Chapter 1
THAT IDIOT RAT BASTARD YOU MARRIED
DELILAH
Double-check Sadie’s weekend bag for extra undies and the waterproof sheets. Grab the box of clean mason jars from Dad’s garage. Don’t forget to ask Mom if she can drop the bag of costume feathers off to Miss Jodie at the school before—
“Mama, I can’t hear the song when you do that!”
Dammit. I was to-do listing out loud again.
It’s days like today that I really wish I lived in a city with those creepy self-driving cars so I can get where I need to go without having to pay attention to the road.
It’s impossible for me to keep my list of tasks in my head, but I learned the hard way that I shouldn’t jot down lists while driving.
It’s not safe to hold a napkin to my steering wheel and scribble all over it while trying to keep my eyes on the road.
Mrs. Johansson down the block still hasn’t forgiven me for clipping her mailbox with my Volkswagen Beetle almost twenty years ago.
I was trying to organize my prom day schedule while coasting down the street—stupid, I know.
In my defense, I’d been riding the brake, and my prefrontal cortex wasn’t fully developed yet.
Now that I’m grown, I wouldn’t dare risk unsafe driving ever, let alone with my eight-year-old daughter in the backseat.
“Sorry, Lollipop,” I mutter as I hit the volume button up a notch. Sadie picks up right where she left off, singing gloriously out-of-tune about a man who doesn’t impress her much right along with Shania Twain.
Thankfully, my girl cut me off right before I got to the next points on my to-do list—figure out if I am emotionally unavailable and therefore wholly unlovable? and Google ‘How to dismember and get rid of a human body without getting caught (in incognito mode)’.
At one of only three red lights in town, I take a quick glance in my rearview mirror and catch Sadie doing something I’ve asked her not to do a thousand times.
“Sadie.” I say in my sternest Mom Voice. I never yell at my kid, but sometimes you've gotta let your voice get a little tough-sounding.
“What is the matter with you today, Mama?”
“Nothing is the matter with me. I just don’t want you wiping your boogers on the seats of my car.”
And our lives will never be the same after today, but you don’t need to know that.
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel to the beat, careful to keep my thoughts in my head and my eyes on the road as I turn down my parents’ street and pull into their driveway.
I slow to a stop behind the Hudson Family Construction branded pickup truck my dad has been driving for as long as I can remember.
Sadie is out of her booster seat and bolting across the yard before I can even kill the engine on my Toyota SUV, knowing damn well that she’s supposed to wait for me to unbuckle her but doing it herself, anyway.
I watch as she darts across the grass and launches herself at my dad, who waits for Sadie on the worn, craftsman style wrap-around porch.
He hoists her off the ground and tosses her over his shoulder, waving in my direction as Sadie’s laughter permeates the quiet, sleepy street. Everything is just as it should be.
Except it’s not. Today is the day that everything changed. Or maybe nothing changed; I just finally opened my eyes to the truth that’s been right in front of me the whole damn time.
Was it only an hour ago? It feels like a lifetime.
Like every other Friday afternoon, I drive to the outskirts of Fox Hole, where my favorite local farmer is waiting for me on his property.
I load up my trunk with fresh strawberries and then swing by the market for a metric ton of sugar, ready to lock in for a weekend of cooking and canning my soon-to-be-world-famous strawberry jam.
I chat on the phone with my soon-to-be sister-in-law Dottie, listening intently while she catches me up on the ins and outs of her life with my brother in San Francisco and all the planning she’s been doing for their backyard ceremony next summer.
I pop into the library to pick up the pile of beginner chapter books Sadie placed on hold throughout the week, and then I stop into Miss Pattie’s bakery down the block for my Friday afternoon quad-shot shaken espresso and a sugar cookie.
But, unlike every other Friday, I find myself with an hour to kill between my caffeine kick and the end of the school day.
Just enough time to head home and unload my jam supplies before waiting in the pickup line for Sadie to come running out of school, her backpack slung over one shoulder and the braid I meticulously wove into her hair spilling out and frizzy from a day of learning and playing.
I pull into my driveway behind one of my husband’s flashy cars that we can’t quite afford, and I know.
To the naked eye, nothing appears wrong. Everything looks the same.
Still, I know that something is different.
The Earl is home in the middle of the day—the Earl is never home in the middle of the day.
I find my front door unlocked—it’s never unlocked. I know for a fact I checked it twice before leaving this morning.
A bright red midi skirt is discarded on the stairs—I don’t own a bright red midi skirt.
Moans of theatrical pleasure emanate from my bedroom—I might have thought it was an adult film if she weren’t screaming, “Oh, the Earl! The Earl fucks me so good!” at such a rhythmic, practiced pace.
An answer to a question I know my husband likes to ask when he has sex, a lie I’ve told a hundred times over the course of my marriage.
“Who fucks you so good?”
“The Earl fucks me so good!”
Give me a goddamn break.I know for a fact those moans are fake. Female pleasure does not exist in my bedroom, and no one with two brain cells to rub together could come while calling out the Earl. Trust me, I know.
I take a deep breath, white-knuckling the gold-plated knob as I muster the courage to open the door to my room and face what’s waiting for me on the other side.
And then I see it. There in my bed, the Earl lying on his back (because, apparently, he’s too lazy to get on top for his affair partners, too) while Mindy—a woman who had her sights set on my baby brother for years and who I assume is exacting her revenge on his happy relationship by attempting to ruin my shitty one—bouncing on my husband’s dick.
I wait half a second for the rage to hit. For the urge to scream and cry, and throw things to overwhelm me. But it doesn’t come.
Mindy spots me first, and while she has the decency to at least pretend to be embarrassed or ashamed, she dismounts and covers her breasts with my favorite blanket.
Now every time I try to cuddle up in the extra thick gray fleece, I’ll be forced to think of Mindy’s nipples. That may be the most unforgivable transgression of them all.
The Earl is next to notice, cupping his half-hard rod in his palm as he scurries off the bed and starts spewing clichés at me.
It was only this once.
It was a mistake.
I love you, baby.
But I don’t take his bait. I don’t give him an answer.
I don’t give him a passing glance. I simply don’t care enough.
I walk to our closet, pull out the old weekender bag I’ve had since college and start shoving necessities in.
Panties, a few shirts and pants, my favorite hoodie that I stole from my best friend fifteen years ago that still smells like her drugstore cherry blossom body spray.
The Earl’s apologies morph into rage as I continue to ignore him.
His “I’m so sorry” turns into “Well, maybe if you weren’t so frigid” and “Sex is a biological necessity. You can’t be mad at me for not fighting biology” and “I’m a man, and you never treat me like a man anymore”.
As if a few weeks is a ridiculous period to go without sex when you’re exhausted and have a child.
But I don’t pay him any mind. Sadie already has a bag packed for a sleepover at Nana and Papa’s house tonight.
I can come back and get more of her stuff later.
I walk through my house, and just like that, it no longer feels like mine.
None of this is mine. I don’t want it anymore.
I’m not sure I ever did.
The urge to slam the door shut behind me is strong, but I keep my composure as I ignore the pleas and insults from the Earl and get back into my car, ready to continue on with my day as though my world hasn’t just been turned upside down.
The sound of knuckles rapping against my window pulls me back to reality, and I turn to find Dad with Sadie on his hip, shooting me a curious look.
“You doin’ okay, sugar?” Dad asks as I open the driver’s side door with one hand and reach across the passenger seat with the other, where I hook Sadie’s backpack and two small duffel bags onto my forearm.
“I’m perfect. I’m gonna spend the night, if that’s okay. I need to sanitize a million jars and get them filled before the market this weekend. Your kitchen is so much bigger than mine. If I get an early start, I can boil all the jars in half the time.”
“We’re gonna have a Mama-Sadie sleepover tonight?
” my daughter asks with hopeful eyes. I lean in and rub my nose against hers, loving that she’s still young enough to be excited by the prospect of spending time with me.
I know those teenage years are fast approaching, so I’ll take all the Sadie love I can get before she decides she’s just too cool for me.
“As long as it’s okay with Nana and Papa,” I answer. Dad shrugs.
“You know you’re always welcome, Delilah. Is Earl gonna be good on his own for the night?”
Earl Ellis Booth might have self-righteously annoyed everyone else in the town of Fox Hole, Tennessee into referring to him by his self-imposed professional title, The Earl of Auto—or the Earl, for short—after his father retired and gave him the body shop, but my dad never bought that foolish game.
To Dad, my husband has always been Earl, or Sadie’s Dad, or—on the days when I’ve complained the most—That Idiot Rat Bastard You Married.
“He’s got a case of beer, a frozen pizza, and a battle royale with his gaming buddies tonight. He’ll be just fine.”
I’m not quite ready to tell my parents about the scene I walked into just an hour or so ago in my bedroom.
I’m certainly not ready to tell Sadie, so for now, I’ll let them think the Earl is too busy playing video games with one hand down his pants to care that his wife and daughter are having yet another Friday night without him.
If Mom and Dad catch on to the fact that I’m hiding something, they don’t show it.
Dad unloads my jam supplies (a relatively easy task since I’d already macerated the fruit and cooked it with a big of sugar and honey this morning), and then the four of us sit around the kitchen table of my childhood home, listening intently while Sadie catches us up on the trials, tribulations, and drama of second grade.
Once we’ve stuffed ourselves full of Mom’s famous chicken piccata, we engage in a competitive round of Mario Kart, followed by an even more competitive round of Uno.
After I re-braid Sadie’s hair and tuck her into the full-size bed in the room that used to be mine, I pour myself a much-needed glass of red wine. Wrapping myself in one of Mom’s old quilts, I take my Cabernet onto the back porch to sip in the crisp, chilly autumn air.
With nothing but the breeze whistling in the trees and the stars twinkling above to keep me company, the weight of reality settles heavy on my shoulders.
My husband is cheating on me.
I’m pretty sure my marriage is over.
I’m angry. I’m so pissed off I could scream, throw things, tear a hole through the sky.
But…I’m not sad. Not for myself, anyway. I’m sad about what this means for my daughter, but I think I’ve known that my marriage was doomed from the start.
The Earl and I hooked up a few times after I’d drunkenly admitted to harboring a massive crush on him one night at the local bar, The Dugout.
When the stick I peed on turned pink weeks later, he got down on one knee and did the honorable thing.
I said yes because I loved my parents. I loved the life they gave my brother and me, the united front they always showed, and the unwavering commitment they had to each other and our family.
I wanted the same love and commitment for my baby.
I wanted the same love and commitment for myself.
Being a wife and a mother might seem like a humble dream to some, but it was always a dream of mine.
It wasn’t long after we said ‘I do’ that the marriage was going to be nothing like my parent’s. Eventually, I realized that the Earl and I were playing poker and were stuck in an intense battle of waiting to see who would fold first.
And tonight, the Earl took home the jackpot, and I’m sitting in my parent’s backyard, drinking alone.
With that thought, I pull my phone from its place in my bra (not it’s usual hangout, but dammit, they need to make women’s leggings with pockets) and pull up a message thread, ready to share my misery with the only person who has ever truly understood me.
The one person I know will let me lick my wounds and not rub it in by saying ‘I told you so’ even though she very much did tell me so, more than once.
Delilah:
It’s over, Vee.
I send the message and wait. The bubbles that show a response being written pop up immediately, then disappear.
I take a sip of my wine, and it tastes like battery acid in my mouth.
I didn’t check the label before helping myself to a heavy pour, but either this wine Mom bought is cheap as hell or it has gone rancid.
Coughing back a gag, I pour the liquid out into the grass and slide inside to grab a ginger ale instead.
Back out on the porch, I check my phone and see that Ivy still hasn’t responded. My thumbs hover over the keyboard. I want to call, but it’s after nine on a Friday night. She’s either hunched over someone’s back working on a tattoo or at a bar finding some lucky woman to spend the night with.
I contemplate writing more, or maybe sending an audio note where I hash out all the details and try not to cry. But just as I hit the record button, a text comes through.
Ivy:
Fuck, Lilah. I’m on my way.