Chapter 6
AYLA
I joined a gym a few months ago, but I haven’t gone very often. Shame on me. Last week, when I was there, one of the trainers suggested I try boxing. I laughed.
But then I saw Carson with another woman. I think boxing might be good.
So here I am, in the gym in leggings and sports bra, ready to punch things.
Tim starts by teaching me about stance. I’m right-handed so I stand with my left foot forward and my right foot back. “Shoulder here, pointing parallel with your front foot.” He adjusts my shoulders. “Hands up by your face.”
I feel tough.
I learn basic movements, and then punches. First the jab.
“Don’t I get to wear gloves?” I ask.
“You don’t need them just yet. Exhale when you jab.”
I practice a few times. Then I learn the cross, turning my hip.
“This is fun.”
Tim grins. “Keep your chin down.” He shows me the hook, then we put them all together. “One, two, hook…”
I probably look ridiculous and feel a little awkward, but I don’t care.
Then it’s one, two, hook, two, a four-punch combination. I feel like I’m flailing.
“Keep practicing,” he says. “When you practice, it’ll get easier and smoother.”
He makes me bounce around and punch the air for two straight minutes and I’m a sweaty, rubber-legged mess. I push damp hair off my face and pant. “This is a good workout.”
We move on to defensive moves.
“One, two… slip. Weight on your back foot. You’re avoiding a punch.”
“I don’t really want to fight with someone,” I tell him. “I just want to punch things.”
He laughs. “Okay, I get it. Let’s try another combination… one, two, slip… one, two, two.”
I press my lips together and focus. I can do this.
I’m happy when he shows me how to tape my hands and put on gloves. I hold them up in front of my face to admire them, bright red and white. I do a couple of moves.
“Yeah, that’s it. Come on over here to the bag.”
I skip across the mats behind him, ready to lay a beating on a poor, innocent punching bag.
He gets me starting with the jab again, then moving on to the different combinations. Hitting the bag is different but satisfying. I imagine Carson in front of me, refusing to help me out by pretending we’re still married, and punch harder, until my arms start aching and my hands are throbbing.
Pow. Pow. Powpowpow.
Tim stops me. “You’re doing great, but that’s probably good for today. You might be a little sore.”
“Might be.” I drop my arms and groan. “I think that’s certain.”
He helps me get the gloves off and I head to the locker room to shower. Holy shit. That was hard work. It felt good, though. Different than my usual yoga class. Ha.
At home, I collapse onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. And again I think about Carson saying no to me. My lips push out into a pout.
My phone buzzes. I grab it and look at the screen. Nonna.
“Hi, Nonna!” I answer, trying to sound chipper. “How are you?”
“Ahh, not so good.”
I sit up straight. “Oh no. What’s wrong?”
“My arthritis is bothering me. My social security check didn’t show up. And I haven’t had sex in ten years.”
I blink. Great Nonno died twenty years ago. I consider saying something. Do I want to go there? Nah. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Have you taken your arthritis medication?”
“Of course I have.” She sounds irritable.
“Okay, good. I’m sorry about your check being late. Do you need money?”
“No, I don’t need money. I need my family.”
“Of course. The party is coming up!”
“Is everyone going to be there?”
“Yes. Except for Uncle Frank.” He and his wife live in Italy.
“I guess I’ll excuse them for that.” She pauses. “What about Carson?”
I narrow my eyes. Why is she asking about him? “Um…” Shit!
“I haven’t seen him in so long. This might be my last birthday.”
A rock materializes in my stomach. “No, it won’t.”
“I’m ninety-nine. It’s a miracle I’ve made it this far.”
She really is grouchy today. This isn’t like her. “Everyone will be at the party,” I say gently. “It’s going to be so much fun.”
“Okay.” After a beat, she says in a softer tone, “Thank you for organizing it. I know it’s a lot of work.”
Warmth fills my chest. “Yes, it is, but it’s worth it.”
We chat a bit longer, then end the call.
Whew. I didn’t have to tell her Carson isn’t coming.
I imagine myself at Nonna’s party. She asks me, Where’s Carson?
And I say, We’re getting a divorce. Happy birthday!
And all my aunts and uncles and cousins will know that I’m a failure as a wife and a mother and well, pretty much anything.
I roll onto my side and press my face into a pillow. He has to do this. But not just for me. For Nonna. For her birthday.
Did he say no because of Emily? Emory? Whatever. Is he serious about her? Ugh.
I call Rachel.
“Help,” I tell her. “I’m spiraling.”
“What? Why?”
“Because of Carson.”
“Ohhhh.”
I told her that night what I’d proposed to him and how he’d said no. As always, she was supportive, calling him a gutless wonder. I don’t think I’d go that far, but I was disappointed. “And Nonna just called and said she wants to see him.”
“Oh shit.”
“Yeah. I’m so mad at him! He’s going to disappoint my poor old Nonna.”
“Ugh. I thought he might actually do it.”
“You know what?” I say. “I need to never see him again.”
“That shouldn’t be hard. Isn’t that the idea behind a divorce?”
“Yes, but he still helps with the house and I know he and Dad went to a baseball game and out for beers.”
“Hmmm.”
“I have to sell the house.”
“What?”
I expel a sigh toward the ceiling of my bedroom. “It’s too big for me anyway. And too far away.”
“Too far away from…?”
“Everything. You. The restaurant. I’m all by myself in this mansion. It’s ridiculous. I need a little apartment like you.”
“Oh. Well. You make some good points.”
“Right? And then I’ll have no need to ever see Carson again. And he can date whoever he wants and ignore the fact that he broke Nonna’s heart by divorcing me.”
“Are you okay?”
“I learned how to box today.”
Silence. “Box? As in… punching?”
“Yes. It felt great. Too bad I won’t be able to move my arms tomorrow. But I’ll get over it.”
“Wow.”
“Am I okay?” I close my eyes. “I don’t know. What am I doing, Rach?”
“I… don’t know?”
“All I do is look after other people. Work in the restaurant, looking after other people. Is this what the rest of my life is going to be like? I want to go to Paris.”
“Ayla.”
“I know.” I sigh. “I’m losing it. I think seeing Carson with another woman made me question everything.” Well, truthfully, I was kind of questioning things before that. But now it seems more urgent that I do something with my life.
“Okay, sure, that’s understandable. But let’s not be hasty about things. Can you even sell the house without talking to him?”
I think about that. When we met with lawyers and worked out the separation agreement, I was unwell. I was tired and apathetic. “I think so,” I say. “I got the house. He still pays the mortgage, though, so I’d have to tell him.”
“Maybe you should talk to your lawyer before you do anything.”
“That sounds so sensible. I’m tired of being sensible.”
“Oh, Ayla.” Her voice softens.
“I’m gonna call him right now.”
“No!”
I huff. “Rachel! What harm is calling him to talk about it?”
“Maybe wait until morning?”
“Okay.” No. “I’m fine. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Do you want to do something? Have dinner? We can talk more about this.”
“Yeah. No. I’m working tomorrow night.”
“Monday?”
“Working. Hey, it’s okay. We’ll find a time next week.”
We end our call and without pause, I call Carson.
“Hi.”
“Hi. It’s Ayla.”
“I guessed that from the name on my screen.”
Smartass.
It sounds noisy where he is. Where is he? Shit, I didn’t check his schedule. “Where are you?”
“Seattle. In a sports bar watching the Packers play the Vikings.”
“Oh. Okay. Um. I wanted to tell you that I’ve decided to sell the house.”
After a beat, he says, “What?”
“I want to sell the house. For many reasons.” I wave a hand and a groan escapes me because my arm hurts. “I figured I’d have to talk to you about it.”
“Uh, well, yeah. I mean, I guess it’s your decision.”
“Okay, I’ll call a realtor in the morning.”
“Hey, hold on. You don’t have to do it this minute.”
“I said tomorrow. That’s not this minute. Also, I’m going to Paris.”
“Jesus. Have you been drinking?”
“No. I just got back from the gym.”
“Look, I get back Tuesday. We can talk about it then.”
“I don’t want to wait until Tuesday.” Then I sigh. “Fine.”
“You can’t go to Paris before Tuesday.”
I laugh a little sharply. “Of course not. I have a job and a birthday party to plan. I have to be sensible.”
Silence. He thinks I’m drunk. Maybe I should be drunk. Or high. Why didn’t I think of that earlier?
“Okay,” I say. “Tuesday.”
“I’ll come to the house.”
“Sure. Sounds good. Thanks.”
We end the call. I drop my phone to the bed.
It’s a start.
* * *
Carson is coming after his practice, which is almost always at eleven o’clock, so I know he’ll be here around three.
When I woke up the morning after I talked to him, I felt calmer, but still resolved.
The house is the last thing connecting us, so it has to go.
Even though I love this house so much. But my life is different than when we bought it.
At that time, it seemed like the embodiment of all my hopes and dreams: a family of my own with Carson.
Before he arrives, I wander from room to room, smiling wistfully at how we renovated and decorated the place.
The acorn-brown hardwood floors gleam in the afternoon sunlight as I walk across them.
The cozy den with the big cushy sectional and stone fireplace has French doors leading to the deck out back overlooking the shady yard.
Upstairs, I pause at the door of Kane’s room. Grief slams me like an airbag in a car collision, taking out my knees, and I grab the doorframe to hold myself up.
If I leave this house, I’m leaving all I have of him.
A dark spiral of pain rips through me.
What if I forget him? My baby boy.
What if I forget what his baby laugh sounded like? What his smile looked like? Some days, it’s so vivid, but sometimes, I feel like I’m being pulled further and further away from the memories.
My heart was shattered the day he died, and it will never be whole again. That piece of me will always be missing. And it hurts so much.
The pain abates to a hollow ache in my chest. I swipe at wet cheeks as I straighten and turn away from the room.
Kane isn’t here in this room. I’ll have the same photos and videos to watch and remember him wherever I am.
Maybe it will be good for me to be away from here, where I torture myself by coming in here every day.
The doorbell rings and I jerk around. That’s Carson.
It was his house, but he’s always so careful to ring the bell and not just walk in, because now it’s my house.
I run fingers under my eyes again then jog down the stairs to the front door. He’s standing on the veranda. As soon as I open the door, his eyebrows jerks down. “What’s wrong?”