I pulled up to my apartment building without having any memory of driving home.
Back in my apartment, I paced.
My normal gut instinct was to call my mother. She was my rock. If there was anyone who could talk me down off a ledge, it was her.
But I couldn't tell her.
About the calls.
About the secrecy.
About the confrontation.
This was the sort of situation you needed to have friends for.
But I found myself wholly lacking any of those.
So until I could get in to see my therapist again, I had to work this out on my own.
I considered all of my options.
Like approaching him like the rational adult I was, explaining, apologizing for crossing the line. I could ask him to forgive me, so we could both move on with our lives.
But, let's face it, there was about a snowball's chance in hell of that one happening. Even if I could find the nerve to approach his desk, I couldn't imagine I could force the words out of my mouth. What if he wanted to know specifics? Had questions that I hadn't prepared to answer in the script I would write in my head?
Worse yet, what if he teased me about it? About being so pathetic that I couldn't get a normal man? That I had to pay for it?
I didn't want to think of Rush as cruel, but you never knew what someone was capable of when they were angry.
So that was out.
Option two was to go about work life as though nothing had happened. It was much riskier. It could all blow up. And in a very public way. But if it didn't, it allowed me to keep my head down, save my pride.
Lastly, I could avoid him entirely. Start going to work earlier, working through lunch, so that I could get out of the office before Rush showed up.
Sure, it was the most cowardly route. But no one had ever accused me of being brave, of looking chaos in the face and saying, "Bring it on."
I was almost universally known for taking the safest route, for sidestepping anything in my path.
I typically tried not to let my personal life or my anxiety issues mess with work.
But Fee would understand.
Especially because she had a hand in the whole situation getting worse.
If not for the whole cabin thing, I might not have ever been found out. Rush and I likely wouldn't have talked so much. He wouldn't have gotten to know my voice so well. He wouldn't have put the pieces together.
But she'd trapped us. We'd talked. He'd noticed something in my voice when I was on the phone with my ex. And he'd figured it all out.
Being the coward I knew myself to be, I, of course, decided on the third solution pretty quickly.
It would just be better all around.
He would cool off while I got to avoid confrontation.
It was the definition of a win-win.
But even coming to that decision didn't help the anxiety that raged through my system, making it hard to stand still, but when I got up to pace, made me feel light-headed and short of breath.
It was just the adrenaline, I reminded myself. Once my body burned it off, I would feel better. I just had to stop feeding it, thinking about it.
But how could I think about anything else?
My phone rang on the counter, making me sigh, walking over to find Blake's name on my screen.
"I know you're not at work now," he said as soon as I answered, knowing he wouldn't stop until he said what he wanted to say.
How did I never notice when we were together how irritating his voice was? A little high pitched and nasal, it sounded whiny to my ears.
"No, I'm not. But you got me in trouble at work today," I told him, finding that, since the divorce, anger came more easily to me with regard to him. Maybe it was all the therapy, the analyzing of my unsuccessful relationship, that made me see that Blake was, well, an asshole.
"I wouldn't have had to call if you had answered my text," he shot back, anger already rearing its ugly head. He'd always had a hair trigger. I'd always been gun shy. But time had given me armor against his words that used to riddle me with holes, leaving me leaking my self-esteem.
"You could have waited for me to answer the text after work."
"When did you start being such a bitch?" he snapped as I flipped on my tea kettle.
To that, I sighed. "I guess when I realized that your anger has nothing to do with me," I told him, shrugging even though he couldn't see me.
"I'm angry because you don't have the decency to respond to me. I just needed five minutes."
"I don't owe you five minutes, Blake," I told him. I added silently That's the beauty of divorce. "But since we're both here now, what did you want?"
"I was thinking, since I let you have the car," he started, making me take a deep breath, releasing it slowly, feeling the anger bubble up.
"It was my car to start with," I reminded him. I'd worked my ass off to buy that car, to keep making the payments. I'd been completely in charge of taking it into the shop when we were married even though Blake knew that the mechanic gave me extra anxiety since I always felt like I was being suckered into fixes that weren't necessary, but wasn't strong enough or in-the-know enough to object to it.
"Nothing is just yours when you're married," he said, tone condescending, making anger start to burn in my chest. "Anyway, since I let you keep that without a fight. Which was nice of me," he went on, making my jaw tighten, "that you should send me a couple thousand."
"What?" I snapped, tone a mix of the emotions I was feeling. Namely surprise and disbelief. "You can't be serious. The divorce has been final for years. There is no more negotiating." I couldn't even believe he'd ask. Except, of course, I could.
After the divorce, my mother had sat me down and told me how relieved she was, that she always feared that Blake had been mooching off of me, taking advantage of my better-paying job.
He would complain about it when I bought books, but would spend hundreds of the money I earned on video games and accessories, on beer and energy drinks, on takeout when he didn't even bother to ask me if I wanted anything.
During our marriage, and directly after the divorce, I hadn't been able to think about any other failings to see the blinking neon warning signs.
But after some time passed, after we talked it through in therapy, I did eventually come to accept that I had been financially used by someone who only had a very part-time job that barely paid enough to cover the cable bill that only he used.
"You owe me."
"Owe you?" I repeated.
"Yeah, for putting up with your shit."
"My shit," I repeated. "What shit?"
"All your shit. Hanging with your mom more than me. Reading instead of talking to me. The anxiety bullshit. Being a cold fish in bed."
Something swirled and built in my system, growing until it overtook me completely. It wasn't familiar, this mix of righteous anger and confidence, but I welcomed it with open arms, finding my voice strong when I opened my mouth to speak again.
"You know what?" I said, voice tense. "I don't have to deal with this anymore," I told him, hanging up, immediately swiping to block his number.
Did he have some points?
Maybe.
Yes, I was close with my mom. But maybe a big part of that was because she provided the loving support and safe space that he never had our whole marriage.