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Stupidest thing
(Blakely)
Somehow I was supposed to sleep, but alone in a motel room in the literal middle of nowhere, all my emotions caught up to me while staring at the popcorn ceiling, with a gross stain in the corner — we were on the ground floor. What the hell was that stain from?
I had been shocked that Darren had done this to me, but the numbness wore off and it was just raw pain.
What did the text say? I can’t wait until you get back so I can fuck you again...? No that wasn’t quite it: so you can fuck me again. Ugh, it broke my heart.
There wasn’t a lot of difference between I or you, but it seemed important to remember that whoever she was said, ‘you’.
Whoever she was.
I didn’t know because the person who sent the text didn’t have a name, just a red emoji heart.
I hated him with a white hot raging passion.
When he came out of the shower with that dumbass expression on his face. “What?”
I had stared at him with my jaw raising and lowering as I searched for the right words to express my outrage that this was how our marriage would end, with this fucking cliché.
He said, “Are you going through my phone, Blakely?”
All I managed was an apology for the shame of having seen it, “Uh no — I just... the text lit up. We were getting ready to go away. I thought it might be important.”
In retrospect my simpering made me sick.
He yanked his phone out of my hands and gesticulated wildly, “You did this, you’re the one who fucked this all up.”
Then confused by all the loss coming at me all at once, my marriage, my husband, my house, my reputation, my career, anger coming in waves, but also despair mixed with shock. I said, “What — are we not going anymore?”
Because the question seemed like it made sense and I needed to know, because none of any of this made sense.
He dropped his towel, pulled on his underwear, his pants, and yanked open a drawer, digging through it for a shirt. “Of course we aren’t going anymore!”
“Talk to me, Darren, what is...”
He pulled a shirt over his head. “We’re not talking about this while you’re in this mood, you know how you get.”
“How I get? How I get?”
I started stuffing piles of my clothes into my suitcase. We had been organizing for the trip of our lifetime, but now there was no organization, now I was randomly shoving things into pockets.
He grabbed piles of his clothes and shoved them into drawers.
I asked, “What are you doing?”
“Clearly we aren’t going on this stupid trip anymore.”
“This stupid trip? We’ve been planning this since we were sixteen, you are such an ass.” I stuffed wool socks into the side pocket.
“Why the hell are you packing, Blakely?”
I felt wild, like I would start screaming, tears streamed down my face. “Why am I packing? Because I’m fucking going on this trip!”
“You need to calm down, Blakely, you are not going — that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
I was sobbing. “It is not, it’s been my dream, forever, and I’m going.” I scooped up a pile of underwear and shoved it into my pack.
“I’ve got news for you, Blakely,” his voice was cold and mean, “you won’t be able to do any of it without me.”
And he stormed out of our room, and then a moment later stormed out of our house, while I stood there, stock still, staring at where he used to be.
