This year, I don’t have nearly as much money to dedicate to the girls’ presents. I bought as much as my singular, in-my-name-only credit card could handle, but it’s not nearly the stash they usually get. We’re also not living on our estate, with its massive living room that could fit a fifteen-foot Christmas tree.
And then there is the fact that I don’t get to be with Noelle and Breanna on Christmas Eve. Because it’s a major holiday, the court has mandated that Shane is allowed a visitation. Since I couldn’t bear the thought of being alone on Christmas Day, I gave him the night before, even allowing the girls to sleepover. Dahlia will pick them up first thing tomorrow morning, and we’ll do presents and celebrate all of our traditions. But it’s not the same. They’re not here in my home, baking cookies and singing their favorite Christmas carols. Tonight, I won’t snuggle up against their tiny bodies and hear everyone argue about if we should watch Rudolph, or Frosty the Snowman.
I’m sad, incredibly so, and there is nothing I can do about it. This is what life will be like now, a division of everything, especially my children. It feels like a part of my soul is being ripped out.
So Dahlia suggested the only thing that will make me feel better; a ton of alcohol and girl-power songs.
Currently, we’re on our second eggnog and rum, mostly rum, and belting it out to one of Miranda Lambert’s biggest hits about her abusive partner. And I’m thanking the universe that at least my sister is here with me to keep me from spiraling too hard out of control tonight.
“His fist is big, but my gun’s bigger!” we both shout, and I feel giddy with power.
Dahlia’s phone rings just as Miranda Lambert goes into the heart-smashing chorus.
“It’s Shane,” she says, flashing the screen my way.
My stomach drops. “The girls.”
“Everything is fine, I’m sure.” She rubs my arm and presses accept.
“Hello?” she asks, in a tone that conveys the sentiment, I hope you rot in hell.
All I hear from the other end of the phone is shouting, and I’m instantly on alert. I’ve heard Shane scream countless times, berate me for the littlest things, and the fact that my girls are in his care? I want to rip the world apart trying to get to them right now.
I press my ear up against Dahlia’s, just like we did when we were teenagers and coaching each other about what to say to boys on the phone. Except this situation is a far cry from those carefree, innocent days.
“They’re crying, and whining about wanting freaking Hannah here! Said I’m not doing the whole Santa routine right! Well, if these brats can’t appreciate it, then I’ll ship them off with a nanny or something. You better come get them! I don’t know what Hannah has poisoned them against me with, but I’m not going to put up with this shit!”
He’s rambling, and I notice that his mood has reached dire levels. This would be the point, if I was in front of him, that he’d hit me. That he’d pinch my upper arms or smash my wrist into a doorjamb or shove me into a dresser, cracking one of my ribs. My mind freezes for a moment, a side effect of years of trauma, and I’m frozen to the spot.
I come to from the spell of mind-numbing transportation back to the days of my abuse, to Dahlia whisper-screaming at me.
“What the hell do we do, Hannah?” Her face is a mix of panic and fury.
“If she thinks that I won’t go off on that motherfucker, Walker, if Hannah thinks she can disrespect me, her husband! I’ll blast this all over court. I’ll take everything, call it infidelity. You’ll be left penniless!”
Shane is ranting, and I’m terrified that my girls are hearing every word.
My blood runs ice cold. He’s talking about Walker, about infidelity. No doubt, he saw Walker that night at Hudson’s, but up until that point, it was a harmless attraction. We hadn’t even gone on a date. There is no way he could know about us seeing each other, spending time together over the last few weeks.
Because … well, that’s what we’ve been doing. We’ve had two more dates, that ended with us getting half naked in the back of his pickup truck like horny teens. But when you have two little kids and a sister in your small condo, you can’t exactly bring a man home for a sleepover. The only other time I’ve seen him, aside from those two dates, is when he picked me up from the salon again for lunch. Which, inevitably, ended up with us in his bed just like the first lunch, and me rushing back to work scarfing down a peanut butter sandwich.
Aside from the few times we’ve seen each other, we talk every day. He’s always messaging me, asking how work is going, and even sent flowers to the house, a beautiful bouquet of seasonal poinsettias, for no reason last week.
We’re getting closer, but it’s more than that. During that initial lunch at his house, when we slept together for the first time, it felt like a shift on a cosmic level. Something inside me changed cellularly, like my central nervous system is making room for Walker in my veins. I never expected this, to fall so quickly for someone else. Maybe this is my MO, and that scares me. But I can’t help it. No matter how rational I tell myself to be, I think I’m falling in love with Walker Callahan and there is nothing I can do to stop it. It feels insane, but the moment I opened my eyes up to it, it’s as if the world said, duh, here is your person.
And apparently, someone who is in Shane’s ear has taken notice.
If he becomes vindictive over this, it could go very poorly for me. I’ve seen my husband in a blind rage of jealousy before, when he thought I was cheating on him in some fit of irrationality. I ended up with a bruise the size of Texas on my hip that time.
This time, it could cost me custody of my girls. I’ve seen Shane spin things less important into mountains in the blink of an eye, and I am shaking in my boots.
Dahlia seems to take matters into her own hands. She cuts the man unraveling on the other end of the phone off, and it’s the first time I’ve ever heard someone try to silence Shane.
“Enough, Shane. I’m coming to get them.” And then hangs up.
She shakes my shoulders, and I have to swallow back bile to focus on her voice.
“Call your lawyer, now,” Dahlia instructs me. “I’m going to get them. We’ll be back in no less than thirty minutes. If I’m not, call the cops. But don’t worry, I’m going to protect them. I’d trade my life for theirs.”
I have never been more grateful to have such a dedicated sister than in this moment.
“Thank you, D,” I choke out, trying to keep the hurricane of emotions swirling inside me at bay.
My sister is out the door in two minutes flat, and I’m left standing in my temporary living arrangements, feeling utterly helpless. I hate that I can’t go get them myself. I hate that I have to send them off into harm’s way, each time wondering if this will be the end result.
I know I need to make moves, to get things in motion. But before I call my lawyer, both my divorce attorney and Laurel at the prosecutor’s office, I need to protect myself further.
I pull up a text message with Walker’s name and begin to type, not letting myself think before I hit send.
Hannah: Shane is catching on to us seeing each other. I’m not sure if you’ve told anyone, but please keep this private. I think we should cool down a little, put the brakes on. I have my girls to think about, and I don’t want anyone knowing any more about my personal life. I like you, I do, but if we’re going to continue seeing each other, it needs to be kept under wraps. As it is, I’m hesitant to even pursue it. I have my children’s future to consider, and this situation could get dangerous. I hope you understand.