Chapter 9
Good riddance to this nightmare of a day.
My shirt landed beside the hamper in my closet, and one shoe hit the side of the bed while I kicked the other off and into the hallway. The over-constricting bra came next, and I twisted the under wire and threw it onto the carpet, not caring if I’d ruined the cheap thing.
What was the point of caring?
Nada. Nothing. No good could come from giving a damn.
My lawyer said a court date to handle the inheritance with my ex was inevitable and would let me know when she received confirmation.
That on its own sucked, but at least I’d mentally prepared for it.
This morning, when I woke up to an ungodly amount of pink sparkles, glittering ribbons, and well wishes on social media, I had not been ready to face that nonsense.
Talk about being a glutton for punishment.
I spent ten minutes this morning trolling her profile and scowling at the ridiculous number of pictures they’d posted.
My divorce was final, the name-change paperwork filed.
I should have been done with anything related to Trey—but no.
His new life had to be splashed across my news feed, and I was lucky enough to obsess over the comments our friends had left.
After the tenth message of congratulations, you deserve so much happiness—and my personal favorite you’re so lucky you found someone who shares your hopes and dreams—I snapped, throwing my phone across the dining room and groaning in relief as it landed undamaged on the plush carpet of the hallway.
Reading those pathetic-sounding words put my mood somewhere south of the Arctic Circle, and after struggling through eight hours of work, the only acceptable course of action was a long shower, bad television, and an early bedtime.
I grabbed my silk robe from the back of my bedroom door and wrapped it around myself before walking the short distance down the hall and shutting myself into the bathroom.
I exhaled as a harsh laugh escaped my lips, imagining myself sitting at the dining room table and emailing some random online version of the old Dear Abby column in the hopes it could ease my mind and provide the advice I craved.
Dear Pretentious Internet Blogger Who Believes They Know Better Than Most,
What is the proper etiquette for a (jaded) Clinical Trial Specialist to follow when engaging with her cheating scumbag of an ex and his oblivious flavor of the month?
Suppose social obligations force me to accept a dinner invitation in order to deal with the unpleasantness of our lawsuit.
Would it be better first to butter a slice of warm, sourdough bread and then use said knife to stab myself in the thigh, thus excusing me from any additional conversation?
Or would niceties have to be observed, requiring me to wait until the entrée course and choosing the much more painful steak knife to relieve me of my self-induced misery?
Is death by carb consumption more or less of a faux pas if completed before the dessert course is served?
What about parking validation? Is it worth paying the higher parking price to eliminate the pitiful void of inadequacies left over from my marriage?
With Thanks and Regards,
Catastrophe in Charleston
I shook my head at where my train of thought had landed before groaning and focusing on the peeling wallpaper in the small upstairs bathroom. Guilt bubbled in my stomach like bad sushi, and I winced, wondering how long it had been since I took a long, hard look at Dad’s living situation.
He maintained the cleaning, cooking, and basic tasks like replacing the smoke detector batteries and ensuring the floors stayed polished, but he left the truly relevant and important things unattended.
Cleaning the dryer lint.
Replacing the shower valve.
Upgrading the refrigerator that was long past retirement.
You know, the things you forgot about until they failed and created systematic chaos until resolved.
I’d let my woes take over my life, and Dad suffered for it. Sure, I could share the responsibility with my younger sisters, but they had fulfilling lives and adorable children. Plus, they both lived in different states.
Overanalyzing things wouldn’t help my foul mood, so I sat my phone on the counter and put on some serene sounding artist before removing my robe and turning on the water.
I sat on the tub’s edge and stretched my neck to relieve the day’s tension, hoping after this I could get lost in my most recent prehistoric horror read and then sleep for a solid eight hours.
Nothing like megalodon sharks and blood-borne pathogens to relax. Perhaps I should switch things up and read the LitRPG book my brother-in-law suggested last Christmas.
Freezing cold water numbed my fingers as I turned the tub spout to as hot as it would go and thought about the giant shelf of books still in boxes downstairs.
The water went from icy to tepid but refused to get warmer.
I rubbed the spot between my eyebrows and stood before grabbing a wrench from underneath the sink.
Would a hard tap or two on the pipes warm things up? Nope.
Somehow, with the other thousand things on my to-do list, fixing the leaky showerhead and replacing the faulty valve had fallen to the bottom of the never-ending list of things I’d yet to do.
Besides, no one used this bathroom but me, and if knocking on the water supply pipe a few times made me feel better until the water warmed, so be it.
At least until I could get around to figuring out how to fix the issue.
Perhaps taking my shitty mood out on the innocent pipe was not the best course of action, but the only thing that mattered was immersing myself in scorching hot water until I scrubbed this day away.
One tap. Two. Three. The banging echoed around the room and eventually worked to warm the water. Striking the pipe for the fourth time, I jerked my hand away with a curse and rubbed my fingers together to displace the burst of scalding water from the spout.
A steaming hot shower was exactly what I needed, as long as it didn’t burn my skin. Somehow, I doubted my boss would be sympathetic to my woes of losing several layers of my epidermis.
I adjusted the tap until the water cooled slightly and made another mental note to lower the temperature of the water heater in the garage.
With all I was learning from my never-ending list of things to do around the house, I could start a nice little side hustle.
Chuckling at that ridiculous thought, I stepped into the shower, sliding the frosted glass door closed behind me.
The water felt amazing, and I hummed in contentment before grabbing my orange blossom scented shampoo.
Lathering the suds into my hair, I closed my eyes and sighed, washing away the remnants of the day.
As the hot water cascaded down my body, so did my worries and troubles, disappearing down the drain and into nothingness.
It was an old technique from back when I tried therapy in the hopes of saving my marriage. One that still worked to empty my mind.
Dr. Stanley believed in breathing exercises and validating my feelings by putting them out into the universe.
The breathing worked, but acknowledging the same three feelings each session only made me angry.
When she suggested watching a series of self-help videos during our talks, I knew it was time to break ties.
But one exercise she taught me had stuck.
I imagined each woe and fear, visualizing the words as they swirled along the tile and dripped down the shower wall like water. As each letter disappeared down the drain, I felt lighter—like I’d stupidly been wearing a weighted blanket like a cape and finally had the common sense to remove it.
The water continued to pound against my back, easing my overworked muscles, as the last word—failure—succumbed to gravity and swirled down the drain.
An eerie sense of peace washed over me, and I knew that, for tonight, none of it mattered.
Not the lawsuit or the three hours of work I’d left for tomorrow.
The stress of fixing Dad’s house faded, and so did the aggravation with his constant pushback about making the condo more accessible for him.
I sighed, closing my eyes as the last dregs of my anxiety faded away.
My hands traveled from my hair, down to my neck, before moving toward my breasts.
As my slippery fingers moved over my nipples, my breath hitched, and I gasped at the sensation.
It had been so long since I’d partaken in a little self-care, since I’d felt the need for any type of instant gratification.
I squeezed my eyes harder until flashes of light appeared behind my lids, immersing myself in the moment and letting my body absorb every touch, sound, and scent that surrounded me.
From the refreshing orange of the body wash to the rhythmic pulsing of the water on my back, every touch of my hands on my skin felt like a sensory journey.
My fingertips delicately grazed my skin, and I groaned as I rolled my nipples between my thumb and index finger.
The water dripped down my oversensitive body as I adjusted the temperature again and slid my hand from my breasts to the apex of my thighs.
My body ached with need, desperate for relief as I used my fingers to rub slow, tight circles around my clit.
The teasing movements did wonders for my budding libido, and I splayed one hand on the shower wall to steady myself.
I should draw out the sensations. Tease myself until my knees quaked and I had to brace myself against the tiles instead of just resting my hand there.
But the overwhelming desire to come was too much.
My eyes remained closed hard enough to see brighter flashes of colors as my fingers blurred against my clit.