat veiny hairy one you best friend fucker!
Carol’s hardened stare moves to mine. She clears her throat, probably nervous to hear what my response will be. “And you, Alyson?”
“Doucheness and Assholeishness.”
Her face screws up, like she’s an English teacher and I’ve broken every grammatical rule known to man. “Those are not words.”
Ya think?
“Fine.” I sneer at Austin, who, I might add is still glaring. I hope his face stays like that. “Communication and well-being.”
I stare at him like he’s grown another head. He has. One uglier than his personality these days. “What could you possibly be worried about regarding communication and well-being?”
He snorts, and my heart beats so fast. “Like the fact that you didn’t ask me before leaving our children with Ridge tonight.”
My initial reaction to these words would be to retreat, clam up, not say anything at all, but I can’t because his gaze is assessing. His smile so bitter, jaw clenched like he’s caught me off guard.
He has caught me off guard, again and I’m burning like that night, like a speck of ash that spirals and drifts with the lies he’s fed me over the years. I pause, indecisive, unable to form what I need to say. How could I have ever loved someone so bitter, so hurtful, so mean?
He can’t feel anything yet me, I can’t feel anything small.
My stomach burns when I finally do speak. “And you didn’t ask me before you cheated on me with my best friend. And you certainly didn’t ask me when you moved in with her and had our children sleeping at her house. And ya better fucking believe you never asked me how I felt about her posting photographs of them on the Internet.”
Look at Carol’s face. She wants to run away from this train wreck. Can’t say I blame her.
Austin’s face hardens, a flood of anger washing over him. “I’m not doing this with you right now.”
“Did I strike a nerve?” I yell, my voice louder than I want. I turn to face him, my knuckles white as I grip the tissue in my hand. “I say we are doing this, right now.”
“Oh, really?” He raises his eyes to mine. His usual soft features turning to stone, his nostrils flaring. “Well, then, I could easily say the same to you, couldn’t I? Sleeping with my brother before our divorce is final classifies as cheating by marital standards, doesn’t it?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re an asshole.”
“Right.” He laughs. “I’m always the asshole, and you haven’t done one fucking thing wrong, have you?”
I angrily shake my head, refusing that as an answer. “You’ve actually done a lot wrong.”
Remember. . . divorce is ugly. It gets even uglier before you come to an agreement.
I guess, if I had to speculate when our divorce turned nasty, I would say it’s now, in the confines of this really white room, screaming at one another at the top of our lungs.
Blaming.
Accusing.
Avoiding.
Austin pauses, his mouth twisting in a scowl delivered my way. His eyes are hard, lips parting as he speaks lowly. “I’m curious, Alyson. What’s the real reason you’re blaming me for this not working?”
How many times have we been over this?
Squeezing my eyes shut, I want to scream at him, but I keep my voice even. “Just because you suddenly decided you care, doesn’t mean shit. I’m not going to apologize for being with him. You are the one who decided you wanted a divorce.”
Staring at me with a tight jaw, his chest rises and falls, matching my own. “You keep saying that like you didn’t want it too.”
There’s a pang of guilt that hits me because he has a point. I wanted it too.
I did.
I hadn’t been happy for years. I didn’t know it until I found him cheating.
All the guilt, the tension, regrets, lack of words, it was all coming to a head in Carol’s office.
Austin blows smoke up people’s ass for a living. That’s what attorney’s do. Let’s pause for a moment though. Do you know where the term “blowing smoke up your ass” actually came from?
I’ll tell you, because I’ve researched it and there are just some things you can’t forget, this being one of them. In the 1700s, smoke enemas were a popular medical procedure for resuscitating people who’d drowned. You’re curious how this works, aren’t you?
Me too. So the way I read it, the doctors inserted a rectal tube connected to a fumigator into the booty hole and forced smoke up the rectum.
Why did they do this?
Well, they thought the warmth of the smoke promoted respiration. And that my friends, is where the term blowing smoke up one’s ass came from.
You’re welcome.
Now, you’re probably thinking, while that fun fact was interesting. . . what the fuck does it have to do with Austin?
The distance between Austin and I was unmistakable. . . for years.
It started slow, at first.
No kisses before bed.
Then no kisses before work.
No “have a good day.”
And then it ended, and now he blames it entirely on me. I’m not to blame for all this. We both are.
I shake my head, standing. “Austin, regardless of our problems, or who we’re involved with now, we need to look out for what matters. The children. The only people we’re hurting by not getting along. I don’t care to make this work with you. I care to make it work with them.”
This grabs his attention. He’s nothing but harsh breaths and silent words for a moment. And then he stands, and walks out, because that’s what Austin does.