Chapter 17 #5
Plus, I knew that Martin wasn’t depositing his full paychecks into our account.
He saved a lot of it for himself to bet on sports games and to play poker with his friends.
For all of his admonishes about how I should “be more frugal,” he was one of the least frugal people I knew.
He was able to do what he wanted because I made money at the tire shop and through my graphic design business, and our money was, in his words, “shared.”
I sold my wedding ring at a pawn shop.
I could have driven back to Montana, but I knew from my mother that Logan was possibly coming back soon, according to his father.
I couldn’t face him. I was not who I had been.
The miscarriage and my marriage and living in a shack had changed me.
I felt dark inside. I did not have the courage to see him.
He was probably dating someone. Someone shiny with smooth hair and perfect teeth and big boobs.
Even if he wasn’t, I couldn’t date Logan again because of the repercussions that would fall on him and his future. The reasons I broke up with him were still there.
A children’s chapter book about a fourth grader named Roxy Belle jumped into my head as soon as I started driving away from the hovel.
I saw her spirit, her joy, her curiosity, and her love of her family and animals and school.
I saw her younger sister, who spoke about communicating with aliens because she loved studying space and aliens.
I saw her twin brothers, three years old, who were curious troublemakers.
I saw her older sister, who was twelve and wanted to be a hair stylist, and I saw her oldest teenage brother, who loved playing sports and was protective of Roxy Belle.
By the time I arrived in Scholly Hills in northwest Oregon, six hours away from Eastern Oregon, I had written my first Roxy Belle book in my head and had a dozen other ideas ready to go. I was already so much healthier. I felt safe and hopeful and relaxed. I was starting over.
Though I made good money as a graphic designer, I got a job as a waitress at a country café. I loved the café. I worked twenty hours a week with lovely people and rented my pink and white cottage from a woman named Lorraine, whose mother used to live in it.
Life began again.
Martin got my address from a cousin. She didn’t know we were divorcing. She was thirteen years old. He drove out to my sweet white and pink cottage and begged me to come back. He was sobbing and shaking. “Please, Bellini. Please. I am so sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”
I discussed with him what he should be sorry about, as he still seemed, infuriatingly, baffled as to why I was so unhappy married to him.
I gave him a list: Forcing me to live in a leaking hovel in a small, claustrophobic town I never wanted to live in.
Paying me less than he should have for selling, of all things, tires.
Not depositing his full paychecks and lying about it.
Spending far more money than I did, though I worked two jobs.
Being a selfish, dense, insensitive, critical, unpleasant, argumentative, spoiled jerk who took me for granted and did not make me feel loved or special.
Allowing his mother and wannabe wife to treat me with derision and judgment and doing nothing about it.
Not supporting me when we lost our daughter. Deliberately not using a condom.
He had the decency to be ashamed.
He cried, cried some more. Begged again. Told me he would move into my pink and white cottage immediately and away from his hometown. The thought made me ill. I told him that. “The thought of you living here with me makes me ill, Martin.”
His face froze as if my words were beyond his comprehension.
He told me I would never have to see his mother again or Mixie.
He would pay attention to me. He would be patient and loving.
He would never hide his paychecks again.
We would move to a new home in town. I was his favorite person.
He was more in love with me now than the day we married, I was his whole life, he couldn’t live without me, please give him another chance.
“I’ll make it up to you, Bellini, I promise. ”
I said no. Then I decided to be blunt and honest, as I thought it would make things, ultimately, easier—for him and for me. I was gentle and calm. “I’m sorry, Martin. I don’t love you. I don’t like you. I don’t respect you, and I don’t want to see you again. Ever. We are done.”
All done.
Total meltdown. Too bad. He shouldn’t have treated me like his neglected pet.
My graphic design business took off because I had time to reach out to clients and to market. I quit the café job within a year and bought the house from Lorraine, partly with the upfront money that Maisie got me for Roxy Belle.
I felt myself coming back to me.
“And that’s it,” I told Logan. “We divorced. I felt like a failure, but I was relieved. I was so happy, I’m still happy, to be out of that relationship, but I try not to think about it at all.”
Our dessert came. I had lemon meringue pie. He had a cherry tart. As with our dinners, we traded bites.
“I’m sorry, Bellini.”
I smiled at him because he looked deeply upset. I think there were tears in his eyes. “Me, too, but it’s over.” Then I decided to change the subject. “What book are you reading now?”
He let me change the topic, probably sensing that I was exhausted from going back in time and reliving the debacle of my marriage. We were off and talking about one of our favorite topics—books.
It was not surprising that we’d read many of the same books—fiction, nonfiction, memoirs, thrillers—over the last years. It was one more connection we had. It was as if there was a little Christmas magic hanging over our reading selections.
Logan dropped me off at my truck that night in front of the bar. He got out and gave me a hug. I felt safe in that hug. Warm and snuggly.
Then I started thinking about whipping his clothes off, climbing into his truck, and leaning the seats all the way back.
I pulled away. Fortunately, I was not yet panting with desire, which would have been embarrassing.
That part of our relationship couldn’t start up again anyhow.
It would never be worth it for Logan. Plus, I was leaving in January, and that was that.
“Thank you, again, for dinner, Logan.”
“Anytime, Bellini. I mean that.” He paused. “Chess soon? I hope I haven’t lost my game.”
I giggled. Yeah, it sounded like a giggle.
“I think I’ll take you up on that.” I loved our naked chess games, but I knew he wasn’t proposing that.
Was he? Had we ever actually finished a naked chess game?
I decided not to address it. I caught Logan’s eye, and I knew he was thinking the same darn thing.
I giggled again, sounding like a fool. He laughed, then we stared at each other under that shiny moon, Christmas lights twinkling all around us, the sounds of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” echoing from the bar.
Logan closed the door of my truck, and I waved as I left, visions of sugarplums and naked chess games dancing through my mind.
I still loved that man so much.
He had always made me happy.