We’d gotten married way too fast, hadn’t given ourselves enough time together before committing. Monique wanted the fairy-tale, the rich successful husband, the kids, the big expensive house. A life a simple vet with a small contracting firm just couldn’t give her.
Now, a year later with our divorce finalised, she’d had her baby, a three-month-old little girl, and was much happier. And I was happy for her too…
It didn’t hurt to think about that, surprisingly. I knew she’d gotten what she had always wanted; I just wished I’d been able to move on like she had. Instead I’d lost on both flanks, my wife on one side, and Mila on the other.
Ever since Monique left, and since my only night with Mila, I hadn’t been with anyone. I tried to move on, fuck, I tried so hard. But it seemed impossible to see anyone as a potential partner. Sure, I went on dates, flirted even, but when the end of the night neared closer I realised the person sitting next to me at the dinner table just didn’t mean anything to me. I no longer saw the point in retelling my old weathered story over and over again to strangers that I had no interest in.
The only one I wanted was Mila.
I should have tried to reached out again and not taken no for an answer when I confronted Suzanne about her whereabouts, but there had to be a reason why she’d thought it best to ignore me. She left in a hurry, didn’t even leave a goodbye note. If that wasn’t a sure way of letting me know she wanted me gone, I didn’t know what was. She wanted nothing to do with me, didn’t care about my feelings.
And I chose to respect Mila’s decision, as much as it hurt to spend day after day without her there.
After the divorce was finalised a few weeks ago, I was able to keep the house. After all, my money had paid for it, and Monique seemed content with her boss’s expansive estate. I assumed money wasn’t an issue for her any more.
I stayed in town, a decision someone would think stupid. Maybe I should have left like Mila, left it all behind and started a new life in a different city. Maybe I was a fool, but I couldn’t leave. Something was keeping me here, maybe my roots or the memories that tied me to the house.
Pulling up in front of my destination, I turned the ignition off and got out of the car. I should have felt weird about coming here for lunch, but it felt good to have a routine, a place to go each week instead of sitting in an empty house staring at the four walls. There was no doubt I was in a rut, and I knew eventually that I’d regain my strength and dust myself off. In the meantime, when I’d lost everything, at least I still had my family to count on.
Except, of course, for my stepsister, the one I wanted the most… But I promised myself I wouldn’t dwell on that too much.
I rang the doorbell and waited to be greeted. My mother arrived moments later and enveloped me in a tight but stiff hug.
“Hello, Devan,” she said. Her voice was a little tense, but I chose not to inquire about it and followed her inside the house. My stepfather greeted me in the same formal way. They both seemed a little reserved.
But as we sat down to lunch, it became more and more obvious there was something plaguing their minds. My mother’s knife clattered to the floor as she distractedly reached for her wine glass, and I looked at them both with narrowed eyes.
“Okay, enough is enough. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know what you mean, dear,” my mom replied, and waved away my question, dismissing it.
“Fine then, but have you heard from Mila?” I finally asked, my routine question of the week. I always asked about her, without fail, and they always gave me some bullshit answer.
But as soon as the question was out of my mouth, I saw them exchange guilty glances. There was definitely something going on and they were struggling whether or not to tell me. I pushed away my untouched wine glass, trying to distance myself from the dulling effect of the alcohol. I’d not touched a drop since Mila left and I wasn’t about to start now.
“Tell me what’s happened,” I said sternly, laying my knife and fork upon my plate as I stared my mother down. I assumed she would be the first one to break, but she wouldn’t meet my eye, keeping her gaze focused on the intricate design of the tablecloth.
I looked to my stepfather, Eddie, instead for answers, hoping to catch a break.
“You need to tell me, whatever it is. At least tell me is she okay? She’s not hurt is she?” I begged them, hoping to finally eek out a morsel of information to soothe my churning stomach. I needed to know what was going on - I knew it was important.
“You really care for her, don’t you?” my mother asked all of a sudden, her tone quiet. I looked at her desperately, realising I was going to break down if we kept this up.