I know I have to stop thinking like this. It’s not going to do me any good. I can’t hold on to the belief that Cal exists on any level. I have to move on for Caylen, our little girl—to whom I heard him talking that night. At that time, Chris didn’t know who Caylen was, so it had to have been Cal. Was he able to escape from whatever mental desert he was lost in for that purpose only?
Ugh! I told Chris I could deal with this, but they were just words. I kick over a box and throw my wine glass at the wall, watching the small amount run down the gray wall, leaving a vivid stain. I have to get a hold of myself. I’m so glad Angela took Caylen for the night while I do this. I guess she knew it wouldn’t be as easy as she led me to believe.
You’re being ridiculous, Lauren. I go to close the box and remember there’s only one thing left that hasn’t been packed away. I walk over to my drawer, and underneath all of my blouses is a button-up of his, studded with tiny black buttons and smelling faintly of cologne—Cal’s. When he first left, I couldn’t bear to get rid of his things. I always hoped he’d be back to reclaim them. After a few months, I avoided them, never once opening his closet.
But this one thing, this one shirt, I couldn’t bear to put in the box. I didn’t hide from or avoid it, though I hid it from everyone else. It’s the one I wore for to bed on the nights when I missed him so much that even the fabric that last touched his skin gave me comfort. His scent, faintly clinging to it, had calmed me while a part of him rested inside me.
Going through an entire pregnancy alone, without him, was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I put on a brave face for those around me, especially Raven, Angela, and Hillary. They were there with me every day, making sure I was never alone. I was still lonely when they were with me, because they weren’t him.
He wasn’t there to rub my belly, to banter about whether it’d be a boy or a girl. To just hold me. I missed all of that. Going to childbirth classes with Angela, while all the husbands and boyfriends of the other pregnant women were with them, made me want to hide in a corner. So many times, I imagined him bursting into the room the moment Caylen made her appearance. But I guess a thing like that only happens in the movies.
But on those nights when I was home alone, I’d put on his shirt and pretend it was his arms around me. For a while, it held his scent, and when it faded away, I’m embarrassed to say I sprayed his cologne on it. If I told anyone, I’m sure they’d think these little moments were insanity or an odd form of self-torture. But those rituals somehow kept me sane all those nights alone.
I sit on the floor with the shirt in my hand and hold it to my chest as tears escape from my eyes. If I’m saying good-bye, trying to escape him tomorrow, I can still make a fool out of myself tonight. I pull my shirt over my head, stand up, slip out of my jogging shorts, and put on his shirt, and for a moment, I pretend this is all a bad dream.
But this room feels suffocating. I glance through the glass doors that lead to the terrace. The sky is dark, and raindrops start to paint the glass, and the clouds echo my pain. All those times I wished the weather matched my mood—this is not one of them. I step over the broken glass from earlier, make my way downstairs to the kitchen, and pour myself another glass of wine.
After finishing it, I crawl onto the couch. I close my eyes and pretend I’m visiting an alternate reality where my husband is not my husband. Here, he doesn’t wear jeans that cost in the upper hundreds but ones that come from Old Navy. Here, he lives in a house on a farm, instead of on one of the top floors of a high-rise in the city. Here, he slings manure instead of stealing away on jets around the world, and it’s not so devastating that he’s in love with a woman named Jenna, not Lauren.
But I know I’m not in an alternate reality, because in an alternate reality, the weight of his absence wouldn’t feel like a tomb on my chest, and any distraction wouldn’t only be for seconds. In an alternate reality, as I’m lying on this couch, closing my eyes, I wouldn’t give anything for him to be next to me, to feel him kiss the back of my neck, his fingers to trace his name on my lower back. I wouldn’t still be so in love with a man who’s a ghost, myth, fairy tale, and tragedy all wrapped in one, and I wouldn’t trade half my soul just to hear him say, You’re all I ever wanted. I pull my throw over me, hug my knees, and will myself to sleep, to start over with another day.
The thunder crashing outside my window awakens me. My head is still spinning. The banging on the door rouses me, and my body feels as if it weighs a thousand pounds. There are boxes all over the living room floor, and I don’t remember bringing them down. The front door swings open, and the adrenaline coursing through my body is replaced not by relief but by utter confusion. What is he doing here?
“Chris?” I say hesitantly, making my way to the doorway. “You scared the hell out of me!” One hand covers my pounding heart as I make my way toward him
But as I get closer, I see his chest is heaving up and down. He’s sucking in as much air as he can, his clothing and hair wet from the storm and clinging to his body. My mind says to ask him if he’s okay and what he’s doing here, but when I look at his eyes, which are set directly on me, he shakes his head. A grin appears on his face, and I know.
“Close, but not quite right,” he says, seemingly winded but with a familiar grin.
When we’re face to face, I’m able to separate my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “Cal?” It’s barely a whisper, since my throat has closed up. I wonder if he heard me.
But as I look at him, even though he hasn’t answered yet, as his breathing slows down, the grin slowly becomes a seductive smile, and I know.
“So it’s that easy, huh?” His voice stops me cold. The moonlight from the window highlights his gray eyes. I try to move, but I can’t. “So you’re giving up on me—on us. Just like that?”
He walks toward me. I try to reach out to him, but my limbs are frozen. He bends down, looking at the box I packed earlier.
“You’re going to pack me away and pretend I never existed?” he roars and kicks the box over. The sound is so loud, it echoes through the entire house. “What about us, Lauren? What about our family?”
He’s so angry that I see the veins in his forehead throbbing. I keep trying to talk or to move, but I can’t manage either.
“Do you really think the Scotts are going to accept you into their life? They want to pretend I never existed! Do you think they want a constant reminder of me walking around, spoiling their delusional little world? I’m the bastard child… their prodigal son!” He laughs angrily, circling around my frozen body.
“Caylen needs a real father who’s here,” I whisper, somehow breaking my catatonic state.
“I’m her father!” he shouts angrily in my face.
He grabs my arm roughly, ushers me to the couch, and pins me on it. His weight feels like a house on top of me, and I can’t breathe.
“Was it Chris who made love to you here? Was it his name you called out?” he whispers vehemently in my ear.
He then rips my shirt in two. His lips touch mine firmly, and I turn my face. I’m so angry at him. I keep trying to speak, but I’m mute. He grabs my face and turns it back toward him.