by KD Robichaux
I swallow, knowing the floodgates are about to be opened. I’ve hidden my head in the sand all this time, almost seven months now, and now I’m about to be ripped out and left in the sun, feeling overexposed and vulnerable once again. “We talked yesterday. He’s picking up the girls Saturday morning, and they are going to stay the night with him.”
“They are?” she asks, her surprise evident without even looking at her. Mike has been staying with his parents since he told me about the affair, and before, we agreed the girls wouldn’t spend the night with him there. His parents may be super hoity-toity and rich, but they only have a two-bedroom condo. It’s in the most expensive high-rise in the city, but the spare room at their place only has an air mattress that Mike’s been using while staying with them. The room is otherwise a second closet for all of his mom’s luxury handbags and designer shoes, with floor-to-ceiling wall-to-wall cubbies and display cases for all her accessories. Up until now, I’ve lived in a mostly content bubble—well, as content as I could be after my husband cheated on me and moved out—since I always knew my girls would be home in their beds each and every night. Now, I won’t have that, and it’s like a scab has been reopened before the wound ever had a chance to heal.
I finish putting together the sandwich and meet my sister’s gaze, trying to keep my voice as even as possible. “He got a two-bedroom apartment in town and bought the girls bunk beds with a double on the bottom and a single on the top, so they can all sleep in the same room when they stay with him.”
“Oh,” she says, seeming to study me carefully, and no matter how hard I try to keep my shit together, my eyes begin to water. “That’s good, right?”
My chin wobbles, my heart sinking to my stomach. “They need their dad. They miss being with him.” I duck my head, embarrassed by my tears and my reason behind them. I want my babies home with me.
“Are you crying because the girls are going to be staying with him?” she finally asks after an awkward silence.
“Yes.” I shake my head, looking back up at her. “No.” I shake it again. “I don’t know. I think I thought we would work things out and he would eventually move home.” I glance away before meeting her eyes again. “Now he has a place of his own, so I think that means we really are done.”
The look on her face shows her shock. “You wanted him back?”
No. Most definitely not. I don’t want him back. I want my life back. Back when I didn’t have to worry from sunup until sundown if we were going to make it to the next paycheck without our account going negative.
I want to scream in frustration, because I don’t know what I wanted, what I expected to happen. It’s been seven months. I should’ve known in the first one or two that Mike had no desire to work things out. And now that I think about it, I’m actually shocked that, if he knew he didn’t want to fix our marriage, he waited this long to get his own place.
Which sends a shock of panic through my system.
What does that mean?
He can’t afford to pay for two households.
What will I do if he cuts me off?
I’m barely surviving on what he gives me now. Which is my own damn fault, because I told him I didn’t want any more help than what the courts would deem fair for child support for three kids. I should’ve been taking as much as he was willing to give for as long as possible, socking it away for an emergency—or for when this day eventually came.
I finally speak, my voice pathetic, making me cringe at how weak I sound. “I want what we promised each other when we started dating and got married.” I swipe the tears off my cheeks. “I don’t want him, not the man he is now. I just wish that…. I just wish things were different. I wish he didn’t do what he did. I wish I didn’t have to think about starting over, really starting over. I wish my babies didn’t have to jump between his house and mine and that they didn’t have to experience what we did growing up.” A part of me wanted this to be a stupid speedbump we would eventually get over and things would go back to the way they were before. But at the same time, there’s not one ounce of me that would desire Mike ever again. Not after more than half a year has passed without him making any sort of effort to fix things.
“Cece,” she whispers, and it makes the tears come harder when I see she’s got some of her own in her eyes. “They aren’t growing up like we did. The only thing they know is that both their parents love them and are devoted to making sure they are happy. I know this is all hard on them, but I don’t think they’ve ever felt what we did growing up.”
I drop my head, grip the countertop, and sob. “I’m just so mad at him.”
“You have a right to be pissed. That doesn’t make you a bad person. I know this isn’t easy for you, but I do know you are an amazing mom, and even if Mike is an asshole, he’s still a good dad.”
“I hate him,” I whimper, and the next thing I know, she’s pulling me into her arms.
“You don’t.” She rubs my back and rocks me from side to side. “That’s why you’re so mad.”
“You’re right, but I really want to hate him,” I confess against her neck.
“I know you do, and that’s okay. It’s okay to hate him or love him. You can feel however you need to feel. There are no rules.”
I give an unladylike sniff and close my eyes tight. “I just don’t want my babies hurting because of this.”
“It’s going to be okay,” she promises, and there’s so much conviction in her tone I actually believe her. “No matter what happens, it’s going to be okay.”
“Yeah.” I sniffle, leaning back. “You’re right.” I try to smile, but I’m sure it looks more like a grimace, and when her eyes widen, my heart leaps into my throat when I hear the sound of little feet and then Ruby’s sweet voice greeting Mercury and Retro. I quickly turn away, my hands going to my face to wipe away my tears. Thankfully, my sister intervenes before Ruby sees me so upset, giving me a moment to clean myself up so I can face my little girl.
“Hey, trouble,” I hear Mia greet her.
“Mimi!” I hear her giggle, and I know by her squeals that Mia is tickling her.
“Mimi what?” my sister prompts, tickling her more as she comes farther back into the kitchen. And when I’ve pulled myself together, I turn with a fake smile on my face, but seeing two of my favorite people in the whole world looking so happy, it turns into a real one. No matter how shitty things may seem right now, my life isn’t completely in shambles. Not when I’ve been blessed with the best sister a girl could ever ask for and a daughter who lights up the entire world with just one giggle.
Mia brings Ruby around the island, and my little one reaches her arms out to me. I step into the space between her little limbs, and she wraps them around my neck, letting go of Mia with her legs and locking them around my waist as she clings to me like a spider monkey. And suddenly, the morning doesn’t seem as bad as it had just moments ago.
A week later, I sit at the bar, counting my tips from the night. Somewhere in the restaurant, I hear the sound of Winston sweeping, and just knowing he’s here with me brings a sense of comfort. I don’t know what it is about this man, but his presence has a calming effect on me, even if at the same time he sets off a tornado of butterflies in my stomach that has only gotten more intense since the actual tornado he kept me safe during.
We’re the last ones here. I let the other girls go home earlier, knowing there would probably be a day I’d need them to do my closing duties if my kids ever needed me home. They’re with Mike tonight, and the knowledge that they won’t be there when I get home is making me a little sick to my stomach. This is the second time they’ve spent the night away from me, and it’s making me not want to even go home.
I came to a conclusion last week, the first time I went home to a house empty of my babies.
I want a divorce.
The final thread was cut after I spoke to Mia that morning after Mike told me he got his own apartment. Any lingering fibers of hope holding my marriage tog
ether are severed, and now I’m just done. I told him Sunday when he brought home the girls that I want a divorce, and the look in his eyes—relief mixed with a little bit of stubbornness—solidified my decision. He was done with me and our marriage, no question. I didn’t even need to ask if he wanted to try therapy. I could see it would’ve been a wasted breath.
But the stubbornness I sensed…. Even now, I feel the hot wave of rage filling my gut. That motherfucker refuses to put up the cash for the divorce. Even though he was the one who cheated, the one who moved out and got his own apartment, and even though he’s the one who ruined our ten-year marriage, he’s refusing to pay for the divorce. And on top of that, he won’t give me a reason, making me feel crazy.
“I think it’s time we file for divorce,” I state once the girls are inside and I’ve closed the door, Mike and I standing on the front porch of what was once our family home.
His look shutters, his jaw clenching, and my brow knits in confusion. He seems relieved that I’ve come to this conclusion, but at the same time, he seems stoic about the subject. “If that’s what you want,” he replies, confusing me even more.
“What do you mean if it’s what I want? You’re the one who just moved into your own place instead of even mentioning the idea of… I don’t know, marriage counseling.” My teeth click together at that, and I want to punch myself for admitting that had even crossed my mind.
I want to seem strong, like I don’t give a shit about him, the way he does me. I don’t want him to think I’m sitting at home pining over him, praying that he’ll come back to me. Because while I might’ve thought it was a possibility we could try to work things out, in my heart of hearts, I didn’t really want that to happen. In all of this, one thing was always true—I’m not in love with Mike. I haven’t been for a very long time. But he’s the father of my children, and I made a vow to honor him until death parted us, so I was willing to look past the fact that I didn’t love him anymore, because I was at least content in my life, even without a marriage full of passion.
“If you want a divorce, then it’s on you, Cece. I won’t be paying for it. We’ve got a good thing going right now. I’m paying child support and for half the mortgage. You still get to be on my insurance and only have to come up with enough to pay for the other half of the house and then the utilities. But if you want a divorce, it’ll be up to you,” he told me, spinning on his heel and making his way to his car without a backward glance.
Not that it mattered. I was so flabbergasted I wouldn’t have known what to say to that. I couldn’t think of a single reason why he would’ve wanted to stay married to me even though he had no desire to be my husband.
Which brings me to now, counting the last of my tips and knowing not a single penny of it could be put toward filing for divorce because I need every spare cent I make to keep my household running.
“What’s that face, naekkeo?”
I jump in my seat, my eyes shooting up to look at Winston on the other side of the wooden bar top. He calls me that so often now, even in front of everyone, and when I googled it, it’s the Korean word for sweetheart, a generic nickname most men use here in Tennessee, but with a Winston twist. It makes me smile despite my angsty mood.
I bite my lip in consideration, and then I go for it. “I could really use a drink. Think the boss would find out if we partake in a couple shots?”
His sexy lips quirk upward at the corners, and I have to shoo away the butterflies heading south from their usual place in my belly. “He doesn’t mark the bottles, so I think we’ll be safe,” he teases, and I smile softly. “What’s your poison?”
I tilt my head to the side to look at the wall of liquor bottles behind him. “Well, I’m not much of a shot-taker. I still mostly just drink wine with my sister when the occasion calls for it. But I think I want something a little more than a Kiss on the Lips. Bartender’s choice,” I tell him, and he narrows his eyes on me before turning to the shelves. My cheeks heat when I realize the words that just came out of my mouth. But even so, my eyes lock on his ass the moment he faces away from me, and I quickly glance away before I’m caught ogling his amazing butt in those jeans.
He turns a half circle once more with a bottle in his hand, pulling out two shot glasses before lifting the lid on the tray of garnishes.
“Oh hell. You’re not gonna take it slow with me, are you?” I prompt, seeing he’s setting up shots of tequila with lime wedges and salt, and when his hand holding the bottle pauses midpour, I look up to meet his heated gaze, once again registering what I just said without meaning to. My face flushes even more. “I mean with the alcohol. I thought you might choose something gentle, like a schnapps or something. But no, you went for the freaking Patrón.”
He can’t hide the wicked grin on his face at my flustered tone. “You look like you need the hard stuff, not the… gentle,” he practically purrs, and I clench somewhere I don’t think I’ve ever clenched before from arousal.
I clear my throat, trying to act like I didn’t pick up on his innuendo, or that it at least hadn’t affected me. “You’re very intuitive. But I’ve never done a shot of tequila before, so you have to promise not to make fun of me if it doesn’t go down very well.”
“I can promise you that. But—” He pauses what he’s saying to finish pouring the tequila into the silver shaker with ice, shakes it all up, and then carefully pours the clear liquid into the two awaiting shot glasses. “—Patrón should go down nice and easy. It’s strong but smooth, especially when it’s icy cold,” he explains, and I nod, taking his word for it. I don’t know why, but I trust this man. There’s just something about him, which says a lot, seeing how there’s not a man on this earth I’ve ever been able to trust aside from my stepdad Chaz.
He slides the tiny glass with the lime wedge on the rim across the bar to me before setting a saltshaker next to it. I watch, mesmerized when he licks the side of his fist before sprinkling salt on it, never breaking his intense gaze. It’s not until he prompts me to do the same that I snap out of his spell and timidly touch my tongue to the place where my thumb attaches to my hand. I don’t meet his eyes as I shake some salt onto the wet spot my mouth left behind.
When I do glance back up at him, his eyes are almost molten, and I feel my panties grow wet at just the sight of him. My breath catches, and I swallow, trying to get my bearings, even though it seems impossible around this man.
“Now, take your lime in one hand, and the shot glass in the other. When you’re ready, lick the salt, shoot the tequila, then bite your lime. Ready?” His voice is so deep, so sexy it makes my eyes shutter.
“Shouldn’t… shouldn’t we make a toast or something?” Is that my voice? All breathy and sultry?
He smirks and lifts a brow. “How about—” He lifts his glass, and I do the same. “—to a new beginning?”
I smile softly. “I like that. To a new beginning,” I repeat, and when he taps the bottom of his glass on the wood of the bar top, I do the same and then follow his lead, licking the salt from my hand without breaking eye contact with him and shooting back the cold tequila, my eyes watering a little until I bite into my lime, which soothes the tiny bit of burn with its acidity.
“Oh my gosh. That wasn’t bad at all,” I say excitedly, proud I took it like a champ.
He smiles, lifting a brow in question. “Want another?”
I let out a little laugh. “Only if you’re sure the boss won’t catch us,” I joke.
The boss in question gives me a wink. “What’s another two ounces of liquor? There’s no way he’ll be able to tell.”
We go through the process again with the salt, tequila, and lime, and by the end of it, my belly feels nice and warm, and my lips feel slightly numb. “God, I’m such a lightweight. I feel that already,” I admit, and he corks the bottle.
“Am I gonna have to take you home?” he asks, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the bar.
“Nah, I’ll be fine. Just might have to hang out here
for a while. Which I’m not mad about. I don’t really want to go home to an empty house anyway,” I tell him, and I grimace. I don’t really share much about my dirty details with the people I work with. I don’t want it skewing anyone’s perception of me, especially Winston. Aside from the word vomit that happened during my interview, and I’m sure Stephanie downloaded the entirety of it to Winston, I’ve kept the rest of what’s going on at home close to the vest, just like I do about most of the things that go on inside my mind with everyone else in my life. I’m not very big on sharing with the class, and I know that makes my sister absolutely crazy, but that’s just how I’ve always been.
“An empty house?” he prompts, and a look crosses his face, but I’m not quite sure what to make of it. Worry? Anger?
“Well, not exactly empty. My sister will be there, but my kids aren’t home,” I explain, and I see the unmistakable look of relief in his eyes. He was worried about me being home alone? That’s… sweet.
“Where are the kiddos?” he asks, because he at least knows my sister always watches them on the nights I have to work.
I allow the liquid courage to loosen my tongue, feeling oddly at ease about spilling my guts to this man. “Well, it turns out my ex had no plans of trying to fix our marriage and instead got his own place. The girls spent the night at his new apartment.”
His eyebrows lift at that. “Had you thought you were going to get back together?” he asks—the million-dollar question.
“Like I told my sister, yes and no. There had been no mention of divorce on his part, so I thought maybe he just needed some time… and he stayed with his parents for seven freaking months, so I didn’t know what to think. Then finally he just sprang it on me last week that he’d finally gotten his own place, so I knew for certain he had no plans to try to keep our vows. Which shouldn’t surprise me, seeing as he broke the one about staying faithful.” My nose wrinkles. “Sorry, TMI.”
