I deliberately took my time getting ready for bed once we got back from the country club. I hoped that if I was slow enough David would have fallen asleep by the time I slipped under the covers. So far I had managed to avoid any further confrontations about sex, but I knew it was only a matter of time before David would insist on his conjugal ‘rights’.
I closed the toilet lid and sat down with my head in my hands. I couldn’t go on like this: the stress was beginning to get to me and it had only been three weeks. Was that all it had taken for my life to change so completely? I wasn’t cut out for infidelity. Or maybe it was simply that Donna’s comment about having been at the mall at the same time as us that had made my anxiety levels spike.
The choices were stark: leave David and set divorce proceedings in action – stay away from Sebastian for another 13 weeks and hope no one put two-and-two together to make four; stay, and save money from my writing so we could disappear to NYC together at the end of September – and hope no one put two-and-two together to make four. Either way people would work out the truth when we both disappeared at the same time – I hoped that once Sebastian was 18 and there was no proof of wrong doing, they’d leave us alone. That was my grand plan. And money was going to be an issue. David had his salary paid into a savings account and gave me $1,000 a month for groceries, gas for my car and utility bills. It was only just enough. I had no money of my own. When I’d had my job back East, David had insisted that my wages went into the communal pot. That’s what he called it, although I never saw the money again. I didn’t even know how much was in our savings account. What a humiliating admission.
But if I could get an article published in City Beat every week for the next three months, I’d have over $4,000 – enough for seven or eight weeks rent in NYC. It was going to be tight, but when it came down to it, what price freedom?
Although the fact that the age of consent was 17 in New York was reassuring, I tried not to dwell on it. It didn’t change the facts of what I’d done in California, and what I planned to continue doing.
The rumbling sound of David’s snores broke through my grim thoughts: it was safe to go to bed.
I slipped carefully under the sheets and tried to think positively. Tomorrow was a new day: my first ever piece of professional writing was going to be published – and I had a promise to keep to Sebastian.
Chapter 9
I collected Sebastian from our special place near the park and drove off quickly. He was unusually subdued.
“Are you okay?”
He shrugged.
I really hoped he wasn’t going to sulk for long: I’d had enough of that in my life, and in particular from David during the last 24 hours.
“Sebastian, talk to me!”
He sighed. “I hated seeing you with that asshole last night. How can you stand it?”
I blanched at the anger in his voice.
“I’ve got used to it, over the years,” I said quietly. “But it’s getting harder.”
I could feel Sebastian’s eyes on me as I drove.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
It was my turn to shrug. He didn’t need to apologize: if it was anyone’s fault, it was mine. I looked for a way to change the subject and diffuse the tense atmosphere.
“I need to buy a half-dozen copies of City Beat. My article is published today: you and Ches will be in it.”
“Oh, yeah! I can’t wait to see that!” he said, sounding happier.
I pulled up at a convenience store and we both jumped out, racing each other to the stand of newspapers, suddenly light-hearted.