I’m now four months pregnant, and I have to do something. We’re eating at a nice restaurant so I figure this is as good a time as any. No one would make a scene here. I take a deep breath, put it out there, and act as upset about the whole thing as he is.
The shock on his face when he hears the happy news surprises even me. He glares at me with a look I’ve never seen before. “Faith, how could this happen?” he demands to know.
“I don’t know,” I respond. “I missed some pills but I thought I made it up later.”
I don’t know what happened to my darling husband who forgives me for anything. He’s furious, and accuses me of getting pregnant on purpose. I pretend to be shocked that he’d even suggest such a thing. So much for the expensive restaurant. We argue through the whole meal, all the way home, and throughout my pregnancy.
From this day forward, everything falls apart. Our happy home becomes a battlefield, and our arguments don’t always go well. They say time heals all wounds but this is one wound that just won’t heal. He gets angrier the bigger my stomach gets. Nothing I say convinces him that I didn’t do this on purpose. Our arguments go round and round and we always find our way back to the same points we keep rehashing but never resolve—including my pregnancy. No matter how many times I tell him to just get over it, he won’t.
After so many years, we know each other’s vulnerabilities, how to reopen the wounds that never heal, and how to twist the knives we inserted long ago. We’ve fine-tuned the art of hurting each other. We practically know everything the other person is going to say before they even say it.
As the years pass, the things that divide us become greater than the things that draw us together. Our arguments become more and more frequent. They’re interrupted briefly by flashes of our old marriage or my sexual advances that never fail but only provide a brief reprieve.
Long gone is our vow to never go to sleep angry. Instead, it’s replaced with days, and sometimes weeks, of angry nights and silent mornings. Our arguments might last a few hours, a few days, or a few weeks. It now feels like all we do is argue.
There’s one big difference between us. Ryan can forget everything within a day or so. We can be screaming in the morning right before he leaves for work and he’ll call me two hours later and invite me to lunch like everything’s fine. He expects me to do the same thing but that’s something I just can’t do … or won’t do. I forget nothing. I hold on to every word, every argument, and our arguments take everything out of me. I’ve become angry, sad, and depressed. The depression comes over me like a dark cloud that covers the sun and pours down the rain. Some days I just sit at home and cry.
Ryan urges me to see someone like it’s me who needs help. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just trapped in an unhappy marriage. I’m in pain, and the pain just keeps getting worse. I eventually stop trying and stop caring. We argue all through my pregnancy until we rush to the hospital.
The minute our daughter is born, he treats her no different than the others. We name her Hope.
– CHAPTER 12 –
Everyone needs a best friend—that one person you can tell everything and who’s always there for you. My best friend is Sharon. We’re the same age, and we live in the same neighborhood. She knows me better than anyone else because we spend so much time together. Many mornings she comes over to my house or I go to her house after Ryan leaves for work. We call it our “wine therapy.” Talking over a cheap bottle of wine costs a lot less than seeing a professional counselor but accomplishes the same thing. It’s better to talk to each other than to hold it all inside.
She understands what I’m going through with Ryan because she’s going through the same thing in her own marriage. Her husband is too controlling, gets too angry, and they argue all the time. There’s one big difference between her marriage and mine. She doesn’t love her husband and she never did. Her husband is completely unemotional and an absent father. I, on the other hand, have a husband who’s a great father and who can be a very loving husband. I’m still holding on to the love I once felt for him.
Sharon just filed for divorce, and she wants someone to talk to. I know everything about her marriage, and now I know everything about her divorce. It’s not that she has any great insight. She mostly confirms what I already know. I’m a good wife and Ryan is lucky to have me. My arguments with him have been getting worse, and I turn to her again and again.
“I don’t know who he thinks he is,” I say. “He treats me like I’m a child.”
“He just wants to control you,” Sharon says as she pours the wine.
“You know, the other day I tried to walk out the room, and he pushed me back and blocked the door. When I tried to go around him he grabbed my arms.”
“Did you call the police?” she asks.
“I don’t know, “I shrug. “It wasn’t really like that.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she say drawing the words out. “How many times do I have to tell you? Call the police! He’ll be arrested – problem solved!”
“I know, I know,” I say, wiping the tear that’s about to fall down my cheek.
“Faith, you’ve been saying this for months,” she continues to push. “God did not intend you to live like this.”
“Well, it’s not all him. Maybe I push his buttons.”
“Look at me,” she demands, and then pauses until she has my full attention. “That’s ridiculous. You don’t push any buttons. You’re too good a person, and too good a wife for him to treat you like this.”
“He’s never got over me getting pregnant again,” I assure her.
As far as she knows (as far as everyone knows) my pregnancy was one of those things that sometimes happen. “That’s a bunch of shit,” she says. “It’s no big deal. Do you really think he cares? He’s just holding it over your head because it’s all he’s got.”
“I think men and women are just wired differently,” I say.
“You can say that again! They’re nuts and they think we’re here to serve them.”
“Stop it!” I laugh and take another drink of wine.
“Maybe it’s his fault. Maybe it’s your fault. Maybe it’s both of your faults. At this point, it doesn’t really matter does it?”
“But I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” I say. “I’ve got nowhere to go.”
“You don’t have to go anywhere,” she says exasperated from explaining this to me for the millionth time. “Just divorce him. Make him go somewhere.”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know. He’s a good father. The kids love him. I don’t want to do that to the kids.”
“You’re not doing anything to the kids. It’s him doing it,” she reassures me. “He will still see the kids. They’ll be fine.”
“I know, I know.”
“I’ll be here for you,” she says. “No matter what. You know I’ll always be here for you.”
Most of our conversations go like this. She makes no secret of the fact that she wishes I were single like her. It’s nice to talk to someone who always supports me. She’s insists I’ll never be whole in my marriage because Ryan will never change but I still believe my marriage can be saved.
My parents see things differently. My dad has always liked Ryan. He compares him to Jake—not a high bar there. He always wants to know both sides of the story. Sometimes I feel like he’s on Ryan’s side, which he denies. My mom explains how they went through hard times in their marriage but never gave up. She reminds me that Ryan’s a good father and a good provider. They both urge me to see a marriage counselor and work things out. Part of the reason I stay is because I don’t want to disappoint them.
Ryan tries to talk with me, and also suggests counseling. I don’t want to go. He’s good at talking. Give him ten minutes, and a notebook, and he can convince a counselor that I killed Kennedy. I’m not perfect, but he’s the one who causes most of our fights. If it’s not one thing it’s another: I’m dishonest, I got pregnant on purpose, I spend to
o much money, I go out too often, Sharon’s a bad influence, I forgot to pick up his clothes from the cleaners … blah, blah, blah. Somehow, it’s always my fault. We argue more and more until we both just give up; or maybe it’s just me who gives up. Either way, counseling is a big waste of time.
– CHAPTER 13 –
Ryan no longer wants me hanging out with Sharon; not that he ever really liked the idea. He never tells me directly, but his little comments make it clear that if it were up to him, we’d end our “girls’ night out” trips completely. He somehow found out Sharon filed for divorce, and asks if I know about it. I act shocked to hear the news I already know.
As soon as Ryan gets home from work on Thursday he lets me know he’ll be busy getting ready for a hearing the next day. I call Sharon to arrange a meeting for drinks and a catch-up. I really want to tell her that Ryan found out she filed for divorce. Ryan has an office in the house so I walk in while he’s reading a law book or something.
“Hey Ryan, all the girls are getting together this afternoon.”
“All the girls?” he asks like I’m somehow lying.
“Yes,” I say. “You know, my friends?”
“I don’t know why you have to go out drinking all the time.”
“First, I don’t go out all the time,” I snap. “There’s nothing wrong with going out now and then. You should go out with your friends.”
“I don’t need to go out without you. I’m happy being with my family.”
“It’s not about not being happy being with my kids. It’s about taking a break … spending some time with friends.”
“I’m going to be pretty busy. What about feeding the kids first?” he asks.
“I’m not going to be out too late. I’ll be back in plenty of time to fix dinner.”
He gets up, comes to me, and puts his hands on my waist. “Have a good time,” he says as he reaches in for a kiss.
I turn my head slightly so he kisses the side of my mouth. As soon as I do this, I realize it was a mistake. His smile turns to a frown, and his eyes flash anger for just a moment. I wanted a clean getaway. The last thing I want is to spoil my night with an argument right before I’m about to leave. I turn around and go into the bathroom, expecting Ryan to follow me. I’m relieved when he goes back to his desk.
This is the night I meet Paul. Sharon and I are finishing our first margarita when the waiter brings over two more. “This is from the gentleman at the end of the bar,” he lets us know.
We look toward the bar, and an attractive man raises his beer in a toast to us. He’s dressed in blue jeans with a light blue dress shirt and boots. He has light brown hair, and a nicely trimmed beard. He’s in good shape, and appears younger than either Sharon or I. From where we sit, he looks like Brad Pitt except taller. Sharon smiles and raises her margarita glass back to him. It looks like they’ve made a connection. I nod as if to say “thank you,” and take a sip of my drink.
Sharon and I go back to our conversation. She was telling me about a guy she met online. They’re getting together for their first date after we finish our drinks. The conversation turns to Ryan and me.
“So, what’s up with Ryan?” she asks.
“Well, he asked me if I knew you filed for divorce. I lied and said I didn’t.”
“Are you kidding me?” she quips, raising her voice. “You think he’s spying on me?”
“I don’t think so. When you file for divorce, it’s public. I’m sure he looks at these things.”
“Oh,” she says more calmly. “Things any better between ya’ll?”
“Not really. We just can’t seem to get along.”
“So what else is new?” she asks mockingly.
“After he told me you filed for divorce, he said how sorry he felt for your poor kids. He lectured me how it’s the kids who pay the price.”
“Oh, give me a break,” she says sarcastically as she takes a drink. “Why are they always so concerned about the kids when you’re walking out the door? Where’s this concern when they’re treating you like shit?”
“Exactly,” I say, pointing my finger in the air. “That’s just what I was thinking. It makes me sick. You know, Ryan can always move on like it never happened but I can’t. It’s all too much for me. I remember things that happened ten years ago. I just can’t move on anymore.”
“That’s how men are. I don’t know how they can go on like it’s nothing,” she says. “It’s delusional, really.”
We’re in the middle of talking when the gentleman from the bar comes to our table and stands next to me. He gives us a smile and asks, “Would you beautiful ladies like some company?”
“Aren’t you something?” Sharon giggles giving him a once over. “I’m Sharon and this is Faith.”
“Hi, my name is Paul,” he says, extending his hand to me.
“Please, sit down,” Sharon offers, pointing at the chair next to me before I have a chance to say anything.
“I’m not interrupting anything important, am I?”
“Not really. Just girl talk,” Sharon answers for both of us.
He tells us he works as a computer programmer, and moved to Austin ten years ago from California. Sharon tells him that she’s a teacher and I’m a stay at home mom. For the most part, I stay quiet and hope he directs his attention to Sharon. Instead, he keeps looking at me.
After fifteen or twenty minutes, Sharon stands up to leave. “I’m sorry to be a party pooper but I really have to leave,” she laughs. “I’ve got a hot date.”
I look at my watch, and see it’s 6:42 p.m. I reach for my purse sitting on the edge of the table. “I’ve got to go too.”
He puts his hand on my arm with just enough pressure to hold me in place. “At least finish your drink.”
Sharon gives me a devious look as if she concocted this entire situation on purpose. She picks up her purse and leaves me alone with this attractive man and a husband at home waiting for dinner. My intentions are innocent. I’ve never been unfaithful at any time in my thirteen-year marriage despite more than a few opportunities. It’s flattering to get the attention, and I flirt back from time to time, but it always ends there.
How long can it take to finish one margarita? I ask myself.
After Sharon walks away, Paul turns all his attention to me. “You have beautiful blue eyes,” he says, looking right at me.
Usually, when a man pays me these uninvited compliments, I raise my left hand to show my wedding ring and say, “Thank you, but I’m married.”
Maybe it’s my second margarita setting in. Maybe it’s Ryan questioning me about “another happy hour” with Sharon. Whatever the reason, this time I take my left hand, lower it to my lap, and slide my two-carat diamond ring off my finger.
“Well, thank you, and thanks for the drink,” I say. I take another sip, and ask, “What about you? Do you have any kids?”
“I have a little girl who’s seven years old,” he answers.
The conversation continues with mostly introductory small talk until I finish my margarita. As I walk across the restaurant to the bathroom, I feel the margaritas. I enter the ladies’ room, go to the bathroom, and look at myself in the mirror. I put on fresh lipstick, and whisper, “Faith, what are you doing? Go home.”
I return to my table ready to excuse myself, and leave but another margarita is sitting where I left my empty glass.
“I really must be going,” I let him know.
“One last drink … I promise.”
“Okay, one last drink, and then I’ve got to go,” I declare, putting my purse back on the table.
“Deal.”
I sit back down, and we continue. He was married for nine years and they recently separated. Now he’s back in the dating world. He turns the conversation back to me.
“Do you have kids?” he asks.
“I have two girls and one boy,” I tell him.
“Wow, three kids,” he says with a smile. “How nice.”
What? Three kids
didn’t send him out the door? Having three kids is one of my biggest fears about dating again but if Brad Pitt doesn’t care, maybe three kids aren’t going to be a problem after all. Obviously, there are men out there, beautiful men, who are still interested in me even with three kids.
It’s so nice to have a real conversation, a wonderful conversation, about me—what I like, what I enjoy, and how beautiful I am. Surprisingly, he never asks if I’m married. I keep waiting but it never comes up.
I’ve had too much to drink, and my inhibitions are low. “Has anyone ever said that you look like Brad Pitt?” I ask.
He laughs. “I get that sometimes.”
“I think Brad Pitt is so sexy,” I joke without thinking. As soon as I say it, I realize how bad it sounds.
“Well, I think you’re sexy,” he says, leaning into me.
“I didn’t mean that!” I stammer.
“So you don’t think Brad Pitt is sexy or you don’t think I’m sexy?” he grins.
“I think you’re both—” I start to answer, and then catch myself. “Can we just change the subject?”
“Well, I still think you’re sexy,” he repeats, obviously wanting to stay on the subject.
We’ve been talking for over an hour. I finally look at him, take a deep breath, and volunteer the answer to the question he never asks.
“I need to be honest with you,” I say as I slip my ring back on my finger, and lift my left hand from my lap. “It’s been really nice getting to know you but I’m married, and this conversation has gone way too far already.”
“I know you’re married,” he says, putting his hand on mine. “I saw your ring when I first sat down, and I was flattered when you took it off. It’s some ring by the way. Someone must really love you.”
The Killing of Faith: A Suspense Thriller You Won't Soon Forget. (The Killing of Faith Series Book 1) Page 7
