Chapter 1
Britain
35 years old
“How have you been sleeping?” Carla asks in her perfect, irritatingly calm therapist voice.
“I haven’t,” I cut her off. My reply is curt, sharper than I intended. I wince from the sound of my own voice. “I’m sorry, I’m just…I'm just irritable right now.”
“It’s okay. You’re allowed to feel this way. You’re allowed to struggle. This is a safe place.”
Ugh. I’m sitting on a worn leather sofa, in a beige room, with low lighting. Generic, unmemorable pieces of art adorn the walls. Carla sits in her Eames lounge chair, her dark hair done in a sharp bob, and she’s wearing the same thing she always is: a crisp oxford shirt, chinos, and slip-on loafers. Her legs are crossed at the ankles and her trusty notebook is settled across her lap. She’s holding a pen in one hand, and gently tap, tap, tapping the tip across her paper while the white noise machine shrouds the small room. It’s always the same. Carla is constant, predictable.
I’ve been seeing Carla for six years now. First with Damian for couples counseling, and now alone for the last three years. So when she says crap like ‘this is a safe place,’ I mentally roll my eyes and groan. I’m just grumpy, and tired because I haven’t been sleeping. I feel like I haven’t gotten a good night's sleep in two years. Not since Georgia died, really. Since then, my problems have only multiplied, and now I’m here with Carla for my second session of the week.
Ironically, in the last year, I’ve seen Carla more than I’ve seen Damian. So it shouldn’t have been a surprise when I was served divorce papers four months ago. At least he waited till after the holidays. It was a surprise though, but not the way most people think. The surprising part was the lack of feeling, period. I was numb and have been for the last 17 years, partly from some kick-ass antidepressants and partly because I’d felt enough 17 years ago that I never wanted to feel that way again. So I didn’t. I never let myself feel that way again.
Aside from feeling numb, I eventually found myself feeling relief — something I absolutely did not expect to experience. I felt like I could take a deep breath for the first time in ten years after walking on eggshells in someone else’s shadow. Most people would think I’d be devastated, heartbroken, shocked even. But I wasn’t. I’m not. Most people think I’ve lived a charmed life, too, and in some ways I have. But no one really understands how un-charming it’s all been.
The kicker is, I never wanted to get married in the first place. But that’s what people do, right? It’s what was expected of me eventually, and to be honest, I needed some financial security and a bit of stability in my life, so I agreed. I may not have wanted to get married at 19, but I wasn’t a complete crap wife. I was young, and eager to please, and just thankful to not be alone. I gave him babies, and stayed home to raise them. I held down the fort for years as he finished his MBA, then started the hustle to build his company from scratch. I was simultaneously the nanny, the housekeeper, the chauffeur, his executive assistant, and his compliant sex partner, all while slowly piecemealing credits together to finish my own degree.
I didn’t have a lot of complaints in the early years other than struggling with all the typical ailments that accompany new motherhood. I was too busy learning how to be an adult and figuring out how to survive in my new environment than to complain about my handsome best friend who wanted me to be his wife more than anything in the world. But, as is the theme of my life, all good things must come to an end.
As the kids got older, our relationship looked a lot more like logistics management between colleagues than a cherished bond between two loving adults, and we drifted apart. Two ships in the night that managed shared responsibilities and goals. The goals had always been pretty simple: raise decent kids, build the company, then sell the company, then come back together in the end. The only goal we missed was coming back together. Damian got tired of me and my stunted, emotional bandwidth, and I got tired of him and his domineering and controlling ways.
Don’t get me wrong, we drifted apart, but that’s not why we’re getting divorced. Well, that’s not the only reason we’re getting divorced. No, we’re getting divorced because Damian’s assistant, Summer, gives amazing blowjobs, and he’s decided to trade up. Summer’s all tits and ass, platinum blonde, and in her early 20s. Good for him.
I’m a bit past the point of caring though, really. The first time he cheated on me, and I found out, it stung. But I’d done a damn good job of building an emotional fortress in the first place, so once I refortified myself, we were able to continue on in our marriage with counseling and a postnuptial agreement that promised me a hefty settlement should Damian cheat on me again.
I could have left back then, six years ago now, but I didn’t. I stayed. I stayed for the kids. He was a good dad when he was home and I didn’t want them to struggle financially or emotionally based on my decisions. Fuck…and I stayed because I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to be like Georgia.
When Scott Technologies was acquired at a very plentiful purchase price last year, Damian insisted on putting the girls in a prestigious boarding school. The Hamilton Academy is only 20 minutes down the road from our house and the girls absolutely love it, but I never wanted that for them. And so, that was the beginning of the end of our marriage. Without family dinners or extracurricular activities to bind us together, he started spending all his time at the D.C. office, staying at one of the corporate apartments downtown while I worked remote from our house in the exurbs. Alone. At that point, our demise was inevitable. The final nail in the coffin was Summer.
“Britain, we have 15 minutes left in our session. Let’s talk about how you’re feeling about the settlement.” Carla pulls me back into the present. I’ve been sitting here zoning out on my own thoughts while she just sits and stares at me. I hate when she lets me do that. I don’t want to pay someone to stare at me while I think.
“Right. Um, I got the paperwork from his lawyer yesterday. And honestly, it’s fine. It’s generous even. I get the house in Virginia and half the proceeds from the sale of Scott Technologies. He keeps the rest, but fully funds the kids’ preparatory and college education, and has to set up trusts for them from his own accounts.” And he will, Damian’s a good dad. He’d never let our crap marriage interfere with the girls’ futures.
“I don’t really feel anything about the settlement, except maybe relief? I’m not going to fight him on it, any of it. I want to sign the papers as soon as possible, and just move on.” I’ll take my 8-figure settlement, my freedom, and walk away.
“This is good, Britain. Let’s talk about that last bit, the moving on.”
“Ugh, I know. I know, I just…I can’t even move on from the crap I went through 17 years ago. Let’s just add my divorce to the bottom of that list of things I need to move past.” Oddly, of the things on my list, my divorce might be the easiest thing I’ll work through.
“Exactly,” she says. Damnit, I walked right into her little trap.
“We need to work on dealing with what happened in California, not just 17 years ago, but also your mother’s passing.” I cringe. “Have you put any more thought into going back home?”
Carla’s been pushing me to go back to California ever since Georgia’s, my mother’s, funeral, which I didn’t attend.
“If you can make some peace, find some peace, with your past, I have high hopes that you’ll find some peace in the now. Maybe sleep more than a couple hours a night? Maybe find some happiness? Allow yourself to feel that happiness?” My eyes start to burn and I turn my gaze down in an attempt to hide my tears, my vulnerability.
A tissue box slowly slides into my line of sight. Fucking hell. She’s right. She’s always right.
“Here’s your homework, Britain. I want you to make a list — a ‘to do’ list. It doesn’t have to be perfect, but write down some things, actionable, physical tasks you can do that will bring you closer to closure. What could you do to work through some of these feelings you’re harboring? Things you’re keeping so bottled up and close to you that you don’t allow yourself to feel anything in the present.” My palms start sweating at the prospect.
“Next Tuesday, we’ll go over the list. That’s the end of our session for today. I’ll see you next week.”
Walking out of Carla’s office, the spring breeze whips around me, biting my exposed skin. The only sure thing about spring in the DMV is allergies. We might get snow, or it could be 80 degrees and humid. You never know. Today is brisk and cloudy. The atmosphere mirroring my mood perfectly.
I’ve never loved this area, never really thought I’d make this place my home. But at the age of 18, after I’d spent two months in a living hell of my own making, my brother, Alex, invited me to come stay with him in D.C. for a bit to help me “recover.” I’d dropped out of college before it even started, hadn’t left the house for two months, didn’t eat, barely slept, and cried myself into a state of dehydration every single day. Moving 3,000 miles away seemed like the perfect escape plan. It also helped me stay true to that promise I’d made back then. You’ll never see me again.
When I left California, I deleted every social media account I had. I disconnected my cell phone line and abandoned my old email. I swiped my slate clean, severing every tie to that place, even the one to my mother. Though she knew where I went, I asked her not to tell anyone. To please just let me disappear, and to my knowledge she followed through. I didn’t speak to her the whole first year I was gone, but when I got married I decided to let her know.
She never seemed mad or disappointed that I’d cut her out because I think deep down, she understood. I think she was glad I wouldn’t be spending the rest of my life stuck in that town, like her. And, to be honest, us not speaking wasn’t all that different from when I lived with her. She was always there, but never really with me. My entire adolescence, she was my sole parental guardian, yet I don’t remember having a single deep conversation with her about, well, anything. Ever. Whenever I’d get curious about my father or why Alexander couldn’t live with us, I was firmly rebuffed, so I eventually stopped asking.
I was a good kid who got good grades. I required little supervision and guidance, and that suited our relationship. She made sure the bills got paid, we had what we needed by way of food and clothing, and that I was safe. I know she loved me, but she wasn’t one to be overly affectionate or communicate that love. The only times I remember feeling truly loved was when I was sick. She had the most soothing and gentle bedside manner. Oh, and that one week we spent at Spearhead Lake when I was ten. That was the only time I can ever remember seeing Georgia come alive and be…happy.
Sliding into my Audi, I start the engine and immediately turn on the seat warmers and massager. I’m always tense after my sessions with Carla, but after the first day I usually mellow out into a more even-keeled state. I sit in the parking lot for a couple minutes before pulling out my phone to shoot off a quick message.
Britain
Hey, I’m taking off the rest of the day. You should too.
Jess
Yessss ma’m. Best. Boss. Ever.
Give Eden a kiss for me and let’s catch up at 9:00 A.M. tomorrow, k?
??
Between the settlement coming through and that session with Carla, I’ve got my own personal work to sift through right now. Which reminds me, switching to my messages:
Britain
Hey, just wanted to let you know I’ll be signing the settlement and won’t contest it.
Also, Caroline's softball game is this Saturday. I’m planning to be there, just wanted to give you a heads up.
Damian
Thanks Britain. We’ll be there as well.
We’ll be there…shit. I tap back a thumbs up, then flip back to my Slack thread with Jess.
Britain
Okay, can Tommy stay home with Eden tomorrow? I need to do some shopping. Meet at the Galleria at 10? Please say yes ??
Jess
You okay? You hate shopping. And obviously Tommy can stay home tomorrow. IDGAF if he had a meeting with the president, I’d tell him to cancel. See you at 10!!!
lol, y'all are the best.
I hate shopping. No, I hate shopping for clothes. Antiques, pottery, art, I’m all in. Clothes, not so much. For years I didn’t have the kind of money to freely spend on clothes. Then for the next few years, I was in maternity and postpartum purgatory, and then I was living that remote work/soccer mom life, complete with the Lululemon leggings and sweatshirt uniform.
I’ve been in the fitting room for three hours while Jess whips around pulling everything under the sun that might be a good fit to wear to see my husband’s young and hot future wife, but still appropriate for a high-school softball game. I had to nix Jess’ plea to wear the “sky high” Louboutins. I placated her by adding them to the “purchase pile” and promised to wear them soon, however, they would not be making an appearance at Caroline’s game tomorrow.
“You know, if you just let me hire a stylist for you, we wouldn’t have to be doing this right now,” Jess snarks at me. I guess I’ve been a tough customer.
“And if you had hired a stylist, we’d be at my office doing edits all day instead of this,” I say, waving my hands around. “Neiman Marcus, followed by a cocktail-fueled lunch, then closing out the day with pedicures and facials. Tough day at the office, huh?” I finish with a smirk.
“True. I’ll shut up now.” Uh huh. Jess is my assistant, work wife, all-around bestie, and one stylish-ass bitch. Once I gave her the why for our spur-of-the-moment shopping trip, she immediately sprang into action, putting me in a dressing room with firm orders to stay put as she racked and stacked options.
“But, just so you know, I’m making you buy anything I pick out that fits. I’ve been dying to revamp your wardrobe for years,” she shoots back at me. I chuckle, I would expect nothing less.
“Better yet, how about you take note of my sizes and then you can order me a whole new wardrobe so that way you’re not stuck having to choose from what they have here, right now?” Jess’s eyes go wide in excitement and she bobs her head up and down in affirmation.
“Oh my gawd, yes!” This time I laugh out loud.
“Okay, good, because I need a drink and to get the hell out of this fitting room. Think we have at least a couple decent options for tomorrow?” My eyes drift to the mound of clothes, shoes, and accessories in the ‘purchase pile.’
“Definitely,” she affirms.
“Thank god.”
“So, Tommy told me Damian proposed a settlement…”
Jess broaches the topic cautiously in between sips of her margarita. “But I promise, I don’t know any of the details. Tommy just mentioned he was sending off a proposed settlement for ‘some client I may or may not be acquainted with,’ scout’s honor!” she says as she holds up her right hand, looking very serious.
Jess’s husband, Tommy, is Damian’s personal, legal counsel. Even so, Jess has assured me numerous times that Tommy is “Team Britain.” Ironically, the two of them actually met because of us, and are the cutest fucking couple who just had their first baby, Eden, five months ago. I feel a slight pang of jealousy at the thought of their happy little family, which in turn makes me feel ridiculous.
“Mmm…” I say as I swallow a huge gulp of my own margarita. “Yeah, I got the papers on Wednesday. I’m not going to contest it. It’s generous.”
“As it should be!” Jess says indignantly. I laugh, but I don’t wholeheartedly believe I’m entitled to this generous of a settlement. I may not have been unfaithful like Damian, but I was never completely honest with him either. I never gave him all of myself. All my feelings and vulnerabilities, my past experiences, I kept those to myself.
Taking a deep breath, I mentally gather the courage to tackle something I’ve been needing to do.
“Now that I have a clearer picture of what to expect from Damian…I think it’s probably for the best if I leave Scott Technologies.” I’ve been dreading telling Jess this; my sole hesitation in leaving is because of her. “I’ve already put some thought into this, though. If you want, I’d be happy to recommend you for my position, or any other position in the company if you’d prefer to move on from design. OR if you want to stay on as my personal assistant full time, even part time, that would work, too!”
I pause, inhaling. On the exhale, I let it go, “I just don’t think I can bring myself to ever go back to that office. To see him, and her, together. There.” Ugh, I cringe. “If you hate me though, and never want to see me again, I understand that, too.” I know I’m sounding desperate, but Jess is the only healthy, adult relationship I have in my life right now. I can’t lose it.
“Girrrl, chill. There’s no way I’m staying there if you’re leaving. I’ve been hoping and praying that you’d leave for months now.”
“Whaaaat?” I gasp, shocked.
“Uhh, yeah. I’ve got a pudgy little girl at home that I just wanna snuggle with all day. I only came back after my maternity leave because I knew you needed me. You know, since the whole ‘husband left you for his assistant’ thing,” she says as she uses her hand to vaguely gesture in my direction. Wow. I feel like shit. I’ve been too preoccupied with my own life to see that, obviously, my best friend would rather be home with her newborn than come back to work.
“Jess, I…I’m so sorry.” I truly mean it. I’ve been a selfish idiot to not see this.
“Do. Not. Be. Sorry. This has actually worked out perfectly,” she says with a devilish look in her eye. “When I came back, it forced Tommy to stay home with Eden. And now that he knows what it’s like to be a stay-at-home parent, he’s gonna worship the ground I walk on when I tell him he can go back to the office.” She’s grinning ear to ear.
“Oh my gawd, I love you,” I let out in a relieved laugh.
“Even better is I’m going to stay on as your part-time personal assistant, working from home, of course. Well, unless you want to work from Neiman Marcus, in which case, I can make an exception,” she says with a wink.
“Of course,” I say and smile.
“Don’t get a big head over this. I love you and want to keep working with you, but also, I need to fund my shoe addiction.” We both look down at her brand new Choos she bought this morning and simultaneously burst out laughing.
“Jess, I don’t deserve you. Thank you.” Jess reaches across the table snagging my hand in hers.
“Britain, everybody deserves someone in their corner and I’m your girl. I’ll always be in your corner. I got you.” A tear slips down my cheek. Thank God for Jess. She may be the only person in my life that cares, but she cares enough for ten people. I don’t need to say anything in return, which is probably good because I’m pretty sure I’d break down and start bawling if I had to speak right now.
“Mmmkay, now that that’s settled. We gotta keep prepping for tomorrow. Pull out your phone girl and start a new note. We’ve got work to do,” Jess orders. I take a deep breath, happy for this moment, for this friendship as I pull out my phone and start a new note.