Chapter 4
LILA
Iwas staring at the wall again. As far as walls go, it was pretty. I’d picked the lavender floral pattern for our bedroom because I’d thought it would make it more relaxing. I’d never expected to be staring at it after I’d found out my husband had been banging some woman named Cami.
God, I hated her fucking name. Why couldn’t she be called Beryl or Joan? Something that didn’t scream I’m younger than you.
I’d never cared about my age. I was forty-four, but I didn’t feel it, really.
Other than the lack of libido and mood swings which my doctor told me was probably perimenopause, I felt like I did in my twenties.
Okay, maybe my thirties. Vanessa and I still drank wine until we couldn’t see on occasion, and I took care of myself by working out regularly and drinking loads of water.
But seeing my husband with Cami made me realise that if that’s what he wanted, I was far from it.
I didn’t wear makeup or dye my hair. I was lucky that my mom hadn’t gotten grey hair until she was late sixties, so I took after her in that respect.
I worked in a local store, stocking shelves and working the checkouts, so I didn't see the point in having my nails done.
I wasn't tanned either, or I didn’t squeal like Cami did when my husband fucked me.
But I never cared about any of that until now.
Now, I wanted to slap on as much make up as I could, wear the shortest dress I could buy, get my nails done and seduce the fuck out of my shit husband.
But I was too proud for that. My father had left my mom for another woman when I was twelve, so I was grateful that I didn’t have kids.
There was nothing worse than your daddy leaving you, and that’s what it felt like, despite your mom telling you repeatedly he’d left her and still loved you very much.
My mom would understand, I knew she would, but I couldn’t bring myself to call her and tell her that Victor was just another cheating scumbag, that I was going to be a divorcee just like she was.
Well, fuck it.
I’d told Vanessa I wanted a divorce, but I guess I needed to tell the jerk I’d married, too.
It had been five days since I kicked him out, but it felt so much longer.
I turned to look for my phone, my heart racing when I saw the screen lighting up.
I knew it was him before I even picked it up—he hadn’t stopped calling or texting. All day. Every day. Was he even at work? I hoped so, because the mortgage still needed paying, and I couldn’t do that by myself.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I’d been dreading this conversation, but really, it had to be done. I didn’t know how long divorces took—
Fuck, divorce—
Fuck him. He did this.
I finally answered, hearing his voice cracking. “Baby!”
And that one word undid me, all my resolve stripping away as tears streamed from my eyes, my hand trembling.
I need to be strong. Remember him fucking her.
I forced myself to replay the video until anger overrode my despair, and my heart stopped bleeding for five seconds.
“I want a divorce, Victor.” My voice betrayed me, showing how I was hanging on by a thread. He’d know. He always knew.
“Lila, baby, let’s talk about this—”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and screwed my eyes shut, forcing air through my nose slowly.
“You lost the right to talk to me about anything when you fucked someone else. Do you understand me, Victor? I want a divorce, and I never want to see you again.”
He inhaled sharply on the other end, and I couldn’t help but listen for background noise. Where was he? He couldn’t be at work; I’d hear the tools and noise I always did. Maybe he was with her?
A cold dread swept over me at the thought. But would he be like this with me in front of her?
“Okay, I get it. You want a divorce…” His voice trailed off, and suddenly I couldn’t see through my tears. “I just want you to know that I don’t want this. I don’t want a divorce, and I don’t want anyone else. I was a fucking idiot—”
“I’ll contact my attorney today.”
Then I hung up and ran to the bathroom to be sick.
How is this happening to me? To us?
I sobbed and spat into the toilet bowl, my insides swirling as I prayed to wake up from this nightmare, safely in Victor’s arms. He’d kiss me and tell me everything was alright, that he’d never do that to me. Then I’d fall back to sleep nestled against his chest, content.
But no. This nightmare was real. This was happening.
I leaned against the bathroom wall and stared at the overflowing laundry basket I’d left to rot and ruin. I had no energy for mundane tasks, none at all. It took everything I had just to get up in the morning.
Victor was forty-six. He was four years off fifty, for god’s sake, and he was having an affair.
We didn’t even have sex that often—okay, maybe that was more me than him—and he’d voiced his concerns over it, but I’d just snapped at him and told him to understand how difficult it was for me too. It was no fun, the perimenopause.
But is that why he did it? The lack of sex? We’d gone without it for months and months on end…Christ, was it a year?
Had we really gone without sex in so long?
I just didn’t want it. That was a long time to expect him to go without sex…but regardless, he shouldn’t have cheated.
The bastard.
I bowed my head and sobbed until my ribs ached. I rolled away from the wall and curled up on the tiled floor, wishing I could reverse time and go back and talk to him, to try and explain how I felt instead of snapping at him and pushing him away.
But he didn’t have to go and fuck someone else. That was on him, right?
My phone rang from the bedroom, lighting up the dark room. I crawled over to it, just in case it was someone I needed to speak to. Whom, I didn’t know, but I was glad I did, because when I saw my mom’s name on the screen, I bawled like a baby.
“Hey, sweetheart! I’m just calling to tell you I’ve ordered you some of that glassware you liked when you came over. You know the ones with…” She stopped mid-sentence, listening to my sobs. “Baby? What happened?”
“Vic…another woman…” I forced the words out, so I never had to say them again.
“I’m coming over. Stay right where you are,” Mom instructed before ending the call, her voice flat. She knew exactly how I was feeling. She’d been here, but with a twelve-year-old daughter in tow.
I forced myself to stand, my entire body trembling as I walked down the stairs like a robot, twisting the lock in the door so my mom could walk straight in.
Then I sank onto the sofa and sobbed, soaking the cushions I’d chosen for appearances rather than comfort, scratching my sore skin.
It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did.