Four months ago, I was planning our third anniversary, a trip to Aruba. All-inclusive resort, drinks on our private cabana, sex on the beach, and more importantly, uninterrupted time together.
Eight months ago, after being relegated to the background of his life for too long, I demanded that he fulfill his promises tome. Not just his constituents.
Seven months ago, I sat at the doctor’s office by myself, reeling from the devastating news that the pap smear I thought was routine was anything normal.
Six months ago, I had to make a life-altering decision. The high-grade, precancerous cells were very far up in the cervical canal, and my doctor recommended a hysterectomy. The gut punch was so visceral that I collapsed onto the floor and cried until I lost consciousness.
When I woke up, I was surrounded by my family. My sister, my mother . . .Where was Rick? Probably meeting with state government, corporate donors, or his bitchy, blonde campaign manager. I wasn’t insecure. I knew Rick loved me, but I couldn’t stand her. That sickly sweet smile, her nice-nasty comments, the way she never failed to touch him when she talked . . . Scratch that. I hated her.
I hated her perky breasts.
I hated her green eyes.
I hated her voice.
But most of all, I hated that she still had her uterus. And I wouldn’t have mine in a couple of months.
Since I wanted to live though, I scheduled the procedure. June fourteenth, the day before our anniversary. Devastated, I canceled the trip I thought would heal the part of our marriage that seemed damaged beyond repair. Because now I didn’t want it anymore, now I couldn’t trust him to be there for me, with me, and now there was no love to save.
Only pain.
Only resentment.
After we left the doctor’s office, my lawyer filed the divorce complaint. That same day, I moved his shit out of the house.
Last month . . . the divorce was finalized, the judgement signed, the decree tucked away in my locked file cabinet. The ring was sitting in a drawer. The house sold in three days. And now, I was surrounded by bittersweet memories, an empty house full of promises that had never been kept.
After nine years together, we were just done.
When I met him, I thought he was my forever. He made me feel like a princess, a priceless artifact covered in bubble wrap. He was gentle, giving, sweet.
Our wedding was beautiful. I still remembered the way the sun felt on my skin, the smell of the flowers, the sound of the harp playing as I walked down the aisle escorted by Jax. I could still see his handsome face, saying my vows in front of everyone and our mamas. It was the beginning of a lifetime together full of firsts as a married couple. First house. First . . .
I swallowed hard as tears streamed down my cheeks.
I meant every word of those vows. I never expected it to be temporary. I imagined growing old with him, raising kids together, retiring to sit on a wraparound porch watching our grandkids run in the yard. Now, he was just my past. A dream deferred.
Urick Roberts.
Heir to the Spencer Fortune. All around good guy. Sweet boyfriend. Devoted son, brother, and friend. Committed community organizer. Soon to beex-husband.
I finished my glass of wine and poured another. Taking a sip, I padded to the bedroom. The room swayed around me, but I didn’t care. Because drunk was on the menu. Drowning my sorrows was in my immediate future.
I needed to forget.
Yes, I was that girl. On the outside, I looked like a boss bitch. Career.Check. Family.Check. Friends.Check. Money. I had my own shit before I married the wealthy son of one of the most powerful men in the state.
And shit, I fielded offers from headhunters every single day looking to poach me to run their HR divisions. My employer offered me a C-suite position. If I took it, my official title would be VP of Organizational Development. Higher salary. Stock options. Executive benefits. A vehicle allowance. And a significant retention bonus.
Rick told me to turn it down, to prioritize home, to think of our future family.
Grumbling a curse, I stepped into the master bathroom, pausing when I noticed my reflection. Most days I couldn’t look at myself without seeing my failures, my losses.
I glared at the mirror, taking in my puffy eyes, dull hair, and frumpy attire.
Rolling my eyes at myself, I walked to the closet. I struggled to pull the door open. For some reason, it wouldn’t budge. Was it locked? Or was I too drunk?
Oh shit . . . I had topush, notpull.
