3. Hannah
Chapter three
Hannah
I wake with a start, sitting up suddenly in bed, and I know something's wrong. The sun's shining through the curtains and Jack hasn't woken me up yet.
Oh right, they're at my mom's. I drag my tongue along the roof of my mouth. Tastes fucking awful.
And then I remember.
I'd witnessed a murder.
I'd smoked pot with the murderer.
I'd fallen asleep by the pool.
But woke up in my bed.
I look down, still fully clothed. I reach for my hair and sniff it. It reeks of stale marijuana.
I groan. I was such a fucking idiot last night. But a piece of white catches my eye on my nightstand. It's a piece of paper ripped from my to-do list notebook.
Call or text if you need anything, mami. Anything.
-Rico
(555)-333-7955
I snort derisively. The drug-dealing murderer I'd accidentally taken home had shown more compassion to me than my husband of fifteen years and the father of my children.
I shake my head. That's a terrible thing to think.
But I'm nothing if not polite. I find my phone, plugged into its charger (thoughtful of him), and add his contact.
Me: Rico, this is Hannah. Thank you so much for taking care of me last night and not taking advantage...
delete delete delete
Me: Not raping me in my sleep?
delete delete delete
Me: Not murdering me in my sleep?
delete delete delete
FUCK. Why is this so hard?
Me: Rico, this is Hannah. Thank you so much for taking care of me last night. I really do appreciate it.
Fuck, that sounds lame, but what else do you say to the jefe of the Columbian mafia?
I drop my phone back on my nightstand before stripping my stinking clothes off, then the sheets, and dump them in the hamper before hopping in the shower.
Last night was so stupid. I'd gotten in my head about the choices I'd made that led me to last night - to get me on the radar of the mafia.
The most obvious choice was reminiscing about the “old me”. The kids were at my mom's, Alan was at his mistress's (girlfriend's? affair partner? whatever the fuck she's called) and I spiraled, alone with my thoughts.
I started thinking about who I was before, and who I am now, and at what point did shit go sideways? I didn't hate everything about my life - I love my kids more than life itself - and nothing was ever forced on me...just...somewhere in the last fifteen years led to my current state.
Exhausted. Un-appreciated. Soulless .
While thinking about life "before" I remembered my "carefree" years, smoking pot behind Bishop O'Connell High School. A private, Catholic school.
On a whim, I found an old friend from high school on Facebook who seemed like she still smoked and messaged her, asking for her dealer.
It was the last week of summer break, and the kids were with my parents. I had the house to myself, and could really indulge in my "old life" without any consequences. The implications were astounding.
I was hoping a little weed, a tiny vacation back to the "good days" might give me some insight into what went wrong. At the very least, it was a quiet rebellion that wouldn't hurt anyone.
Sarah gave me the info on how to get in touch with her dealer and when and where to meet him.
A bitter part of me spoke up. Of course, the one time I decide to do something for myself, I get almost murdered for it.
I massage shampoo into my hair.
Okay. If every choice leads to an alternative reality, it must have been one of these choices that got me screwed up. But which one?
I go back to being a teen. That's when it really started to feel like my life wasn't my own. I had wanted to go to Virginia Intermont College and get my bachelor's in equine studies*. But my parents convinced me that a business degree from a more respectable, closer college would be better for my long-term career goals.
They made a good argument and I caved - figuring if I had a business job, I could afford my own stables and horses.
So I went to the George Washington School of Business .
It was fine. The classes were boring, but it was important to my parents, so I sucked it up.
I wonder if that wasn't the first choice to set me on this path.
Because at GWSB, I met Alan. We dated, and I had stars in my eyes. I introduced my well-bred, well-educated college boyfriend to my parents, and finally got the approval I'd craved from them.
Dating Alan, led to marrying Alan. Marrying Alan led to three beautiful children, a comfortable home, and a husband who doesn't give a shit about any of it.
The rich all swim in the same ponds, so as long as he had a "former" Calahan on his arm, he got social leverage from our marriage. The rest was a fucking sham.
Or was it the choice to accept his insistence that I quit my job to take care of the kids?
The joint bank accounts?
The late nights at the office?
The perfume on his shirts?
The way he didn't even make it to Vivian's birth because of an important work meeting?
I rinse my hair and wash my body.
Honestly, it doesn't feel like it was any one choice, but all of them.
Is life nothing but a bunch of choices?
Every choice I've ever made was because it was the choice I thought I should make or one that was made for me.
I stare at my hands, letting the sudsy shampoo drip off of my fingers.
What choices had I made for myself?
If my parents hadn't insisted on GWBS or pushed Alan so hard? If Alan and they hadn't pushed for a quick wedding? If Alan hadn't been so convincing about our finances, having children...
Did he lock me into this marriage with kids?
He never really seemed interested in actually being a dad.
Holy. Fuck.
An eerie stillness fell over me. My life didn't feel like my own because I hadn't made any of the choices myself.
Okay. I hadn't had any coffee yet, so I'd deal with the repercussions of those thoughts later.
Is that a choice that feels aligned to me?
Yes. Yes, it does.
I finish my shower on auto-pilot, pushing aside the uncomfortable thoughts. My parents were expecting me at 10 am to get the kids. I hadn't Face Timed with them last night and the guilt sat in the pit of my stomach like a brick.
I loved them. I wanted them to need me. I wanted to feel needed.
It was the Sunday before the first day of school, and I wanted them home, calm, centered, and ready to take on the year.
I showered, dressed, and grabbed my phone to text my mom that I was on my way over.
But then I saw a reply, from Rico.
Unknown Number: Anytime, mami.
That word, mami, does naughty things to me. Regardless of the sexual undertones and sexiness of that word rolling off of his tongue, I'd be an idiot not to have noticed his tattoos, his muscles, the way his eyes moved like a predator.
I' d been turned on for the first time in years with him. The danger of the gun pressed against my thigh, the intimacy of his thumb rubbing its path along my thigh, the sensuality of his plump brown lips when he spoke.
Even now, tugging on some Lululemon leggings, I feel a tingle in my lower belly. Hello, libido. I had lost any interest in sex after my second. The sex with Alan had been okay, missionary, but I was always a happy participant.
Something about giving birth to my first lit my vaginal nerves on fire, and suddenly I could feel everything in technicolor. Sex should have been fun, exciting, addictive. But it was as if Alan couldn't stand to be near me after Aiden.
After Aiden, even though I was ravenous for touch, Alan's coldness was a hit to my heart that I had to withstand while dealing with everything involving a newborn.
It was like I was damaged goods after Aiden.
Jack and Vivian were only conceived during drunken one-night trysts.
So fucking sad.
But I would never tell them that.
Needless to say, I get dressed and drive the ten minutes to my parents' house. I should have known that Alan living in the same neighborhood was a red flag.
Regardless.
I pull my black SUV into my parents' large driveway and get out before breathing a deep breath in and out. I'm going to need it.
I let myself in the front door, even though I know I'm supposed to knock and wait for Margaret to answer. Fuck that. I'd grown up in this house. And my children were inside. I love Margaret, but fuck her permission.
"Hey!" I shout into the massive, mostly empty mansion.
I hear shouts and the pit patter of feet as my children hear me, find me, and wrap me in hugs. Yeah. Every bullshit thing I had to put up with with Alan was worth it for these three angels being in my life.
My dad and mom come around the corner of the hall from the outside and give me tight smiles.
"How was your week off?" My dad asks, giving me a limp hug and a weak kiss to the head, as if his own wife hadn't hired an au pair the moment I was born and being a mom wasn't a full time job.
"It was great, really. I got so much done." I mumble some bullshit because I want to be anywhere but here.
Fuck. What would Hannah Calahan say?
Before I can come up with an answer, my mom wraps me in her cold, hard arms, and says, "My grandbabies were all great. I posted pictures on Facebook, did you see?" Before squeezing my love handles. "I see you still haven't hired the Pilates teacher I suggested."
Fuck my dad. Fuck my mom. What do I want to do?
"Thank you Mom, Dad, for watching my kids, but it's time for them to go home."
There...no room for argument, no invitation to tell me how I should be living my life. Still, setting a boundary with my parents for the first time in my life had my insides reeling.
Luckily, my three kids are eager to be shuttled into my SUV and back home.
I slide into the driver's seat, close the doors, and enjoy the silence.
"Did you guys have a good time at Nana and Papa's?"
The silence that answers me is deafening. Fuck.
"Would you have rather stayed home?"
Silence.
Fuck. me.
If I'm going to learn how to make choices that are authentic to me, I need to teach my kids how to do the same.