Desperately Seeking Epic(71)

When I was a child, my grandmother, who’d raised me, told me sometimes the best way to get something out is to write it down. Sometimes words poured from our fingertips in a way they couldn’t from our mouths. I was pained in that moment, and I needed to get it out. I’d purged my body in the physical sense that day, now I needed to purge my feelings. Grabbing a piece of paper and a pen, I sat at my kitchen table, the one Paul made for me, and wrote my heartache on it.



Today has been a bad day.

Today, my parents died twenty-five years ago.

Today, Marcus acted like a gigantic dick face.

Today, Kurt took another step away from me, from our life together.

I think I miss him.

I shouldn’t.

Maybe I just miss us—who I thought we were.

He’s a bad person. I know this. Maybe not entirely bad, but mostly bad. He tossed me aside. Don’t I deserve better? Did I not love hard enough? Did I not give enough? I think I did. I really do.

I’ve made peace with my parents passing. Being that I was so young makes it a little easier to bear.

But Kurt is a fresh wound.

I need to let him go. But hearts don’t work like light switches; they don’t just flick on and off. They swell rapidly with love and bleed out slowly with pain.

I should be stronger. I should be able to shut myself down to his memory. But I’m not strong enough yet.

They say the opposite of love isn’t hate, but indifference. I hate him. I hate him so much I feel it seeping out of my pores, toxifying everything around me.

I don’t want him back. I don’t. Not who he is now. I want my life back. I want the safety I felt in my marriage back. I want the days where we held hands and dreamed a millions dreams together back when I believed him when he said I was his forever. When he told me no one could take my place. I want that man back. I want that type of love in my life.

But he’s gone.

And now, given his cruelty and seemingly unfeeling actions, I have to wonder . . . was he ever really there? Was it all a façade? Was I a fool the whole time seeing only what I wanted to see?

I want to be happy.

I want forever.

I want . . .

I want a baby.



Pushing the paper away from me, I lay my head in my arms on the table and cried. I cried hard. When I finished, I shoved the paper in one of my empty kitchen drawers and kept the pen.

Then I signed the papers.

I left them on my counter and went to bed.



Ashley stares at me.

“You wanted to know what happened after I puked,” I point out with a smirk, trying to lighten things up again.

“I did,” she admits.

“Did you think he’d take me home and we’d make wild, passionate love?” I jest.

“Maybe,” she admits.

“Did you miss the part about me yacking up a monster chilidog all night? Wasn’t exactly sexy.”

“That’s true,” she laughs. “Are you okay if we keep going?”

I check my watch. “I’ve got thirty minutes.”

“So . . .” She motions her hand. “What happened next?”

I smile because I have a feeling I’m about to tell her something she’s really been wanting to hear.





The next day, I ventured out to the post office and dropped the separation papers in the box. Once these were filed, our divorce could be finalized in a few months. I decided to stay home that day. I left a message on the office machine, not sure anyone would even get it if Marcus didn’t bother to show up. I knew Paul definitely wouldn’t check it. I took a long, hot bath, ate some ice cream, and painted my toenails. Basically, I took a me day. And it refreshed me. While I’d dreaded signing those papers, I felt like a weight had been lifted. I didn’t have to dread it anymore. I didn’t have it hanging over my head. And oddly, I felt like everything was going to be okay; that I’d taken a huge step in moving on, moving forward.

Eight o’clock rolled around and I was lying down on my couch, watching the only channel I could get on television. They were playing reruns of Married with Children. Don’t judge me, I absolutely loved that show. I nearly jumped out of my skin when someone knocked on my door. It actually sounded more like they kicked my door. Rushing to my purse, I grabbed my revolver and plastered myself against the wall beside the door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Paul. My hands are full! Open the door.”

“What the hell is he doing here?” I mumbled softly to myself as I unhooked the chain and flipped the dead bolt.

Holding a bottle of red wine under one arm, and balancing five containers of Country Crock in the other, he grinned. “Thought you might like some dinner.”

“You brought five containers of butter?” I asked, confused.