Chapter 11
Melanie
By the time I wheeled the suitcase up to the door of my parents’ condo, I was holding myself together by sheer will.
I made it inside and all but collapsed onto their couch as the dead, empty feeling inside me gave way to unimaginable pain.
Sobs racked my body and once my tears finally stopped, I was left feeling totally and utterly drained.
I sat up and switched on the lamp to illuminate the dark room, flinching as the light hit my watery eyes.
After a quick trip to the restroom to blow my nose and splash cold water on my face, I reluctantly turned my phone back on, deliberately ignoring the missed calls, voice mail messages, and texts from Ryan.
Instead, I focused on the three missed calls from Jen.
Tapping her name on the screen, I took a deep breath and waited for her to answer.
“Oh, thank God. Ryan called me, looking for you. Are you OK?”
“Yes,” I croaked, then cleared my throat. “Well, physically, I’m fine at least,” I amended with a bitter chuckle. “Mentally, I’m…”
My breath caught as a sob rose up in my chest, and it all came pouring out. The shirt with the makeup and perfume, the thong, packing the suitcase, the stripper, the lap dance, the lies – I told her the whole, ugly story.
“So, I told him I wanted a divorce, and I left,” I finished quietly once I’d run out of steam.
“Oh, honey,” Jen said through tears, “I’m so sorry.”
“It was Saturday. He cheated on my birthday.” My voice was barely a whimper, and I hated him for reducing me to that.
“Mel,” she hesitated. “For what it’s worth, he said that Mitch hooked up with some woman and he put her underwear in Ryan’s suitcase as a joke.”
I scoffed. “Right. That doesn’t explain the fact that Ryan admitted to being in a strip club in the first place, let alone the makeup and perfume I found on his shirt, and the guilty-as-fuck expression on his face. His lying game needs some work. He should ask Mitch the Bitch for some pointers.”
“Do you think Mitch would tell you what happened?”
“Mitch will back up whatever story Ryan comes up with, I’m sure, and he’d have no problem lying to me.”
“That’s probably true,” Jen conceded. “Where are you?”
I hesitated before answering. “I’m at the condo. Mom and Dad won’t be back until next month, and I know they wouldn’t mind. I just couldn’t face going to a hotel.”
“Why didn’t you come here? I hate the thought of you being alone right now, and I know Mark will agree when he gets home.”
“I’m a mess, Jen, and you guys don’t need to deal with that. Plus, Cody definitely doesn’t need that kind of drama.”
“He’s seventeen, hon. He’s used to drama, believe me. I get it, though. Do you want me to come over? Have you eaten? I can pick something up on my way.”
She shot the questions at me rapid-fire, without giving me a chance to answer. “I haven’t eaten, but I don’t think I could keep anything down right now anyway. I’m sure Mom has some cans of soup in the pantry if I feel up to eating later. I’ll be fine.”
“You didn’t answer my first question. Do you want me to come over? I can bring wine and we can talk…or plan for Ryan’s terribly painful and tragic demise.”
I smiled sadly. “I don’t think I’m up for company tonight. I may take you up on that tomorrow night, though.”
“You’re not going to work tomorrow, are you?”
I sighed, knowing there was no way I was in the right frame of mind for that. “No, I’ll send an email to Neela tonight and request some time off. I don’t think it will be a problem.”
Jen agreed, then told me that Mark had just pulled in the drive. “What do you want me to tell him?”
Not wanting to ask her to keep secrets from her husband, I told her she could tell him everything, before adding, “If he wants to call me, please ask him to wait until tomorrow. I don’t think I can go over it all again tonight.”
“Will do, hon. We love you, and we’re here if you change your mind about coming over to stay. Call if you need us.”
“Jen,” I hesitated, then pleaded, “Please don’t tell Ryan where I am. I’m not ready to talk to him and I don’t want him showing up here.”
“I won’t tell him a thing, except that you’re safe, if that’s OK with you.” She paused, then offered, “He sounded worried sick when he called me.”
“He should have thought of that before he fucked a stripper.” I didn’t even try to temper the bitterness of my reply.
“Agreed,” Jen said. “Maybe I’ll point that out to him.”
Once I’d ended the call, I shot off a quick email to my boss to let her know I needed to take a few days’ personal time due to an urgent family matter.
Before I logged out of my email, I noticed that I’d received a reply from Kim Frazier, the therapist I’d reached out to yesterday, confirming that she had an opening late tomorrow morning, and would have another opening on Friday if tomorrow wouldn’t work.
I hesitated, then typed out a response requesting a solo session for tomorrow. No matter what happened, I knew I would benefit from talking to someone about everything, someone who could be impartial and help me work through my next steps.
Feeling somewhat better at having something to distract myself, I made a list of the immediate issues I wanted to discuss. Then, as my anger started to outweigh my sadness, I started making plans, at least tentative ones, so that I would know where I stood legally.
With hands that shook slightly, I did a search for divorce lawyers, checking reviews and reading bios and credentials. I was a bundle of nerves as I made note of several who looked promising and sent inquiries to them.
As I hit send on the last email, I registered a faint throbbing behind my right eye and felt vaguely sick to my stomach.
Unsure if it was the nerves getting to me or the beginnings of a migraine, I set the phone aside and made my way to the kitchen for a glass of water.
I found an unopened package of saltines in the pantry and nibbled on a few to settle my stomach.
I sagged against the kitchen counter for support, suddenly feeling totally depleted physically as well as mentally.
Forcing myself to move, I rolled the small suitcase to the guest bedroom and went through the motions of unpacking.
The pain behind my eye worsened, and I gave in and took a dose of my migraine medication.
Knowing from past experience that it would knock me out for several hours at least, I got ready for bed and slid between the cool sheets, thankful for the first time ever that I was prone to migraines.
“At least with the meds, I’ll be able to sleep tonight,” I muttered to myself as I shifted, then winced as the light from the bedside lamp hit me full in the face.
Squinting, I reached over to turn it off, then eased back onto the pillow, praying that the medication kicked in before the pain got any worse.
It must have worked, because I didn’t wake up again until almost nine the next morning.
After ascertaining that my migraine was gone, I headed for the kitchen, hoping desperately that Mom had left a few coffee pods behind for her Keurig machine.
I was in luck, finding both coffee and a half empty box of artificial sweetener packets in the pantry.
There was no creamer, of course, so I had to make do with black coffee, but it was better than nothing.
Thoughts of Ryan started to intrude, so I checked my email to see a reply from Neela telling me she hoped everything was OK, and that of course it was fine if I needed a few days.
I also had a response from one of the attorneys I’d contacted, giving me information on arranging an initial consultation.
I made myself stay busy by making a list of the groceries I’d need for the next few days at least, showered and got dressed for my therapy appointment.
By ten-thirty, I was more or less ready and steeling myself to face the day ahead. No amount of cold cloths or makeup would cover the bags and dark circles under my eyes, but I was beyond caring.
I had no appetite, but forced myself to stop for a breakfast sandwich, including a second cup of coffee, with plenty of creamer this time.
My nerves climbed steadily as it got closer to time for my appointment, and as I parked and got out of my car, my hands were shaking.
I plunged them into the pockets of my coat to hide that fact, then made my way into the building.
I followed the signs to an office suite at the end of the hall on the first floor where several therapists shared space.
I was greeted by the receptionist who confirmed my insurance information, and moments later, directed me to a room toward the back. Approaching the open door, I glanced inside to see a redheaded woman about my age beckoning me in from behind her desk.
“Hello, I’m Kim Frazier,” she greeted me as she pushed away from her desk and gestured to her wheelchair. “I’m sorry I wasn’t quick enough to greet you out in the lobby but come on in and have a seat.”
“Melanie Davenport,” I replied, shaking her hand and then easing down onto one end of the couch.
The office wasn’t overly large, with the small leather couch along the one wall, and two comfortable-looking upholstered chairs placed on either side.
A low coffee table in front of the couch had a few potted plants, and a box of tissues, as well as bottles of water.
The overhead lights were turned off, and the room was lit instead by the lamps on the two side tables.
The designer in me approved, as it gave the space a cozier, homier feel than I’d expected.
Kim pressed a button on the wall to close the door before positioning her chair on the other side of the coffee table so she could face me.
“Thank you for being able to meet with me on such short notice,” I said, giving her a shaky smile.