Chapter 10
Ellary
Home doesn’t feel like home anymore.
My parents and sister helped me move back to the house after I spent a week searching for a job, hunting for an apartment, and failing at both.
I couldn’t find an apartment, and it stings that even though I have a business degree, I can’t seem to get even a part-time job at a coffee shop.
Because I've been out of work too long, more experienced people fresh out of college have overtaken me.
I’d always intended to go back to work after I quit my job in Colorado when Jackson’s pro hockey career ended. But when we moved back home to Melton, Jackson healed up, got a job with his godfather, and we bought a small house in the suburbs.
We both thought I’d get pregnant right away.
The longer it didn’t happen, the more I started filling my days with other things: looking after the house, helping my parents and his, and volunteering at the community center.
When I’d bring up getting a new job, Jackson told me not to bother.
His work paid more than enough for everything we needed, including putting his bonuses into savings. So I got used to waiting.
Waiting to become pregnant.
Waiting to be a mom.
Instead, I should have been working and putting myself first, rather than trying to take care of everyone around me.
If I’d been working all this time, I wouldn’t be forced back to a house I didn’t want to return to, and I wouldn’t have a massive years-long gap on my resume that recruiters probably take one look at and immediately cut me from their list of potential hires.
I’d been tense the entire drive back to the house, expecting Jackson to be waiting to convince me not to go through with the divorce. But he hadn’t been there.
I’d been greeted by silence.
My parents came with my sister and me, helping me unload my suitcase from the trunk of my car and into a quiet, dark house. The pot roast I’d intended to make for Jackson had been in the refrigerator. I’d left it out on the side to thaw, so Jackson must have been the one to put it away.
Over the last few days, I’ve gotten a couple of surprised looks from the neighbors. They would have noticed that Jackson hasn’t been out mowing the lawn on the weekends, and they’d have wondered why his car is missing from the driveway.
Soon, they’ll know.
I took down every picture of us. I couldn’t bear to look at them. Changing the bedding brought back memories of our lovemaking, his kisses, and his loving words.
I still want to leave and find somewhere else to stay, but my baby needs a settled home. Not me, scraping and struggling to find an apartment when Jackson has made it clear that he’s moved out, and the house is mine.
I can’t bring myself to go into the spare bedroom.
This house was supposed to be a family home.
The place we would raise our first child.
That never happened despite years of trying.
Now that it’s finally happened, we’re not excitedly talking about paint colors and cribs or strollers.
I’m avoiding even looking at that spare room, knowing it will be me, and me alone, who decorates and prepares for a baby that came at the same time I learned my husband was cheating on me.
I’ve struggled through mowing the lawn, cleaning the house as usual, and applying for every job I can find that doesn’t need experience.
Wade called to tell me he’d been to see Jackson at the motel. That he hadn’t been looking good. I hung up without a word. This is hard enough. What I don’t need is Jackson’s best friend trying to guilt-trip me into taking him back.
Wade texted soon after, apologizing and saying he hadn’t meant to upset me, but I didn’t respond.
My friends have called, and I’ve told them what happened. Not in excruciating detail, but just enough that they know there’s no future for Jackson and me. The end of my marriage feels a lot like grief. As if I’m grieving for someone who has died.
Not someone. A piece of me.
Jackson has sent texts asking how I am.
I deleted the message without responding.
I don’t want to be Ellary Olsen anymore. I need to be Ellary Barten again.
It isn’t just sleeping in a bed that suddenly feels too big alone that has felt alien. I’ve tried so hard over the last couple of days to act normal.
After barely sleeping, I’ve yawned my way through making breakfast. I’ve tidied the house, gotten ready for the day, and done the chores I abandoned to fall apart in my parents' living room.
But everything has always felt… off.
Too quiet.
Too hollow.
I keep checking my phone, even knowing I’ll delete Jackson’s text messages without reading them. All I want from him is a divorce, but divorce takes time.
The phone call asking me to come in for an interview for a barista job on the other side of town came out of the blue.
The last time I worked at a coffee shop was in college, when I took every job I could to avoid graduating up to my eyeballs in student loan debt.
Jackson seriously lucked out with his full-ride sports scholarship.
Meanwhile, I applied for every scholarship I could, grateful for whatever help my parents could give me.
The rest of the time, I worked my ass off.
Working as a barista had often been boring. I spent hours on my feet, serving some of the rudest people I have ever met, but my shifts were regular, and I could work in the morning and have my evenings and nights to hang out with friends, watch Jackson play hockey, or go on dates.
I’m surprised how fast it all comes back to me.
I’m a little slower on my feet than I was at twenty, and sometimes the smell of coffee or the egg and bacon croissant turns my stomach, but I settle into my new part-time job as a barista in a coffee shop in Melton’s business district.
I lost something when I stopped working after we moved back to Michigan. Making my own money and being independent are parts of myself I hadn’t realized I’d missed after I quit my job in Colorado.
The days pass at the coffee shop, with more frequent trips to the bathroom than I would like as my morning sickness gets worse.
But I love my job. Love the two girls I work with, Abby and Leslie, both grad students who take me under their wing, even though I’m years older than they are.
They make me laugh with gossip and fun things to focus on outside of this child growing in my belly, and how strange it feels to be living at home without Jackson.
One Thursday just after lunch, Abby and I are at the counter debating who wants to go on break next when the bell over the door chimes, signaling a customer just walked in. Still smiling at Abby’s terrible joke, I glance to the front of the coffee shop, and my face freezes.
Jackson stops on his way to the counter.
He looks… good.
His dad had said he was a mess when he told my mom that Jackson wanted me to move back into the house. Well, he doesn’t look like he’s a mess anymore.
His dark-blond hair is neatly brushed back, and his olive skin makes his blue eyes brighter.
He’s in a smart navy suit, though missing the coat.
His muscled shoulders strain against the white fabric of his shirt, which has the top two buttons undone.
I’m not surprised that two women stop talking to eye him like desert. Jackson Olsen has always been handsome.
“Ellie?” He glances at Abby, who's also staring. “What are you doing here?”
“I work here now,” I explain.
We stare at each other, the silence stretching out between us.
I clear my throat. “Do you want to order something?”
He glances at Abby again, who I’m positive hasn’t blinked since Jackson walked into the coffee shop. “Um, do you think we could talk for a minute?”
I consider saying no. He has nothing I want to hear, but everyone in the coffee shop is staring, and I figure the sooner he says whatever he came here to say, the sooner he can leave.
I turn to Abby. “Do you mind if—”
She shoos me away. “Go for it. Take as long as you need.”
I wince.
Not helpful. I was hoping she’d tell me no or at least remind me not to take too long because she still needs to go on her break before her shift ends.
Keeping my navy-blue apron on when I usually remove it to go on my break, I lead the way to the back of the coffee shop, where it’s quietest. We’ve just had our busy lunch period, and all the office workers who come in during their breaks have finished their coffee and returned to their offices with their takeaway paper cups.
Jackson waits until I take a seat, then sits down across from me.
It’s only when he shuffles closer that I realize he’s still wearing his wedding ring.
Why?
Is he going to be difficult with the divorce after all? Can he just not get it off?
“You look good,” he says softly.
No, I don’t. I have to throw up five times before I leave the house and at least three times when I get to work. I recently discovered that, despite its name, morning sickness is not limited to morning hours, and I swear I’ve lost five pounds in the last week alone.
“Thanks,” I say instead of telling him he’s going to be a father.
“I, uh, found an apartment,” he says after a long pause. “It’s not far from the motel. I texted you the address.”
Yeah, I probably deleted it without reading it.
I nod. “Thanks.”
“Uh, I let your attorney know as well, in case he needed to send me anything to sign. I mean, other than the divorce papers.”
Tension simmers between us.
Every time I look at him, I want to look away, and every time I look away, I want to know what he’s doing.
I hate that.
“Yeah. He said you’d signed it.”
“Anything you need, it’s yours, Ellie.”
I wish he would stop calling me Ellie. I wish I could forget how badly he hurt me.
“I should get back to work,” I say, starting to get up.
“You don’t have to work, Ellie,” he says in a low voice. “I know you need and want to be independent, but I make more than enough to support you. I want to continue doing that.”