Shelf Awareness: Green Valley Library Book #4

by Romance, Smartypants

  He gave a quick bob of his head. “Yes.”

  “And we’re over,” I murmured.

  Remorse filled Grant’s face. “I’m sorry, Fin. Although there has been such exhilaration in finally acknowledging who I am, it comes at a terrible price for our marriage. Both Xavier and I never meant to hurt you.”

  Right. That same trite sentiment again. Regardless of how many times they voiced it, I certainly didn’t feel any less hurt. In fact, the anguish only seemed to grow. Before I could tell him to get out and I never wanted to see him again, he beat me to the punch. “Look, I’ll go and give you time to process all of this.”

  “That’s it? You’re just going to drop a bomb on me then walk out the door?” I protested.

  “I think we both know there’s nothing else I can say or do that wouldn’t be detrimental.”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I countered, “Are you really that concerned about me, or are you more concerned with running after Xavier?”

  Once again, his expression betrayed his feelings. “Get out,” I once again said.

  Grant didn’t argue with me. Instead, he quickly turned and fled the bedroom. When I heard the front door slam, I slowly sank down onto the floor. I didn’t know how to “process this” as Grant had suggested. How does one even begin to process the demise of their marriage? The decimation of the world they had built with another person? A person I had loved with all my heart, who had broken our martial vows and cheated on me. The man I had planned to be the father of my children. The man who in the end turned out to be a complete stranger.

  The tears began in tiny drip-drops. As the recollection of happy memories coupled with broken dreams charged through me, the tears began to flow as a stream.

  Life was so fucking unfair.

  Chapter Two

  Thursday night found me sitting in the middle of my marriage bed, or I suppose I should say my former marriage bed, surrounded by mounds of Grant’s pants and underwear. After calling in sick to work, I had spent most of the day gorging myself on carbs. All the delicious and decadent foods I’d given up in the past three months under Xavier’s training. Every time I popped a Cool Ranch Dorito in my mouth or licked the buttery crumbs of a biscuit off my lips, I felt it was a giant fuck-you to Xavier. I’d denied myself over and over to look better for Grant, and all the while, he was expending calories fucking my trainer.

  Bastards.

  In the end, Xavier didn’t give two shits if I died by carb excess, and Grant didn’t care how I looked because I didn’t have a dick.

  I would be lying if I said last night hadn’t been rough. I couldn’t bring myself to sleep in my bed. It wasn’t so much about not wanting to sleep alone, but more about the fact I kept imagining Grant and Xavier in it. The two of them doing it in my bed. Even after stripping the sheets and duvet and tossing them in the trash, I still didn’t want to sleep there. Instead, I’d slept on the couch and woken up in an ungodly position with a giant crick in my neck.

  At noon, I decided there was no time like the present to call my parents, especially since they were expecting us to come spend the weekend with them. After crying through a conversation with my mom, I’d then rehashed everything with my dad when he’d returned from the hardware store. Even in the midst of my overwhelming heartbreak, I was grateful for the parents I had. I could’ve been cheated on and had no one to turn to.

  Emotionally spent after unloading all my drama, I’d holed up in the guest bed, watching the results of my “men who cheat” search on YouTube. Nothing had come up under my original search of “dirty bastards who screw around.” It was after watching one of my favorites, Waiting to Exhale, that I had a breakthrough. Sure, one might say rounding up your husband’s clothes to cut the crotches out of them was more of a breakdown than a breakthrough, but I didn’t care. I had a purpose.

  So, there I was annihilating the crotches of Grant’s pants when the phone rang. When I threw a glance at the caller ID, I grimaced. Normally, I loved hearing from my maternal grandmother. Beatrice Eloise Simmons, or Bea as she was more commonly known, was the epitome of an overindulgent Southern grandmother. For as long as I could remember, her silver hair had been teased and cemented into place once a week at The Beauty Mark, Green Valley’s most happening hair salon. Actually, it was the only hair salon.

  Although she’d just turned eighty this past December, she was as vibrant as ever. As Queen of the Pastels, the only time you’d ever find GramBea in black was during times of mourning. Like Queen Elizabeth II, she rarely went anywhere without her handbag, or pocketbook as she called it. Within its depths, she carried an abundance of lace handkerchiefs along with a veritable smorgasbord of different hard candies. I attributed my early weight issues with her heaping helpings. Not to mention her propensity to have dessert at every meal.

  Just let it go to voicemail the voice in my head chanted.

  “She’ll just call back,” I argued. Great, now I was talking to myself. First thing on my to-do list for tomorrow was to make an appointment with a therapist. Maybe I could find one in the same building as a divorce lawyer since that was also on my list.

  With a frustrated grunt, I finally picked up my phone. “Hello?”

  “Finley Anne, it’s me, GramBea.” It was her signature greeting. Not only did she call me by my first and middle name, but she felt the need to announce who she was in spite of caller ID and voice recognition. She’d gotten her moniker of “GramBea” after her grandchildren found Grandmother Bea too much of a mouthful.

  “Hey, GramBea. How are you?”

  She harrumphed in my ear. “Sugar, you know as well as I do that I didn’t call to talk about me.”

  “I didn’t imagine you did,” I grumbled.

  “I just got off the phone with your mama. Why on earth didn’t you call me and tell me about this business with Grant?”

  I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. The one thing I had said to my mother was to keep the news about Grant quiet. Until I felt stronger, I didn’t want anyone but her and my dad to know. I would inform my brother and the rest of my family later on. “I’m sorry, GramBea. I just couldn’t bring myself to talk about it anymore.”

  “Well, that’s understandable. I mean, it’s one thing to find out your husband is cheatin’ on you, but then to find out it’s with another man? Mm, mm, mm, it’s just inconceivable.”

  Pinching my eyes shut, I replied, “Yes, it is.”

  “Now listen, I don’t want you beating yourself up over this. There was nothing you could’ve done differently.”

  “Except have a dick,” a voice bellowed in the background.

  My eyes popped open. “Are you with the girls?”

  “Of course I am, honey.”

  It was a dumb question on my part. For the last five years, GramBea, her younger sister, Dorothy, or Dot, and their best friend since childhood, Estelle, had lived together in GramBea’s rambling two-story house right off Main Street. They had their very own Golden Girls house, minus the Miami heat and the lanai. With its columns and wide front porch, it resembled something out of Gone with the Wind. All three women had been widowed within a six-month period. Well, Estelle had actually lost her wife rather than her husband. Because of the small-town stigma toward same sex couples, she and her wife, Millie, had been living in Chattanooga for the last forty years. It was a combination of both their Southern charm and loneliness that allowed GramBea and Dot to talk Estelle into moving back to Green Valley.

  While my mom had grown up in Green Valley, she’d left to attend the University of Tennessee. It was there she met my dad, and they ended up settling in his hometown of Smyrna, which was almost three hours away from Green Valley. As a child, I spent many weekends at GramBea and Granddaddy’s house. When summertime rolled around, my brother, Everett, and I holed up for weeks on end. Along with GramBea’s house, Green Valley was like a second home to me.

  “Listen, honey, I’m going to put you on speakerphone for the girls.”

  Before
I could protest that I most certainly did not want to discuss my cheating husband over speaker, I heard my great-aunt Dot’s breathy voice. “Finnie, I’m so, so sorry. I want you to know I’ll be praying for you.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Dot.” With Aunt Dot praying, I knew I would make it on the church’s prayer list before morning. She was so devout GramBea usually said her heart was more Holy Rollin’ Pentecostal than First Baptist. I could almost picture Dot standing there wringing her hands, as she often did when she was upset. Physically, she and GramBea were almost mirror images of each other. Instead of wearing her silver hair teased, Dot swept hers back into a stereotypical old lady bun. While they might’ve looked alike, they were so different when it came to their personalities. Dot was shyer and far more reserved. Her only child, Preston, lived in Chattanooga.

  “Anything you need, sweetheart. I’m right here, day or night,” Dot said.

  “I know. And I appreciate it. I really do.”

  The sugary sweetness of Dot’s voice was replaced by no-nonsense Estelle’s. “Finn, you know I have some friends in the community who could easily work Grant over.”

  I snorted. While Aunt Dot was all thoughts and prayers, Estelle was tough-as-nails, which showed through with her revenge offer. Sometimes I wondered how the three of them had become friends in the first place. Aunt Dot and GramBea had spent their lives as housewives and church and community leaders while Estelle had moved off to the big city to become a therapist with a focus on sexual health. Now retired, she had a studio where she taught yoga and sold essential oils. Of course, when Estelle moved away in the fifties, it had more to do with small town ideals toward her sexual preference. Estelle was the tallest of the group with a lithe body like a dancer while her hair was styled into a silver bob.

  “While I appreciate the sentiment, it won’t be necessary,” I replied.

  “Just remember it’s there if you need it.”

  “Thank you, but I think I have things pretty much under control.”

  “You aren’t contemplating something irrational, are you dear?” Aunt Dot asked.

  “Define irrational.” I shot back.

  She tittered nervously. “You aren’t holding a weapon?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.” At her sharp intake of breath, I added, “A pair of scissors.”

  Shrieking, GramBea said, “Oh honey, don’t massacre that gorgeous head of hair of yours!”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m not cutting my hair.”

  “Then what are the scissors for?”

  “If you must know, I’m cutting the crotch out of all of Grant’s pants.”

  “Why on earth would you do that?” Dot asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious? I’m an English major. Since symbolism is my life, I’m symbolically cutting his dick off for cheating on me.”

  Estelle snorted. “Maybe in Grant’s case, you should be cutting the ass out of them.”

  With a groan, I tossed the scissors onto the bed. Using my free hand, I rubbed my suddenly aching forehead. Just a short twenty-four hours ago, my life had been so different. How was it possible it could turn a 180 so quickly?

  “Listen, Finnie, I didn’t call just to commiserate. I—”

  “We,” Estelle interjected.

  “Yes, we wanted to invite you up to Green Valley this weekend. We were talking, and we think a change of scene and society can make a world of difference to the psyche.”

  While the idea of getting out of town wasn’t totally unappealing, I didn’t think I had it in me. Sure, the drive up to the mountains would be therapeutic, but Green Valley wasn’t the metropolis Atlanta was. Even though I hadn’t grown up there, everyone knew I was Bea’s granddaughter. A quick stop at the Donner Bakery to gorge on their delicacies would end up with a harmless interrogation about me and my personal life. I wouldn’t even be able to sneak into the Piggly Wiggly for wine without being noticed. Then inadvertently I’d end up revealing my husband had left me for my male personal trainer.

  “Look, I really appreciate the offer, but I think it’s best if I stay put for the moment.”

  GramBea tsked at my response. “If you stay home, you’re going to do nothing but wallow in self-pity while cutting the crotch out of pants.”

  “That’s not true. I plan to cut up his jockey shorts too,” I argued.

  Estelle snickered. “Nice one.”

  With a grin, I replied, “I thought as much.”

  “Won’t you please reconsider?” GramBea asked.

  “Not right now. I promise I’ll come up in a few weeks.”

  “You better. And let us know ahead of time so we can get baking,” Dot said.

  It was pretty much guaranteed if I went to Green Valley for the weekend, I’d come home weighing ten pounds more. GramBea and Aunt Dot were revered bakers in the community. Whatever decadent delicacies they didn’t make, I was sure to find at the Donner Bakery. “Trust me, I wouldn’t deprive myself of your goodies for anything in the world.”

  “I’m going to put fresh sheets on the bed in the guestroom tonight just in case you change your mind,” GramBea said.

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “You just remember that we’re all here for you.”

  The sentiment caused the ache in my chest to expand, and I fought to speak. When I finally recovered my voice, I choked out. “I know. And I appreciate it.”

  “I love you so much, Finley Anne,” GramBea said.

  “I love you too.”

  After Dot and Estelle echoed the sentiment, I hung up the phone. As I looked down at the half-destroyed pair of pants, I found my desire for revenge had dissipated. My call with the girls had replaced the animosity I felt with love and appreciation.

  For the first time in twenty-four hours, I felt like I could breathe.

  Chapter Three

  When the alarm went off the next morning, I found the emotional respite from my call with GramBea and the girls had sadly disappeared with sleep. Lying in bed, I debated whether to cry or clench my fists in anger. As an equal opportunity mourner, I went for both. I wept as I jabbed the mattress with my fists. I cried and screamed and flailed until I was utterly spent. As I lay there panting to catch my breath, I wanted nothing more than to continue wallowing in self-pity. When and if I felt like getting out of bed, maybe I would set fire to our wedding album. I’d already worked destruction on Grant’s wardrobe.

  However, upon closer inspection, I knew I couldn’t afford to take another “sick day.” Sure, I could have tried to get some work done from home, but I really needed to get back into the office. I didn’t want to lose my husband and my job all in the same week.

  Girding my strength, I somehow pulled myself out of bed and trudged across the bedroom to the bathroom. After a scalding hot shower, I tried as best I could to plaster on enough makeup to hide my swollen eyes. Almost forty-eight hours of crying had left me looking like a puffer fish.

  After exiting the shower, I pilfered in my closet to find something to wear. I lamented I had to put on professional attire, and I couldn’t stay in yoga pants and a T-shirt. As I reached to button my dress shirt, the gleam of my wedding ring caught my eye. Slowly, I brought my hand up in front of my face to stare at it.

  The once gorgeous two-carat diamond with its platinum setting now seemed like a giant farce. Did I continue to wear it and keep up the charade I was a happily married woman? Or did I take it off to symbolize I was no longer held to the bonds of matrimony because my husband had been banging my personal trainer?

  Sure, I still had to go through the fun divorce process to make it legally binding, but I knew without a shadow of a doubt my marriage was over. There was no working through this affair with marriage counseling to try to rebuild broken trust. I was never going to be the partner for Grant. I didn’t have the most vital asset necessary to facilitate his happiness: a dick.

  After twisting the ring back and forth on my finger for a good five minutes, I ultimately pulled my hand away. For now, I would l
eave it where it was. It wasn’t out of any sentimentality. It was more I had realized taking it off would potentially raise questions from my coworkers, which I couldn’t handle at the moment. It was one thing handling GramBea and the girls over the phone. It was quite another having to answer questions face to face.

  I threw on my black dress pants and slid into a pair of black heels. Considering my entire outfit from head to toe was black, I was prepared for someone to ask me if someone had died. That or I was paying homage to Johnny Cash.

  After sliding across the leather seat of my car, I pushed the button to crank the engine. When the sounds of Wednesday’s sex playlist blared over the speakers, I grunted as if I’d literally been punched in the gut. After quickly turning the radio off, I made my usual morning commute in silence. Well, that wasn’t entirely true since the voice in my head was talking non-stop.

  As I pulled into the parking deck, dread began to gnaw in the pit of my stomach. Returning to work meant returning to the world at large, and I wasn’t sure I was emotionally strong enough for that. Considering I had a pretty good relationship with all my work colleagues, it was only a matter of time before one of them innocently said something that would set me off. Maybe for the foreseeable future, I could enact a hermit-style existence.

  When I got inside the building, I stopped for my usual morning skinny latte at the café before heading over the bank of elevators. Balancing the coffee in one hand, I tapped the up button with my other hand. Just as I took a swig of coffee, the elevator doors opened. At the sight of who was inside, I spewed my coffee out.

  My extreme reaction wasn’t just over seeing Grant again. It was the fact Xavier was with him. And they were holding hands. For as long as we were married, Grant never held my hand in the building. He thought it didn’t appear professional. What a hypocrite!

  Seeing him in my bedroom was the worst possible scenario, but the fact he was in my place of work was also horrible. “I’m sorry, Fin. I didn’t think you would be here today when I had Xavier meet me for breakfast,” Grant said.