2. Sable
Growing up, I was trailer park trash all the way.
The daughter of a drunk and a drug addict, I lived in Woody Creek on a forgotten dead-end lot, just like everyone who lived there. The eponymous creek ran close to where we lived, and I’d listen to the water rushing over rocks and pretend my mother wasn’t fucking her dealer a few feet away. Our trailer was a faded pale green. The roof leaked so badly that every spring, my dad, before he up and died, duct-taped a blue tarp over it, which flapped in the wind like a desperate flag, announcing to the world exactly how little we had.
Inside, it was worse.
The carpet was worn so thin you could see the plywood underneath, and the whole place reeked of stale beer and cigarettes.
My father spent most of his days slumped on a battered couch, nursing whatever he could afford from the liquor store in town until he graduated to hardcore drugs that he got from my mother, who, when she wasn’t passed out on her bed, was usually chain-smoking menthols, berating my father. Sometimes, she’d have enough energy to snap at me for looking at her wrong or for asking what was for dinner, which I stopped doing when I was around four years old and figured out how to use a can opener.
Most nights, she didn’t even notice I was there.
My father overdosed the summer I turned thirteen. I found him slumped on the couch with the needle still in his arm, the TV flickering static. I didn’t cry. I just stared at him, waiting for him to start snoring like he usually did when he passed out. But he didn’t. And I knew. I’d been waiting for something like this to happen.
My mother stopped coming home after that. She disappeared like smoke, leaving me in that rotting trailer with no money and no food. I lasted about three days before the neighbor called social services. I was glad she did. The foster care system wasn’t perfect, but it was better than starving in Woody Creek.
The one thing I hated about foster care was the loud voices—all my foster parents were screamers, while some were beaters. I was grateful I’d avoided the rapists. My mother used to yell a lot at me as well, which was why whenever Jack raised his voice, it took me aback. I just bowed my head when he did that for nearly eight years of marriage. Eight fucking years of trying to fit in and not letting anyone remember where I came from, eight years of being polite and gracious, of never losing my temper, always, always conforming.
But that changed. My life changed with one sentence over six months ago.
“Molly is pregnant,” Jack told me about his assistant.
I nodded.
“It’s mine.”
I nodded again.
He’d come home late, as he had been for the past couple of years, and ordered me to take a seat in the living room because he had something to tell me.
Did I suspect he was having an affair? Yes .
Did I expect him to tell me that he’d knocked Molly up? No .
Did it hurt? Like a mother-fucking-fucker .
Would I let him know that? No .
I grew up in foster care, and I learned early on in life not to show emotions. Some people called me cold; Jack certainly did. I called myself practical.
Grow up like I did and tell me if you’d wear your emotions on your sleeve for all to see.
“I know this is a shock for you, but this is how things stand,” Jack continued like he had the upper hand ‘cause he’d had it for all of our time together. I’d been so fucking grateful when he paid attention to me and asked me out all those years ago at the bank where I worked. I’d been so happy when he asked me to marry him. My life, I knew, was never going to be trailer park trash ever again. That much had been and was still true.
“Okay,” I said because he was looking at me expectantly.
Most women would have more of a response than the one I was having for their husband announcing that he had impregnated another woman. But what could I say? I mean, what was done was done, right?
But the hardest part of this was knowing that I couldn’t get pregnant, but another woman had by him—another woman who was fifteen years younger than me.
Molly was beautiful, blonde, cute, and fertile .
We’d tried to have a baby for four years—went through IVFs and miscarriages; it had been hell. When I turned thirty-eight, I told Jack that I was done. He had wanted to continue, but my body was beaten. Emotionally, I felt exhausted from living through the cycle of despair that matched my menstrual one. Also, I was getting older, and I didn’t want to have a baby in my forties.
“Sable, things are going to change,” Jack remarked.
No shit, Sherlock.
“Congratulations on the baby.” I pasted a smile on my face. I mean, what the hell else was there to say?
He gaped at me. This man I’d loved and married. This man I’d taken care of—he’d come home and told me that he was going to be a father with another woman. I knew he was thrilled about it. He’d probably started screwing around on me after I stopped trying to get pregnant. That was two years ago.
“I’m really sorry, Sable. I…we didn’t plan this and?—”
“I know.” I was full of compassion, but, in all honesty, I just didn’t want to hear his excuses because they’d be lame, and I didn’t need to listen to that garbage. “I’m assuming you’ll file for divorce, or should I?”
He gaped at me like I’d grown a second head.
I wish I could record this because this wasn’t what Jack expected. He thought I’d cry and be upset. He thought I’d beg him to stay. I knew him well, so I knew what he thought. But Jack hadn’t bothered to get to know his wife, that much I knew; otherwise, he’d have known that once he screwed around on me, and I knew about it, there was no marriage.
He swallowed nervously, suddenly unsure because the scene wasn’t unraveling the way he’d thought it would, the way he wanted it to.
“You should’ve expected this,” he growled.
Man, he turned that nervous energy around to playing an asshole.
“Molly is exciting, and things between us have been stale,” he continued. “You agree with that, don’t you?”
I only smiled at him, feeling more and more relaxed with where this was going. Jack was one of those people who couldn’t stand silence and would fill it, and in his confusion over my reaction to his news, he was going a little off the rails. It was immensely satisfying.
“I mean, when was the last time we fucked?” he barked.
Nine months ago. It was Christmas break. Jack and I had holiday and weekend sex.
“Since we’ve always had separate bank accounts, the finance part should be easy to split,” I pretended he hadn’t spoken.
He wanted us to have separate accounts—it was his way of letting me know that he had money, not me. We had a joint account for home expenses. We’d always paid fifty-fifty, even though he made twice as much as I did as a bank teller—except for the house; he’d paid the downpayment, though we split the mortgage.
“Molly is sexy as hell. You can’t have children, Sable, and that was the last straw."
Buddy, I get it ‘cause this is my last straw. I was a good wife, a great partner, always there for you, and you just kicked me in my teeth.
“We should sell the house and divide whatever we make on it,” I suggested.
It was as if we were having two different conversations. He was still explaining himself, and I was moving on to separation logistics.
“I don’t want to sell the house. Molly wants to move in.”
“Really?” Now, that was surprising. I wanted to ask, “ She also wants to sleep on the same bed where you and I fucked?” But I wouldn’t. I didn’t have that kind of petty in me. Also, I needed him gone before my false bravado, that I was okay with my marriage dissolving so ignominiously, slipped.
“And I contributed more for the house,” Jack’s voice rose, “so I should get to keep it.”
Really? He was fucking around, and now he wants to screw me over in the divorce.
“According to our prenup, everything we acquired as a married couple needs to be divided—half and half, Jack. Since you started your practice after we got married, I could come after your business. Do you want me to do that?”
Yeah, so even I was surprised those words came out of my mouth. Maybe Jack should’ve fucked Molly or someone else years ago, and I could’ve found my balls through heartbreak and heartache.
He went pale.
Jack was a handsome forty-three-year-old man with silver fox appeal. He had kept all his hair. He wasn’t jacked up when it came to his body, but no one would say he was overweight or anything. He didn’t have a beer gut, and due to his love for running on his treadmill, he was in decent shape. Dr. Jack Cavalieri, DDS, was quite a catch.
Damn it, I’d have to change my last name. No way was I going to stay Sable Cavalieri. I’d done it because Jack insisted. He was antiquated that way and, apparently, in other ways, including having a side piece.
“You can’t do that…you can’t take part of the practice,” he said, horrified.
“Then let’s sell the house and split the proceeds right in the middle, or you can buy me out, whatever works for you. We do that, I won’t touch your…well, anything .”
“Sable, you had this life because of me. I mean, you work as a fucking bank teller and make next to nothing.”
True. My job wasn’t fancy and didn’t pay me the big bucks.
“And according to the law and the prenup your lawyer drafted for us to sign, I’m allowed to continue to have it even if you decide to get your assistant pregnant.” I rose, announcing I was done with this conversation.
I couldn’t stand to look at Jack and talk to him about mundane shit like money when he’d just upended our lives. We’d dated for two years and had been married for eight. I met him when I turned thirty, and now, a decade later, it was over, and he was haggling over finances? Un-fucking-believable.
“Look, Jack, I’m not trying to screw you over or fleece you. We have been building a life for a decade. I worked in your dentist’s office on and off for the past, God knows how many years, whenever you needed it. I helped you build your business by managing your website and all of that before you were making enough to hire someone to do it. Before Molly was bouncing on your dick, I was helping you manage appointments and care for your patients. Trust me, you’re getting off cheap. You make me go to a lawyer, and who knows what will happen.”
The thing about being with someone for ten years is that you know all of their weak spots and where the buttons are located. I pushed all the right ones. Every time one of our friends got divorced, Jack went into a tizzy about how the bitch-wife was taking her husband for all she could because her lawyer was a barracuda.
I smiled as I headed to our bedroom. I stopped and turned around, “Can you move in with Molly until I can make plans and leave the house?”
“What?”
“I’d like you to leave tonight. Now . It’s going to take me a couple of weeks to figure out where to live and move my stuff out of here.”
“What stuff?”
Oh, this was turning out to be fun, and my sore heart desperately needed a little cheer. “Whatever I want, Jack. Like, the dining table.” Oh, yes, since you love it so much, you asshole . “The armchair in the reading nook. You can keep the bed, obviously .”
“What the hell is wrong with you? I’m telling you I’m leaving you, and you are…I don’t know, Sable, you’re being weird.”
“Am I?” I shrugged. “Jack, I’m forty years old. I’m out of fucks to give and too fucking old to be heartbroken. So, I’m not being weird. I’m being practical.”
Oh, the look on his face because I’d just dropped the F word twice in one sentence was priceless, as the credit card ad said.
“This is why we didn’t work out; you’re cold as a fish,” he sneered. “Both in and out of bed.”
I took a deep breath. I grew up in a trailer park and foster care; just because I’d spent a decade trying to make him happy didn’t mean I didn’t have claws. I let them out for a spin.
“Jack, darling, the only reason you felt I was cold in bed was because you have a problem with premature ejaculation.”
“I do not,” he shouted.
“As someone who fucked you for a long time, I can vouch for that.” I stayed calm even though my adrenaline was spiking. “Hell, I’m sure you’ve come before your time with Molly.”
Guilt flashed on his face, and I knew I was right. I wanted to high-five myself. But I was too fucking heartbroken. The man I was going to spend my life with was leaving me. My chance at being normal had been taken away from me. I was going to die alone because Jack, average Jack , had been my last chance at living a life that people on the other side of the tracks had.
“Goodnight, Jack. I’ll expect divorce papers by the end of next week.”
“We should talk about this,” he whined.
I folded my arms and tapped my feet. Petty? Hell, yeah!
“Go ahead, talk.”
He looked flustered because he didn’t know what to say. He’d thought he’d have to get rid of me as I begged him to stay and not abandon me. The fact that this conversation was going well, by all normal standards, was a blow to his ego.
“You can’t have the dining table,” he ground out, his stance aggressive.
I looked at the table and shrugged. “Okay.”
His eyes narrowed. “That’s it?”
“Jack, keep the fucking table. I’m not married to it…hell, I’m married to you, and I have no problem walking away. That’s just a piece of furniture.” With that parting shot, I went into the bedroom, closed the door, and let myself have the breakdown I’d earned.
That had been six months ago, and now, I was past my breakdown and heartbreak, which was a testament to how terrible our marriage was without me even knowing about it. Since then, I’d moved out and on.
I’d found the cutest place to start over—a little cabin tucked into the trees near Snowmass, close to the main village, but with a view that stretched so wide it felt like the mountains were hugging me. The cabin was brand new and top-of-the-line. It had a lovely little porch where I enjoyed my morning coffee and my evening wine. It smelled like pine and freedom, and for once in my life, I could breathe without worrying about being kicked out.
Also, I was able to live the way I wanted. Simply. With Jack, I’d filled our house with knick-knacks, as he expected, and made it freaking doily hell. But I didn’t know that I didn’t like doilies until I lived alone and had the freedom to decorate my house the way I wanted.
Beyond my home, I was also embarking on a new adventure professionally.
Jack ultimately decided to sell the house, which was then snapped up by some out-of-towners looking for a second residence.
I decided to invest half of the proceeds to build a brand-new life, which is why I was at The Wildflower Tavern earlier in the evening.
It was the most exciting thing I’d ever done. I had signed an intent to buy, an agreement with Ben Greyfeather, for the tavern. I was going to be a bar wench…but as the freaking owner.
Ben had been gracious enough to let me take over even before we transferred all the funds. So, I’d quit my job at the bank today and was ready to begin a whole new life. People would soon hear about it, and there would be the usual chatter as there had been and continued to be about Jack and my divorce, how Molly was ready to pop out a baby any second now, and how, as Leslie put it, I was single and therefore ready to mingle . Every moron with a penis had hit on me.
I mean, the old, divorced lady has needs, doesn’t she, and she’ll ride pretty much any cock.
Men were dumber than a box of rocks—if the rocks were drunk, blindfolded, and trying to text their ex at 2 a.m.
If Jack had been surprised with me the night he announced his impending fatherhood, he was now absolutely shocked.
I was no longer conforming. I was unrecognizable. I was a whole new person who knew how to deal with people like Leslie, who never missed a chance to continue playing mean girl. I enjoyed shutting her down, I thought with satisfaction, while I drank my evening glass of wine, the beautiful mountains at my feet.
I was surprised to see Heath Falkner there. I thought he had divorced Alexa, which, in my book, meant that he had brains to go with his good looks. But the fact that he was hanging out with her crowd told me that maybe the handsome came with a whole shitload of dumb.
Too bad because he was the first man I’d met since I became single who had made my lady parts tingle.