Through my tears, I told him to remember this day—the day he broke us.
Discovering your husband doesn’t care enough about your marriage to fight for it is a tough pill to swallow. You want to pack your bags, ask for a separation. And if it were just about you, you would.
But you’ve got three kids sleeping upstairs, and you’ve devoted your entire life to raising them. So it’s not so easy. You don’t want to split time with them; you want to tuck them in every night. Plus, you have no idea what divorce looks like.
So you tell yourself it’s not worth it. You swallow your pride and say you’re sorry, but you aren’t sure for what exactly. And you know you’ll have the same fight again in a week.
Every time your phone dings with a text or email, your heart jumps, hoping it’s him, hoping he’s reaching out, hoping he’s changed his mind, hoping he still loves you enough, hoping he wants to fight for you. But it’s never him.
And you feel stupid for even hoping. You know better.
So you decide to suck it up and stay, putting on the fake smile, tying your hair in a messy bun, putting on your yoga pants, facing mommy duties, doing everything alone, even though you and he are still living under the same roof.
Then it happens one day: a nice-looking guy in your boot camp class smiles at you.
Really fucking smiles.
Your husband never smiles at you like that anymore.
And with that smile, and in that moment, something inside you clicks.
I am worth fighting for. There just might be someone who thinks I’m good enough the way I am, who doesn’t say I’m selfish, dramatic, overly sensitive, nagging, bitchy, or crazy.
Your day’s made by a total stranger. If only your husband ever looked at you like that, the way he used to look at you.
What you wouldn’t give for one glance full of love.
* * *
I knew as soon as I dialed and heard his voice that he was still pissed off from the night before. Clearly, I’d fucked up again. This time he didn’t like the way I exhaled. Apparently, breathing was another thing I wasn’t getting right.
It was a Sunday, and his car wouldn’t start. He was storming around, aggravated because we had so much to do. Our son needed a haircut, and to be dropped off at a friend’s house, and we needed to get to Mass, and it seemed we were going to miss now. It was the third time the car had given him trouble in two months. It was understandably frustrating, and I wanted to help. I grabbed my phone to try to figure out where we could have it towed, and in doing so, I let out a deep breath. That’s when the shit hit the fan.
“What’s that for?” he barked.
I wasn’t sure what to say. I just needed a deep, cleansing breath. That’s what every self-help book in the world says to do to relieve stress. But I knew more stress was coming now. My chest got tight, and I braced myself.
He started ranting. All I could think was that I really felt like I was trying, and yet once again, I was falling short. Maybe because I was trying for two people.
We hadn’t been getting along for a while, and I felt I was the only one trying to make things work. So I did what I had been doing, what seemed necessary: I apologized again.
It made me cry to say it, made me feel small and stupid because he was the one who was cursing, waking up our daughter, going on and on about my breathing and the stupid car.
But I did it anyway. And I hated myself for it.
“I’m canceling our trip to New York,” I said.
“That’s my birthday trip,” he said. “I swear, you are so selfish.”
“I don’t want to go and fight the whole time.”
“We won’t.”
“I don’t want to go and pretend we are alright. We are in trouble. Our marriage is in trouble.”
“You are always so dramatic, Jesus Christ.”
Maybe it was the wrong thing to do, but because I’m not a quitter, we actually went to New York a few weeks later. And as expected, everything was fine for the three whole days we were gone—good hotel, good conversation, good food. But when it was time to come home, time to come back to reality, and there was a little chaos at the airport—typical, stupid travel stuff—he got frustrated and snapped at me at the ticket counter.
Right before I hung my head, I caught the eyes of the woman agent behind the counter. I’ll never forget that look of pity. I felt so small, ashamed. As we were going through security a few minutes later, Ryan gave me a halfway apology, which I just smiled at in return. I was so sad we couldn’t hold on to those three days. But I never expected we could.
I closed my eyes on the plane and tears rolled down my cheeks. I don’t think he even noticed. Up in the clouds, I whispered, hoping God could hear me because we were so close, “Please help me.”
I was tired of feeling so bad, when I was the only one trying. I didn’t want to be sad or hate myself anymore. I deserved better than that. I didn’t want to pretend for one second longer. I wasn’t going to try to be perfect anymore.
* * *
These are just a few examples of the kind of bullshit that infected our marriage. There were so many little things like this, stupid things, really. I can’t say there was a big, life-altering thing that destroyed us; I mean, there was no asteroid that crashed into us.
No, our marriage died a slow death by bullshit, bit by bit. And there came a point—I can’t remember exactly when because it was a gradual thing—that I decided I wasn’t going to give Ryan any more bits of me. When we got married, I made sure to scratch out the obey part in the standard vows, and I know there wasn’t a part about promising to kill my soul, either.
A few weeks after New York, I made the biggest mistake of my life. I started flirting with the hot guy from boot camp class. I told myself it was innocent—a smile, nothing more. And for those few minutes each day, I felt special, wanted, desired. It was addictive.
I let it go too far.
One really good, passionate kiss after class—that was it.
But that was too far.
Afterwards, I sobbed in my car the whole drive home. I sobbed because of what I’d done, but also because I wished I could’ve had the kiss with my husband, not another man. My marriage had become more like a business arrangement than a marriage, and I wanted more.
I pulled into the driveway, walked into our home and told Ryan what I’d just done. Of course, I apologized over and over again, the most sincere apologies of my life. It was the right thing to do—but since we’re divorced, you can imagine my words didn’t fix things.
“I was happy,” he said. “I thought you were, too.”
I really didn’t know how that was possible—maybe Ryan had a lower threshold for happiness than I did, or maybe he, like many other men, was just clueless. “I’m not happy,” I said.
“Why aren’t you happy?” he snapped. “Tell me, what’s so bad about our life that you’re not happy?”
“We’re fighting every week. It actually seems like every day.”
“And that’s my fault, right?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Nothing I do is good enough for you,” he said, throwing up his hands.
“That’s not true.”
“You have no idea how good you have it. So many guys are jerks—staying out all hours of the night getting drunk, cheating. All I do is go to work, come home, take care of you and the kids.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Doesn’t seem like it.”
“Look, something’s wrong with us.”
“What’s wrong is that you want for nothing, you give me no credit, and then you go kiss some other guy! You are so selfish.”
“I know,” I said. “You’ve told me enough.”
“What?” he cried. “After what you’ve done, now you’re going to play the victim card?”
We went round and round in circles for a while, the fight taking a variety of twists and turns, all of them ugly. It was like a bad road trip, constantl
y getting lost, with speed bumps and warning signs all over the place, and never reaching the destination.
We hung on for a little while for the kids, but Ryan never could forgive me. Eventually, he moved out and asked for a divorce. And through it all, I loved him.
CHAPTER TWO
ASK A MAN OUT
Gage and Layla have a place in Atlanta, but they visit Savannah enough that they kept Layla’s cottage here to use when they’re in town. I step up to the front porch and find Gage sound asleep on the swing. Layla must see me coming and opens the front door. She has her finger over her mouth. “Shh!” she says. “He went out to check the mail an hour ago.”
I walk inside and give Layla a hug. My brother did well marrying her. She’s one of my best friends, and a beautiful woman inside and out. “You look . . .” I stop because I can barely breathe. My nose wrinkles up. I can’t help it. I know it’s the rudest thing ever, but something smells terrible.
“It’s the cabbage,” Poppy calls out from the kitchen. “Smells like piss.”
“Hush!” Layla says, peeking over at little Greer asleep in her white and pink bassinet. “Let’s talk in the kitchen.”
I give the baby a quick glance. She’s got Layla’s dark hair and dimples. Layla insists she has my brother’s blue eyes.
“Why do you smell like cabbage?” I ask Layla as she leads me to the kitchen.
“She’s got cabbage in her bra. Can you believe that shit?” Poppy says. “No wonder Gage is outside. The smell probably killed him. Poor man will never want to suck those tits again.”
I politely remind Poppy she’s talking about my baby brother, and I have zero desire to think about him sucking my friend’s tits. But Poppy has no limits, no filter, no shame. She doesn’t care what I think, and I absolutely love that about her.
“The lactation nurse recommended the cabbage,” Layla says. “You guys know I don’t have big breasts usually. I broke my D-cup nursing bra today. I literally busted the thing wide open I’m so huge. At this point, I’ll try anything to calm them down.”
“I know it’s tough,” I say. “I nursed all three of mine.”
“I’m afraid I’m poisoning her,” Layla says. “My nipples are cracked and bleeding.”
“It’ll get easier,” I say. “How’s Gage been?”
“He’s so great,” Layla says. “He’s so happy to be a father. It’s tiring, of course—you saw him outside—but he’s thrilled.” Layla just beams talking about Gage, and he always does the same when talking about her. I wonder if I’ll ever have that again.
“Does he like the taste of breast milk?” Poppy asks.
“It’s actually not so bad,” Layla says.
“You tasted it?” Poppy asks.
“I want to know what my baby is tasting,” Layla says.
“I always knew you were kinky,” Poppy says.
We bust out laughing. There’s something about hanging out with girlfriends. No matter what’s going on, you can be yourself, and they love and get you. It’s the best feeling in the world. It makes me feel safe, happy—rare things these days.
“Gage is counting the days until my six-week appointment,” Layla says.
“Why?” Poppy asks.
“You aren’t supposed to have sex for six weeks after having a baby.”
“No shit?” Poppy cries.
“Yep, I actually think Gage is getting sick of blowjobs.”
I close my eyes and stick my fingers in my ears before quickly changing the subject to something about work. Poppy and I work in Atlanta at my family’s airline, Southern Wings. I’m the head of PR and marketing. Poppy is my right hand. She lives in Atlanta, and I commute back and forth a few times a week and work from home in Savannah the rest of the time. Gage is the CEO of Southern Wings, and he and Layla split their time between the two cities. Between our work commitments and commutes, Layla being a married mom to a newborn, Poppy doing whatever she does with her boyfriend, and my three kids, it’s hard for the three of us to get together. But we make time as much as possible.
“How is it living with Dash?” Layla asks Poppy.
Poppy and Dash have been together about two years. Poppy’s got no desire to get married or have kids. Dash is a pilot at the airline, a longtime friend of Gage, and a former player with the ladies—but he met his match with Poppy. Normally, I’d tell a woman you can’t turn a bad boy into a good guy. That’s something that only happens in romance novels—when the fierce woman captures the heart of the lifetime bachelor, they get married and live happily-ever-after. Come to think of it, it also happened with George Clooney and his wife. But that’s it. Except for Poppy, too. She successfully captured that unicorn.
And Dash is a great guy. At this point, he’d like to do the traditional thing—marriage and kids—but Poppy’s having none of it. So things between them haven’t exactly been smooth lately, but her hair is still holding up. She’s got this weird thing where she abuses her hair with different colors, cuts, and extensions depending on her mood. It’s been its natural dirty blonde color in a cute pixie cut for a good while, but I’m sensing she may soon be hitting up the hair dye aisle and taking a meat cleaver to it. Still, they’ve had their share of nonsense to deal with, the most ridiculous of which is the crap they take for being an interracial couple. It turns my stomach the stuff they’ve had said to them. Dash usually handles it better than Poppy, probably because he’s dealt with it his whole life.
“We only had sex three times this week,” Poppy says. “I think something’s really wrong.”
“Three times, huh?” Layla says. “That’s like twelve hours in Poppy and Dash world.”
“It would’ve been four,” Poppy says, “but he slipped himself inside me without a condom. I reminded him because you know guys, they forget. Only he didn’t forget. He wants to get me pregnant.”
“But you aren’t married,” I say, sounding like the old fogey I am. “I just meant, I thought he wanted to get married.”
“I think he thinks if he knocks me up, I’ll marry him.”
“Why won’t you?” I ask. “He adores you.”
“He wants kids, and I don’t,” Poppy says. “He’s so happy Gage and Layla had a baby. He thinks that will make me want one. Like having babies is contagious.”
“What’s contagious?” Gage says, stumbling in the kitchen and giving me a kiss on the cheek. “If someone is sick, I don’t want them around Greer. Did you wash your hands?”
Layla pats his hand. “No one’s contagious.”
The baby starts crying. “I’ll get her,” Gage says. “You keep doing whatever you’re doing. I’ll take her in the yard. She likes that. I’ll bring her to you in a little bit to eat.”
I always knew my baby brother would be a great dad. We had a great father ourselves. “So what are you going to do about Dash and babies?” Layla asks Poppy.
“I keep telling him that squeezing a watermelon out of my vagina will ruin our sex life. I’ll never be tight again. So instead of sending him sexy pics, I’m sending him episiotomy photos.”
“You are not!” I cry.
Poppy nods, pulling out her phone to show us, but we cower away in horror. Thankfully, Layla quickly changes the subject. “Ryan got the kids this week?”
Nodding, I say, “He’s dating someone—some stylish younger blonde who’s environmentally conscious to boot.” Poppy and Layla exchange a glance. We don’t discuss it, but they both know I’m not over the loss of my marriage.
“Why aren’t you dating?” Poppy asks.
“Because I’m a working mom raising three kids.”
“What a load of shit,” Poppy says. “The kids are gone every other week. Heck, they’re gone now. You should be running through some dick.”
Layla gently touches my hand. “Poppy’s choice of words leaves something to be desired, but she’s right. You should get back out there. You’ve got a lot to offer someone.”
“Like three kids, stretch marks, cellulite, and wrinkl
es?”
“Stop it,” Layla says.
“It’s true,” I say.
“Not true,” Layla says. “You’re just punishing yourself for what happened with Ryan. You paid for it ten-fold already. That’s enough.”
“Is it?” I wonder aloud. “I’m a cheater. How am I supposed to date? The next guy is going to ask me what happened to my marriage, and I’m going to have to say I cheated.”
Layla and Poppy look at me with a strange sadness. I’m not sure if it’s saying what I did, or seeing their faces, or knowing Ryan has moved on, but I start to tear up. I’m usually not a big crier. Perhaps it’s the lingering cabbage stench. Yeah, I’ll blame it on that.
“Maybe you’re a closet masochist,” Poppy says. “Beating yourself up over this. It was one kiss.”
Layla reaches for my hand. “You’ve been through enough pain. Let it go.”
“Just go out and have some fun. Nothing serious. No explanations. Just get your feet wet—and your pussy, too,” Poppy adds.
And just like that, I crack up, and the mood is light and fun again. Thank God for Poppy. “That reminds me. Look what I found when I was cleaning out my wallet this morning.” I reach inside, pulling out my sex bucket list. Poppy quickly takes it from me, and she and Layla begin to peruse it.
“This is great,” Poppy says. “It’s like some sort of sign from God.”
“A threesome is hardly a divine sign,” I say.
“You’ve got to work your way up to a threesome. You can’t just start there,” Poppy says.
“Wait, you think I should do all this?” I wonder.
“Of course,” Poppy says.
“Definitely,” Layla says.
“You guys are crazy,” I say. “I’ve got kids.”
“Start with this one,” Layla says and points to the list. “Number 12—Ask a man out.”
“I don’t even know who I could ask.”
Poppy waves me off. “A guy at the grocery store, on a plane, at the coffee shop, on the side of the road! Who cares? You’ve got to start somewhere. And if he’s more than ten years younger than you, that takes care of number 20, too.” Poppy reaches in her purse. “This should help get you started.”
The Sex Bucket List Page 2
