Gasping sobs climb their way out of her house, carrying on the breeze into mine. They’re suffocatingly beautiful. Achingly sweet. Painfully exquisite.
They breach my divide and enter me. Burrowing into places I wish she didn’t have access to. I saw her heartache last night. Watched her frown. It disturbed me then, and it disturbs me now. Is this about her ex or something else? And why do I want to know so bad?
What is it about her?
A woman I barely know.
I close my eyes and draw in a deep, shuddering breath. Her sobs pull at me. Find the dark spot I’ve systematically shut down over the years. I don’t want to feel what she’s feeling, but I can’t force myself to walk away either. That sweet, bubbly, beautiful woman who is all sunshine, honesty, and dry humor is drowning in sadness.
Is her world as ugly as mine? I hope not. Then I think of Stella, and a reluctant smile curves up the edges of my lips. My bright light. My sun.
My hand comes up to my chest, rubbing the tight spot the sound of Elle’s tears elicits. And even though this feels wrong, like I should shut my window and give her the privacy she thinks she has, I can’t. Because I know that pain. I understand the tortured thoughts that accompany it. They’ve become my most intimate friends.
That crying is heartbreak.
It’s, I don’t know how I found myself here and I’m scared. It’s, will my life ever be right again? It’s tragedy in its most intrusive form.
A jagged knife slices me directly through the heart. And for just a few moments, I allow myself to bleed with her. But once those few minutes are up, I close my window, lock it up, and get back in bed. Setting my mind straight. I have no space for someone like her in my life. No desire for it either.
So she can go right along hating me.
I’ll make sure of it.
5
“Ugh.” I hate everything. As happy as I’d been before that cursed doorbell rang, I’m just as miserable now, lying here in bed on Sunday morning. Tomorrow is my first day of school, and I’m so excited about it. At least, I should be.
I’m going to be teaching.
A gift of a job I do not deserve nor am qualified for but will happily take and kick its ass.
But all my enthusiasm has evaporated, drained out of me.
My parents got their claws into me first. Evidently, David had called them and given them the skinny on my exodus. Bastard wasn’t even fighting fair. He knew I hadn’t told them yet about our divorce. I was saving that for Thanksgiving. You know, drop the big bomb while indulging in turkey and mashed potatoes. That might sound cruel, and before you judge, my parents always liked David more than me. Let me amend that. They always like any man with money and connections more than me.
Hell, they like their freaking financial advisor more than me.
To say I have a strained relationship with my family is an understatement. It’s been that way all my life, except for my nana, rest her soul. Whatever twin-bond Landon and Luca have, I don’t share with my own. We’re strangers, opposites with the same face. I haven’t seen her and have barely spoken to her since my wedding—one of the many, many reasons we don’t keep in touch.
The long and the short of my conversation with my parents went like this:
“We spoke to your husband, and he said he’d welcome you back with open, loving arms if you leave whatever bad situation you’ve gotten yourself into in Boston and return to Miami. He’s set to leave for the Ryder Cup soon and needs you with him. Divorce is a sin, and you have to take it back.” That was my mom, and she does not have a religious bone in her body.
“Yes, sweetie.” That was my father, and he’s never called me sweetie in his life. “He can’t win the Ryder Cup without you. You’re the hope America is riding on.” He chuckled at his miserable pun. “He said you were his good luck charm. You’re lucky he still loves you, Elle. Not many men would be willing to take on a woman like you.”
I was tempted to ask, have you met my sister? Every guy takes her on without realizing the death-defying leap they’re taking and half of them end up in a shallow grave—not literally. At least I don’t think so.
I mentally rolled my eyes at them as I finished the last of my wine and cleaned up my new kitchen. I ignored the direct barb as best as I could. Their love has always been small and conditional.
“Maybe you should have advised David that treating me like smeared dog shit on the bottom of his shoe wasn’t the way to keep a wife. Considering I better fit the role of verbal punching bag than lover or spouse, I’m sure he can find someone else to accompany him and help win his precious cup.”
Am I bitter? You fucking bet I am.
Because what the hell?
I mean, aren’t parents supposed to be on your side? Yes. They are. But mine never were. The moment I met David, they pushed me down the aisle. He’s rich, successful, handsome, and charming. Did I mention rich? It was like Elle had found herself a golden ticket in the form of a man, and anything else was superfluous.
Completely overlooked.
Like me.
“Don’t be crass, Ellery. David is under a lot of stress with his career. A career that has provided nicely for you. You’d think the least you could be is supportive of your husband. People make mistakes. He regrets the way he spoke to you.”
I snorted. Right. The way he spoke to me. Like it was a one-time thing. And what about the hundreds of other times? What about the rapid deterioration of my soul, a soul he claimed like the grim reaper and crushed beneath the sole of his golf spikes? If he didn’t play well, it was my fault. If he did play well, he could have done better, and again, it was my fault.
He never physically hurt me because that leaves evidence behind.
No, he was a vampire, siphoning the life and blood from my body, only he did it slowly, systematically, alternating it with periods of love and devotion so I wasn’t sure if what I was seeing, experiencing was real or just imagined. He was good at that. Messing with my head. Only after the first two years of our marriage, after his success climbed higher and higher, all that love and devotion died, and I simply became his metaphorical punching bag. The thing he used to belittle and cut at in order to make himself feel better.
This was the moment I literally contemplated throwing my phone across the kitchen to see if it would crash through the glass sliding door or just fall to the ground and break. Aren’t marriages supposed to be two-sided? Aren’t love and respect in said marriage supposed to be two-sided? I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that my parents didn’t even care that my husband had treated me so poorly.
Why did it all fall on me?
Why was it my responsibility to make our marriage work when he never tried?
Why did David have no culpability in this?
Because he earned the dollars, and I didn’t? Who gives a fuck?!
Money and stress are not excuses to treat someone like they’re nothing.
“Mom. Dad.” I took a breath, debating whether or not I should tell them everything. Explain to them what a soul-sucking, selfish prick my husband was. Clue them into how the ‘stress’ of his career turned him into a mean, belligerent SOB. To this day, I’ve never told a soul how evil and cruel that man can be. How eviscerating simple words are when they’re slung from the mouth of a man you love, who claims to love you. Instead, I said, “I don’t love him anymore, and I’m done with our marriage. We finalized our divorce on Friday. It’s done and so are we.” There. Eat those apples.