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I don’t want to keep using my past to justify why my life isn’t where I want it to be today.
Placing my teacup on the coffee table, I wander across the room and pull open the bottom drawer of the console table. Feeling nostalgic, I get out that pile of scrapbooks I put together during high school and during the years of my marriage to Davis. I drop back into my chair with them on my lap.
Smiling to myself, I flip through the happy memories, even as the tears come streaming down my cheeks. I look at our young, innocent, grinning faces in the photos.
God—we really were so fucking happy. I’d give anything to get that happiness back again.
I don’t want to keep using my past to justify why my life isn’t where I want it to be today.
Is that what I’ve been doing in my own life? Have I been using my past decisions as an excuse for depriving myself of the good things I want now?
I don’t know. I’ve searched my brain again and again and again over the past few years. And I’ve never been able to find a way around the one major obstacle that has been keeping Davis and me apart. The one thing that tore our marriage up at its roots.
God—I just want him back.
When the weight of the memories becomes too much, I abandon the scrapbooks in the armchair and trudge up to my bedroom. The tears are really coming down now and it all feels so unfair.
Flinging open the closet door, I nearly trip over my little suitcase in my blind attempt to haul down the tattered shoebox sitting on the high shelf.
Taking the box to the bed, I drop down on the mattress and flip the lid open. This file of evidence is what broke up my marriage. I have a habit of pulling it out of its hidey hole anytime I need a reminder of what’s important.
Like now.
I thumb through the file, growing angrier and angrier with each document I read for the millionth time.
It’s a wonder I haven’t ripped it all to shreds.
My hands shake when I reach for the most crinkled sheet. My fingers curl around the edges and I note how the paper has become marred with mascara smudges and dried tears over the past four years. I stare down at the print-out of the two side-by-side police photographs—one front-facing and the other, a side profile view—of none other than yours truly, holding up a placard featuring my name and date of birth.
My stomach curls with humiliation. I burst into tears.
It’s my mugshot that does me in. Every. Single. Fucking. Time.
Davis has me up on a pedestal in his mind. He’s painted this flawless portrait of me in his head. He’s quick to point out the things that I’ve accomplished in life.
But this mugshot is probably the most accurate depiction of who I really am. To my core. And no matter what Davis thinks, this mugshot isme.
I glance across the room to where a picture of Davis and me sits on my bedside table, next to my endless pile of self-help books. We looked so fucking happy with our arms wrapped around each other, grinning dorkishly at the camera on our wedding day.
But now, everything has changed.
Eventually my ex-husband will run for mayor, and when that day comes, if I happen to be in the picture, this information about me will hit the fan. His opponents will use my past to destroy him. It’s as simple as that. That’s why I have to keep my distance from him.
Mayor Thompson and his corrupt political operatives are still lurking around town, and I know they’ll use my past mistakes against Davis in a heartbeat.
Grinding my teeth together, I slam the folder shut. No, my heart can’t get what it wants. BecauseImade this mess. This is the sacrifice I chose.
So Davis and I can’t be together. Not for my own protection—forhis.
With a sad, tired sigh, I put the file back together, bury everything in the box, and put it away in the closet.
I’ll get it all back out again the next time I’m thinking about running back to my ex-husband.
29
DAVIS
My sneakers pound the pavement. Blaring rock music pounds in my ears. I’m in a particularly angsty mood today and this old Rockhard Butterflies playlist captures the vibe perfectly.
