Chapter 8 – Elijah
Chapter Eight
ELIJAH
T o say that this morning sucks ass would be an understatement.
The first problem declared itself as soon as I tried to open my crusted-up eyes. The finger of sunlight creeping around the edges of the drapes was so bright it felt like a grenade going off in front of my face. My mouth was dry and furry, my head pounding, and I could smell my own sour Scotch breath. Classy.
None of that even compared to the dumpster truck of pain that landed on top of me as soon as I was fully awake. Amber running away from the wedding, then crying on a rain-soaked street.
Amber asking for a divorce.
Shit. Is that still what she wants in the cold light of day? Do I have any chance of talking her out of it? And really, truly… Should I even try to talk her out of it? I press a pillow over my sore head, feeling sick in every possible way.
I love my wife. I have never stopped loving her. But somewhere along the line, I stopped fighting for her. I’ve taken solace in my work, in my family, in my life outside my marriage. Over the last year or so, things have definitely gotten worse between us. We seem to have only two modes—battle stations or avoiding each other. We are strangers sharing a house who see each other at social events but have barely any contact when we’re alone in our home. That’s not normal. At least it’s not a normal I’m used to—my mom and dad were crazy for each other right up until her last day on earth.
Seeing Nathan and Melanie so happy together, and now Drake and Amelia, has really emphasized how empty my own life is. How cold Amber’s and my relationship has become. I’m thrilled for my brothers, but also a little envious. It’s like they’ve finally come alive now that they have the right women in their lives. It’s beautiful. Really beautiful.
I should have that too, but I haven’t for a long time. The vulnerable version of Amber I saw last night was a revelation to me. For longer than I can remember, she has been a closed book, hoarding her true feelings like buried treasure. Always keeping me at a distance.
My phone beeps, and I flail around with my hand until I found it. Damn, even the phone screen is too bright. The message from Amber has me struggling to sit up. On a standard day, it would be a reminder about an event I needed to attend or a request for a meeting. Because that is how detached we’ve become—we schedule meetings when we need to discuss something.
Today, though, it’s something else entirely. The message says that she’s boarding a plane and will be staying with Lucille in Charleston for “a little while.” The tone of the message isn’t cold or aggressive, which is actually an improvement, but it is still a knife to the heart.
Deep down, I thought we’d talk more today. Maybe go for brunch, take a walk through Central Park, and she might continue to open up to me. Perhaps we’d even find a way through this. A sentimental corner of my brain hoped it was a new beginning, not an end. That we could come alive again and be like Nathan and Melanie, Drake and Amelia. Elijah and Amber.
But that’s exactly what she’s trying to avoid. Amber isn’t a fool. She realizes how easy it would be to fall back into our old routines and pretend last night didn’t happen. If she’d woken up this morning and behaved like normal, I would have gone along with it. I’d have carried on as though it was another ordinary day.
It would hurt a shitload less in the short-term and be much simpler all around. We’re both perfectly capable of pretending the whole divorce conversation simply didn’t take place.
Instead, she chose to fly over seven hundred miles away. That tells me she means business. Amber is done pretending.
Fuck. She’s gone. She’s really gone.
As for Lucille, we’ve always gotten along well, but she’s the very definition of “feisty old broad,” and she will one hundred percent be on Amber’s side. I have no clue what being on Amber’s side will look like to her grandmother.
When I go to get out of bed, my head throbs in agony at the movement. I look around, disgusted with myself. Spilled booze, abandoned clothes, frat party hangover. For fuck’s sake, I’m a mess, inside and out.
Logically, I know she’s done the right thing. We do need some space and time to get our heads straight. And I need to really think about this, about my future. I’ve taken so much for granted. I assumed my marriage would last, even if it was an endurance test. As far as I was concerned, we were going to be together forever, sparring partners for life. I assumed Amber would be in my world until the end, for better or worse, just like our wedding vows said.
This new reality is tough to accept. Logic is what I need, but I’m not capable of that when everything is hurting, physically and emotionally. A single tear escapes and trails down my cheek. Pathetic. Nausea rolls in my stomach. I have no fucking clue how to survive this day without Amber, never mind the rest of my life.
Forcing my mind to focus on what is rather than what isn’t, I ask myself what my life will look like in a year if we go through with the divorce. Would I be happier without Amber? Without the lingering sense of disappointment and disapproval that seem to radiate from her? I’m so weary of it all—she’s right, she’s not the only one who’s tired.
Last night, she told me things she never has before, allowed me a glimpse of the pain she’s been in, but does that really change anything? She seems to think it’s too late for us to fix things, and I can’t fix our marriage alone.
A sudden loud buzzing noise starts up, and for a moment, I wonder if it’s another symptom of this hangover from hell, but I realize that it’s the vacuum running downstairs. Vicky is here and getting on with her work. Her very noisy work.
It’s a Sunday, which is a stupid day to have the cleaner around, but Amber said yes when Vicky asked if she could switch. One of her kids has special needs and her husband’s shift patterns changed, making it harder for her to work during the week. I also know from the household accounts that my wife gave her a hefty pay raise while she was at it. Underneath Amber’s hard shell is a soft, delicate, kind interior. She’d hate to hear any of those words applied to her, and it’s a side to her that very few people get to see.
Double fuck. What the hell am I going to do? Wallow in bed, stinking of booze and feeling sorry for myself all day? Cry alone while I listen to Percy Sledge singing “When a Man Loves a Woman” on repeat for hours on end? That’s what I feel like doing, but that’s not me. I need to get out of here, out of my own head.
I type out a message to the only people I know I can rely on, and it takes way longer than it should because my fingers aren’t working for shit.
911 meeting, Brassington Lounge, one hour.
Finally, I hit send and force myself to stand and go take a shower.