Chapter 4
Waking up in a different place for the third time in as many days is unsettling.
I haven’t ever been truly settled, never staying in the same place for more than a few years at a time and not really having any place that makes me feel like I belong anywhere in particular, but that hasn’t stopped me from wishing for it one day.
Confusion prickles my senses as I wake enough to recall where I am and when I glance at my watch, I notice it’s nearly nine in the morning.
The extravagance of this suite makes for a lighter feeling than the motel I slept at last night though, and I am truly grateful when I set my feet on the carpet and they sink into the plush fibers rather than sticking to threadbare backing.
I pull on a bright-white robe, and relish in the soft feel of it, blanketing me in luxurious comfort.
I make my way through to the living area and jump when I hear a knock at my door.
I cautiously walk over to peek through the spy hole, and my body relaxes when I see that it’s just room service with a breakfast trolley.
I stand there for a minute, confused as to why he is there. I didn’t order anything.
I open the door just a crack, and I’m greeted by a plump little man with a friendly face. “Mr. King requested breakfast for you, Miss Jamesson, where would you like it?”
He what?
It’s such a thoughtful thing to do but not for the first time, I question his generosity. I feel uncomfortable for doing so, but experience has told me that you don’t get something for nothing and I don’t want to owe him. I don’t want to owe anyone.
“Um, I don’t really know.” My voice is unsure as I pull the door open to allow him in.
“How about I set it on the dining table for you, miss?”
“Okay, that would be fine, thank you.”
He nods and wheels the trolley inside with skill, then sets everything down on the table with practiced precision. When he has finished laying the lavish meal out, he turns to me and asks, “Will there be anything else for you, Miss. Jamesson?”
“Goodness, no, this is more than enough, thank you.” I shake my head to emphasize that I don’t think I could possibly want for anything else.
“Very well. Please call room service if you require anything from the menu.” He leaves with a friendly smile and a small nod.
The polished table seats six, but is set for one, and the cutlery is so well buffed you can see your reflection in it.
The breakfast is fit for a king—pastries, fresh fruit, coffee, orange juice and a dish that is concealed with a silver cover.
I lift it and I’m greeted with a plate of hot pancakes and bacon.
Placed next to the feast is a gold embossed menu, listed with everything you could possibly imagine ordering for breakfast.
How much do they think one person can eat?
I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I started to eat and now I’m not sure I can stop, but after devouring the pancakes and bacon, I grab a pain au chocolat and a mug of black coffee, and head for the balcony.
I’m pleased when I find a sun lounger to relax on, so I sit and take in the most amazing view over the Strip, watching the rest of the world go by.
The view reaches for miles as I watch the people going about their everyday life without a care in the world.
Is this really the way it is? Or are they all running or hiding from something?
I’m not naive enough to think that life is going to be a bunch of roses, but there must be an end to the constant stream of upheaval I seem to have dealt with all of my life.
Surely it has to hit a plateau and run smoothly, even for just a little while?
When I have finished eating, I lie back on the lounger and close my eyes; after consuming all that food I’m feeling tired and sluggish. The Las Vegas sunshine is warm, and the feel of it touching my skin is comforting, but nonetheless my mind races with all the events of the last few days.
The shouting.
The slap.
The feeling of history repeating itself.
Oh god, this is one big clusterfuck.
I need to decide what’s going to happen long term.
It would be much easier to leave, start afresh somewhere else with a new name and a new identity where no one knows anything about me.
But I’m tired of running, I don’t want to leave my mom again.
I don’t want to leave Lottie again, and I want somewhere to set down roots.
I’m twenty-six years old. Time to face it head on and deal with it.
After a scorching hot shower, I’m feeling a little more human. I know where I need to start in order to put my life back together, and I’m not looking forward to it, but it has to be done. Delaying the inevitable won’t help.
I slip on a pink matching underwear set—nice underwear is essential in making you feel empowered—followed by a black shift dress that hugs my figure and makes my long legs look even longer. A pair of black wedge heels completes the outfit.
I turn to look in the mirror. I’m not applying any makeup. The deep-purple bruising that has developed on my cheek only serves as a reminder of my past and I need to feel that anger and determination for the phone call I’m about to make.
I delve into my purse and take out my cell. No more missed calls from Aaron. Just a text from Lottie, asking about my plans for today. I’ll call her later.
I’m not sure if he’ll be awake yet, or even what state he’ll be in, but I dial the number and wait.
My hands are shaking and the nails on my free hand have left indentations where they are digging into the palm.
My heart rate picks up with every ring he doesn’t answer and I think it just about beats out of my chest when he eventually picks up.
“Nat?”
“Hello, Aaron.” My voice is flat, devoid of feeling, but it doesn’t take long for him to pull on my heartstrings and thaw my determination just a little.
“Natalie! Where the hell are you? I’ve been so worried. Come home. Please, come home.”
“Aaron—”
“Nat, I’m sorry, I love you. Please just—”
“Stop, Aaron.” I shake my head in frustration. “I’m not coming home. I’m not coming back,” I say softly.
“What? What do you mean you’re not coming home? We had an argument, all married couples have arguments. We can go to counseling, and I’ll get help, whatever you want. We can work it out …”
Just an argument? Is he crazy?
I pinch the bridge of my nose and screw my eyes tight shut in frustration. He doesn’t see it, but then he doesn’t know the full story so he wouldn’t have known how deeply something like this would have affected me.
“Will you just stop? Please, Aaron … come back to the real world. We didn’t just have an argument. You hit me …”
“I’m sorry.” His voice drops to a whisper. “It’ll never happen again. I don’t know why … I … I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately, and—”
“You’re right, Aaron, it won’t happen again because I’m not coming back. I want a divorce.”
“You want a divorce?”
“Did you not hear me the first time? I’m not doing this, I’m not living a life going back and forth like this.
If it means being on my own, then so be it, but I’m not going to be miserable any longer.
Our marriage has been a disaster from the minute we said I do.
And you hit me, Aaron. You hit me! You can’t come back from something like that. We can’t.”
The silence stretches out between us as I listen to his soft restricted breaths on the other end of the line.
“I really fucked up. Didn’t I, Nat?”
I sit on the edge of the bed and my heart constricts at the defeated tone in his voice.
I know I should hate him, but I don’t. I certainly don’t love him, but I don’t hate him either.
We shared some good times, and our honeymoon was one of the happiest weeks of my life, but it’s all tainted with the twelve weeks that followed.
“Yes, you did.” I swallow the lump that is forming in my throat and focus on the purpose of this phone call.
“Can you just come back so we can talk?”
“So you can convince me to give you another chance?”
“No, I just thought I meant more to you than ending everything we have over a phone call.”
I sigh. “You did mean more to me than that, but you took away any love I had for you when you lost your temper. There’s nothing more to work out.
I don’t want half of everything you own, and I’m not going to take you to the cleaners.
With the gash on my cheek and the ugly bruising I’m looking at right now, if this goes to court it will ruin you. ”
I picture him on the other end of the phone, raking his hands through his shaggy surf hair as he does when he’s agitated.
“I’ll have divorce papers sent to you. I won’t be asking for anything else from you, just a quick divorce with no publicity and no fuss.
I don’t want the Porsche. It’s in your name anyway, so I’ll have it shipped back to you at my earliest convenience.
” The matter of fact tone in my voice masks the multitude of emotions going through me right now.
“Nat—”
“No, Aaron, this is it, I’m not a contract that you can negotiate terms on. Please don’t call me again. I’ll find an attorney and they will be in touch.” I hear him start to protest, but I cut him short. “Goodbye, Aaron.”
I end the call. I have to.
It’s the only way to stop this conversation going around and around in circles and risking me changing my mind because I feel sorry for him.
I hate to think that my words are the cause of someone’s hurt, but if he digs a little deeper, he’ll see that it’s not my words that have hurt him, it’s his actions.
No sooner do I hang up, then it rings again.
Aaron.