Chapter 3
ALEX
FOUR MONTHS EARLIER
My phone pings as I park in the driveway, but I ignore it as I grab my gym bag and water bottle and head straight for the kitchen. Going to Pilates was a mistake. The bruises on my arms are finally gone, but I almost passed out doing oblique crunches.
My ribs still aren’t healed, apparently.
I drop my stuff in the kitchen and grab a half-empty bottle of vodka from the freezer, eyeballing what will make me feel less anxious and in pain as I pour it into a glass. I’d prefer wine, but vodka will make the discomfort go away quicker.
I lean against the counter stiffly and pull my phone from my leggings, sipping my drink quickly as I open my texts to find a text from my Pilates instructor with a link to an Instagram video.
Gabi, 1:39 PM:
So great to see you today! Feel better!
BTW I’m volunteering with this great non-profit and just did a video for them - can you watch it so I can get more views?
Alice, 1:46 PM:
missed you too! can do :) see you next week, hopefully!
I open the video she sent, letting it play in the background as I pour another drink.
It’s an affirmation video, and I let Gabrielle’s calm, cheerful voice wash over me as I sip my vodka, cringing a little at the stupidity of the affirmations.
I finally look down at the screen as the video plays to see Gabrielle dressed in purple, moving through heart-opening yoga poses in a room decorated in shades of cream and purple.
I look at the name of the account, @purpleribbonyoga, and click on the page.
It’s a non-profit for domestic violence.
I tense up immediately, thinking back to anything I’ve ever said or done that could get back to Danny.
I know Gabrielle does stuff for charities all the time, so I’m sure that’s all this is.
I aimlessly scroll through the videos on the page, drinking quickly to combat the cold dread creeping up my spine as I listen to what’s being said on the videos.
I pause on an aesthetically pleasing infographic about the cycle of abuse and stare at it for a second.
The glass in my hand starts to shake as I read it.
It’s my life, reduced to a fucking chart.
I put my phone down and drain my drink before emptying the rest of the bottle into my glass.
It’s not like I don’t know what my marriage is, what my life is. It’s not like no one has ever tried to help before, I just didn’t want to hear them.
I don’t know what’s different now, but I hear every message from every video and post. They hit like bullets, lodging themselves in my drunk brain and breaking apart the carefully constructed compartments I sort my life into.
I stare at the empty vodka bottle, trying to remember how full it was half an hour ago. My brain is fuzzier than it should be, but instead of feeling numb, I’m feeling all the emotions I keep locked away. I head to the fridge and grab a bottle of wine, seething.
Things have been good for over a month, but Danny’s been spending more time at home lately.
This morning, he snapped at me over a shirt not being properly folded, even though it was, and I know without a doubt that he’ll be looking for reasons to make me apologize soon, and then he’ll freak out about something and fly off the handle.
It used to take so much longer before he’d freak out again.
I keep scrolling, unable to stop myself, and before I realize it, I’ve spent all afternoon scrolling through Instagram, jumping between hashtags and accounts and posts, crying on and off, drinking through the whole bottle of wine.
I’m so tired of my life.
I hear the garage door open, and I scream, dropping my phone.
My eyes fly to the clock on the wall. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I lost track of time.
Panic slices through me and I grab my phone, quickly deleting the texts from Gabrielle and my Instagram search history before running around the kitchen and frantically putting together dinner.
Maybe he won’t be mad.
He slams the garage door, his heavy footsteps heading for the kitchen, and I work hard to keep my cool and act sober. I look up from the salad I’m preparing and force a smile that feels too tight, but I take one look at his face, and I know I’m fucked.
He’s already mad.
“Hi, pumpkin,” I coo, pitching my voice a little higher to hide how shaky it is.
He doesn’t say anything as I look back down at the avocado I’m halving, trying to push down the anxiety and ignore my churning thoughts.
He walks towards me, looming over me and looking down at the salad I’m throwing together.
“How many times do I have to tell you I don’t like avocados, Alice?” Danny’s voice is low and menacing. I stare down into the salad, realizing that in my panic, I started making something I usually only make for myself.
“Oh, god, Danny, I’m so sorry,” I say quietly, and I set the knife down and start picking the chunks of avocado out of the salad greens with trembling hands.
He’s either going to explode now or save it for later, and I’m not sure which is worse.
He scoffs and walks towards the fridge, pulling out a beer.
“Jesus, Bunny, you’re so stupid,” he mutters, heading out of the kitchen and leaving me standing there, my hands shaking with anger and fear. My eyes lift from my hands to the recently repaired drywall in the kitchen from when Danny threw me into the wall almost two months ago.
Looking at it now, you’d never even know it had been damaged.
Something inside me that was already broken beyond repair finally shatters, and all I feel is bitter, horrible resentment. I grab another bottle of wine from the fridge and drink directly from it, fury and contempt roiling in my stomach.
Fuck this.
Fuck him.
I dump all the avocado chunks back into the salad, hastily cutting open another, roughly slicing it, and dumping it in before I grab another, draining the bottle of wine as I go. I’m furious and shitfaced by the time Danny comes in for another beer, asking me where the fuck dinner is.
FRIDAY, JUNE 2
I lay on the yoga mat in savasana, breathing deeply and trying to clear my mind.
I don’t want to let the memory bother me, but it won’t stop replaying in my mind.
I dream about that night all the time, how he threw the salad and the wine bottle at me, how I got too drunk and made the mistake of telling him everything I thought about him and our relationship and all the things he’d done to me, how I had to run in the middle of the night with no plan, no preparation, and no fucking idea what I was doing.
It’s working out okay so far, though.
I get changed after yoga in the rec center locker room and hurry back to the office, pressing my lips into a thin line as I focus on drafting billing emails for Catherine and Suzie.
Despite my best efforts to keep the past in the past, it’s not working that well.
Between waking up from another nightmare about Danny, seeing a large blond man at the coffee shop this morning, and fighting off that memory in yoga, I’ve been a bundle of nerves all day.
I do my best to hide it, to smile and act normal, but I think the women at work are starting to be able to tell when I’m having a hard day.
I hate it.
I walk home quickly after work and open a bottle of wine, setting up paints and a canvas on my coffee table.
I search online until I find the video Gabrielle sent me back in March, and I play it on repeat in the background while I paint a peony on a small square canvas, focusing on detailing it with a fine brush.
Like exercising, painting helps me manage the constant, nagging fear that I’ll lose control of my life again.
I breathe deeply as I paint, practicing the affirmations Gabrielle asks me to repeat, letting her familiar voice comfort me.
I love myself.
I love who I am becoming.
I am doing the best I can.
I am stronger than I think.
I am grateful for my freedom.
I am worthy of love and respect.
I deserve to feel good about myself.
I deserve to be happy.
I repeat the affirmations to myself over and over until I’m grounded in the truths and almost believe the lies.
***
I go to Portland the next morning and focus on burying my feelings under an avalanche of brunch and shopping.
I walk away from the restaurant, drunk off mimosas, following my phone’s map and peering into the large glass windows as I walk past the shops.
I pause when I come to a shop with frosted windows and discrete signage, slipping my phone into my bag as I step inside.
I’m immediately overwhelmed by the brightly lit, well-organized shelves full of things I’m unfamiliar with.
I’ve never been in a sex shop before.
“Can I help you?” I glance at the tall, androgynous person behind the counter and shake my head quickly.
“Just looking,” I say, ducking my face to hide the blush creeping across my cheeks. It’s definitely the mimosas making me blush and not the fact that I’m an adult woman who’s never owned a sex toy, much less masturbated until about a week ago.
“Cool, let me know if you need help. I’m Sienna.
” I nod, flipping through an explicit, illustrated book on display and putting it down quickly.
I head to the back of the store, picking up a long flesh-colored dildo that I can’t fully wrap my hand around.
It’s very different from what I’m used to.
Could that even fit inside of me? What would that even feel like?
I set it back down, glancing around at the other items laid out nearby.
There’s a leather harness with a hole in the front, a string of silicone balls, cylindrical pumps, handcuffs, ropes, clamps and pinwheels and things that look like they might hurt, and an enema kit.
Oh my god, I’m in way over my head here.
I just want to buy a vibrator.