2
Sacrifice
Amanda
I park the car at a truck stop and sit inside all night. I’m not going back home anytime soon, I know that much. I spend most of the night awake with my phone in my hands, waiting—waiting for a phone call that never comes, as if he wrote me off as soon as I let his phone go.
I think about that for a long time. Each hour that goes by increases the pain and knocks back the anger. They’re at war inside me, and pain is winning.
We didn’t have a clear and calm conversation about it like he prefers. Does he even have a clue why I’m so upset? Does he even care ?
Everything points to the fact that he doesn’t. He probably invited Annette over as soon as I left. What’s a hotel room compared to a nice bed at our home?
The choked scoff that erupts at that thought sounds like a dying animal.
My fist smashes into the horn on the steering wheel, and the sharp shriek of sound startles me out of the rage. My knuckles sting, but the pain is nothing against this emotional deluge.
The sun starts peeking over the horizon, and my alarm goes off. It’s Monday. It's time to make myself pretty and go to work.
I’m not sure what to do with myself. I can’t see going in there, even if it’s a half day. I haven’t slept. The last bouquet of flowers he sent me is still on the desk in my cubicle at the bank. The thought of seeing them makes me want to throw up. And let's not forget the teeny tiny fact that my boss will be there.
No wonder I’ve been working a few extra hours every day.
Every. Fucking. Day.
Fucking , being the operative word there.
I can’t figure out the point of it all. Why the romantic gestures to me? Why make it seem like everything is going better than it has in years? Guilt? A subtle placing of blinders over my eyes in case I got suspicious?
The shock has passed, and a new reality is taking its place—one that has no mercy on my ego or sense of self. My pride is wet toilet paper in a stiff breeze.
It’s over and done. He doesn’t want me. He wants a perfect woman, and I am definitely not that.
I’ve gained weight, as one does when one relaxes in a comfortable relationship. Sure, I’ve exercised and dieted a bit here and there because he was complaining. But he gained weight, and I didn’t say a word.
Suddenly, the anger is back. I recognize that I'm on an emotional rollercoaster that isn't going to stop until I've either puked or passed out. I refuse to do either, using the anger to keep me moving forward.
I pull out my phone to call Annette.
It rings twice before she picks up with a happy chirp.
“Good morning, Amanda. Are you calling out?”
“Why would I do that?” I ask. It’s surprising how sweet my voice sounds while unbridled rage stirs inside me.
“You never call this early unless you’re sick,” she laughs. I hear a rustle as if she’s rolling out of bed.
“Oh, I’m sick , alright,” I agree with a light mocking laugh.
There’s a pause as if she doesn’t know what to say.
“Sweetie? What’s going on?”
Sweetie. Sweetheart. Both of those words do not match me in the least, and these morons have no idea. There’s a time to be nice, and there’s a time to wreak havoc. Their nice time has worn out its welcome.
I turned into the weakest version of myself to please a man. To keep him happy with me. He didn’t like my cursing. He didn’t like my snarky comebacks. He didn’t like not knowing where I was or who I was with. A million other things that seethed beneath the surface of our relationship, held down by my own desperate hands.
What the hell have I done with my life?
“I’m just wondering if Justin managed to wreck that pussy last night,” I idly run a finger over the steering wheel.
“Excuse me?” She sputters. The choked-up sound of her panic makes me laugh. What right does she have to sound surprised? Insulted? I’m not the woman texting a married man with begging eye emojis to schedule a sexfest.
“I know the online dating scene is tough, Annette, but damn,” I crack myself up even as tears spill all over again.
“Have you lost your mind? What are you talking about?” She bluffs. The balls on this woman.
“I just wanted to call and let you know I quit. I can’t be sure of the health standards in the office. How many desks did he fuck you on? I’m getting hives thinking about it. Tell me you cleaned up after.”
“Who do you think you are,” she grits out in a soft tone.
“ Why are you whispering? ” I scream out, my control going out the window. “You’re single! Wait, that’s not right, is it? How do you classify this kind of relationship? It’s a secret hook-up. I’m thinking sloppy, diseased whore-up. Does that title sound right to you?”
“You’re fired, Amanda. The amount of disrespect-”
“ Anyway ,” I interrupt. “Be sure to take the flowers my husband sent me. They’re yours now. You’re so into sloppy wilting seconds I feel like it fits you perfectly.”
Beeps sound in my ear. Did this bitch hang up on me?
“Can’t take facing your mistakes, Annette?” I smirk.
As good as that felt, I can’t let myself lose it any more than I already have. I’ve already made mistakes. Number one is throwing my evidence out a window. That wasn’t well thought out. But that anger helps guide me through the next steps.
I’m dialing Gloria Fullerton before I realize it.
The judge is the only person I know who can advise me on this. But she’s one of Justin’s golf buddies, so I can’t exactly let her know I’m asking questions for me .
“Amanda?” She sounds so awake and fresh on the phone. How long has she been up? She’s fifty-four and powered on caffeine, I guess.
I clear my throat and try to act normal.
“Hey, Gloria,” my bright, cheery tone comes back. Being in customer service in my teens has served me well. “I have a friend who’s in a bit of trouble.”
“Uh-oh,” she gives a little laugh of surprise. “Not Janine, I hope.”
“Oh, no. You don’t know her, and she’d prefer to stay nameless.”
“I see,” her voice turns curious and matronly. “How can I help?”
“Well, she found out her husband is cheating and lost the evidence.” I cringe at my stupidity.
“She’s decided that reconciliation isn’t an option?”
I stare out my windshield in disbelief. Reconcile? After this?
“I’m just trying to get her some clear options,” I swallow hard to ease the tightness in my throat.
“Was this a one-time indiscretion?”
How the fuck is she so calm about this?
“I don’t know,” my voice becomes a whisper. That is an excellent question. I don’t think I want to know the answer. My ego has already taken a beating with one.
“Let’s see,” she sounds distracted for a second and then comes back. “If divorce is the only option she’s considering, she should get a lawyer.”
Get a lawyer.
“They normally have a free consultation for divorces.”
Free.
“But that’s all common knowledge, Amanda.”
Wow. Thanks. It’s my first time getting a divorce, Gloria . Please don’t give me a C minus on this pop quiz.
“If she hasn’t taken these first steps, she might be willing to talk things over with her husband. Don’t pressure her one way or the other. It might affect your friendship.”
“Uh-huh,” I answer brainlessly. Do I want to talk to him? Fuck no. I don’t want to know what reasons he’ll come up with because I can already imagine them.
Our relationship has gotten stale. I’ve gained weight and become unattractive. Our sex life is dull. A million things that will be all my fault.
Not that he’s having a hard time getting it up. Or that he’s gotten so damn lazy he can’t be bothered with more than a delivery of flowers and one date after a year of bland kisses on the cheek goodbye. The fact that he spends more time with his buddies, going golfing and playing poker every spare second. He couldn’t possibly be a problem.
It suddenly hits me how alone I’ve been in my marriage and for how long.
“Is that everything? I need to go,” she says in a kind tone that rubs me the wrong way. I’m pissed off. She should be pissed off by proxy, not having a wonderful morning.
“Ok, bye,” I sing out and hang up. I’ve never done that to her before, but it’s too late now.
I need a lawyer. One from out of town. Justin knows almost every lawyer around Ander Springs. His golfing has netted him a lot of contacts. Not that he needed them, being as rich as he is. I knew marrying into money was a mistake. Scratch that, my parents knew, and I didn’t listen. I was too busy thinking how wonderful he was to see common sense.
The next county is only thirty minutes away. I make it there in fifteen. I’m lucky I haven’t gotten pulled over yet. Justin knows a lot of cops, too.
I find a lawyer’s office and walk in for a free consultation.
The mind-numbing questions make my anger take a backseat. The pain has come back tenfold. This informative meeting is bringing the reality of what I’m going through into focus.A lot of planning and manipulation goes on with a divorce. I’m going to fail that pop quiz.
We share a checking and savings account that I’m suddenly afraid to touch. He’s always taken care of everything, my money merging with his to pay bills I never see. How will he pay the mortgage if I take anything out?
I want to slap myself for the thought, but guilt has taken the helm of this ship. Logic tries to intervene. He’s rich. I doubt he would notice if some money went missing. Then sorrow hits again with its good friend, self-pity.
This is my fault. Even if I figure out what I did, there's nothing I can do about it. It’s done. Over. There’s no way that I can look like Annette with her slim waistline and long legs. She can even wear heels every day without complaint to make her ass look good. At least I have bigger boobs.
I leave the lawyer’s office feeling sick to my stomach again. I couldn’t tell her that he cheated. It seemed too shameful to admit to a stranger. Not to mention, it would be my word against his. I can’t see him admitting to it. He’d have to say goodbye to his precious money then, not that I want any of it.
In thirty minutes, she laid out a set of rules to protect myself, which I’m not sure I can do.
Drain the bank account? Take the savings? I’m pissed, sure, but is that something I want to live with? What kind of monster takes away the ability to live in comfort?
A smart one, that’s who.
My card gets declined when I try to get a late breakfast at a drive-thru, and when I call the bank to find out what happened, I find that he’s already done it. He took everything and created a new account. They can’t close it until I come in and sign off on the old account, but his name has been removed from everything.
He took it all.
All but the savings account in my name that I kept a secret from him. Something I did to surprise him when I had enough for us to take a trip that he’s been wanting to go on forever but never could find the time. I wanted to show him that he isn’t the only person that can pay for things. I wanted to spoil him a little.
Lucky me. Now, I can prove it in a completely unexpected way instead.
But I can’t leave town.
I have to stay here until a settlement is reached, or he can cry abandonment. I didn’t think that would be a serious concern, but the account being closed so quickly is a wake-up call. I bet he was on the phone first thing this morning with his best friend, a damn lawyer , to find out what he should do.
That means I have to play this smart and not give him any more advantages over me. At this point, this is a game of pride that I refuse to lose. I don’t care that he took his money. It’s mine that pisses me off. He can keep his highbrow hundreds and leave my five-dollar bills alone. Greedy, narcissistic asshole.
I have to return the car because he could report it stolen since it’s in his name alone. I can’t stay in the same residence as him, not that I want to at this point, or any separation paperwork would be dismissed in court. I can’t take most of my things out of the house, or he can say I abandoned him. The list goes on and on.
I’m stuck here with nothing .
I return the car and pack a bag with some of my old clothes, leaving the rest after a long look. When did I start only buying the things he approved of? I don’t like what I’m seeing now that I have an unfiltered view of my life. The chic dresses and fancy shoes. When did this become me? I’ve always been a blue jeans and loose shirt kind of girl. Comfort over flash. When did that stop?
The jeans are old enough that I can barely get them over my hips. The shirt is tight over my stomach and chest, but it’s long enough to cover the too-tight pants I can’t button up. My old ratty sneakers still fit, though. I enjoy wrenching everything off their hangars and leaving a mess behind.
I take a final look around, knowing this is the last time I’ll see the inside of this place. It was home for most of our marriage. I always thought it was a little cold and too showy to be a real home, but I never said anything. This is a far cry from my cheap, well-loved parent’s house.
“Money can’t buy everything, Amanda.”
So true, Mom. So true. Lesson learned the hard way, as usual.
I look at all the expensive paintings and cringe. Most of them are the oil paint splashes that I’ve never understood. I have the sudden urge to tilt them all at odd angles to ruin his precious feng shui. It comes out of nowhere, startling me into a laugh that sounds confused.
The fancy furniture was never comfortable. Now that I think about it, the only things I’m going to miss are the giant fridge, the spacious tub, the heating rack for the towels, and the fenced-in backyard. This knowledge is sobering and confirms that leaving is the best decision.
I take all of the keys off the keyring and stare at the empty loop for a full minute. All I had was a house key, car key, and garage door fob. Now I have a useless empty ring. Speaking of rings.
I struggle to get the stupid wedding band off. It takes cold water and a lot of dish soap to manage it. I can’t remember the last time I took it off. I drop it in the trash can by the kitchen sink, the loud thump as it hits startling me. It sounds more like an anchor dropping than a thin band of gold. I look at my hand, taking in the pale line where it used to sit. There’s an indent there, too. I feel almost naked without it. Incomplete.
I lock the door behind me and reset the alarm out of habit. I wonder why he hasn’t changed it yet. He’s done so much already he may not have thought of it.
I walk to the bank, fifteen blocks I’ve never had to trudge before and change my savings account into a checking account. To be safe, I put my maiden name down instead of my married last name. That will make it so confusing he won’t be able to get in easily. I’ll have my real name back soon enough, so it counts. The bank manager agrees with me. I told her everything out of sheer desperation, and her attitude went from cold customer service to let’s fuck this guy up in a heartbeat. I ask her to shred all of the credit cards, and any old bank information I have on me. She put a freeze on the cards anyway.
My purse is so light when I walk out; it scares me.
I continue my trek through town, stopping at any apartment building I find. My anger is the only thing keeping me going. They’re all so expensive. I can’t even afford a down payment on a place, much less the monthly rent. I need a job.
When I get to the more seedy side of town, the sun is setting. I’ve never been here before, and my anxiety has me looking over my shoulder. If this had been me six years ago, I would be walking with ignorant confidence. What has happened to me?
I stumble on an extremely shady-looking complex. I can afford the down payment, and it’s month to month. It isn’t furnished, but it’s a roof over my head, so I can’t complain. It’s better than sleeping outside in the rain, which started as soon as I walked into the office.
I lock the door behind me, pocketing the single key. It’s dismal and smells like mold and roach repellant. I automatically pull out my phone to call Justin and freeze with a painful jolt in my heart. He doesn’t need to know where I am or when I’m coming home. Who I’m with. I don’t need to check in with him.
I move down to Mom’s contact and close it out. I’m not ready for that one yet. My parents will either plan a celebration party or make it a funeral. I have enough on my plate right now as it is.
My sleep is fitful, and my stomach is rebelling at the lack of food all night. The walls are so thin I can hear my neighbors having a heated argument. Hell, I can hear the murder documentary playing down the hall well enough that I’m invested in the story.
I piss myself off early the following day. Directly after my alarm for work goes off, I reach for the other side of the bed. When I realize Justin isn’t there I grab my phone. At that point, I fully wake up and realize I’ve just followed a routine that’s ingrained in me, just like the phone.
The constant need to check in with him might be part of the problem. The whole thing is a problem. We became a habit instead of a choice.
Instead of giving in to the urge, I turn my phone off and ready myself as best I can for this shitshow of a day.