“For what?”
I winced with frustration. “For this.” I waved at the room. “For the divorce.” I sniffled back a flood of tears. “For last night.”
He stalked into the room, his feet moving with determination and his body so filled with tension I felt it vibrating off him in waves. He hovered over the edge of the bed. I could smell him. I could almost touch him. His voice pitched low and serious. “I’m not sorry,” he declared. “Not for any of it.”
He gave me one more scorching glare, then turned around and left. His loud footsteps took the stairs at a clipped pace. There was silence for a minute and I could picture him yanking on the rest of his clothes. Then the door opened and slammed behind him.
I was alone-truly alone. And all I wanted to do was chase him down and drag him back to my room. I wanted to lock him in here until these feelings went away, until this fissure in my heart stopped tearing me apart.
I broke down and cried after that. I cried for a very long time. Then I called into work, explaining about my dog, but not about my husband.
Then I lay down again and cried all the way through my birthday.
Eventually, the vet called. Annie made it through the night. She was going to be okay.
But even Annie’s good news couldn’t soften the blow to my heart or the eclipsing truth that I’d made a very big mistake.
If only I could figure out which of my mistakes was the right one to regret.
Last night?
Or the divorce…?
Chapter Twenty-Three
30. I can’t let him go.
Three days later, on the morning of our next mediation, I prayed for the flu.
When I did not immediately start puking, I prayed for an earthquake. When that didn’t work, I prayed for a tornado. Then an alien invasion.
And finally, a zombie plague.
Then I decided I should probably stop wishing thousands of people had to die just so I could skip seeing Nick again.
It wasn’t that I wanted thousands of people to die or a zombie pandemic to sweep the globe. Not really. I just thought, maybe it was more favorable than coming face-to-face with a man that was so pissed off at me, I felt like my entire house needed cleansing.
I pulled up Google on my phone. Was it possible to hire a witch doctor to hoodoo the shit out of my house and at the same time give me a non-life-threatening trip to the emergency room?
Chicago area witch doctors.
My phone rang, changing the screen to Kara’s name. I answered with a sigh. “Hey.”
“You sound glum.”
I decided it was better to go with the truth. “The only witch doctors Google pulled up are on LinkedIn. I swore to myself I would never get a LinkedIn profile. I don’t care how many emails they send me a day.”
“You’ve lost your mind,” she laughed. “You’re officially crazy.”
“I’m not crazy,” I argued. “I just want the flu or maybe malaria. Typhoid would be fine.”
There were thirty seconds of complete silence before Kara recovered. “Please don’t bring typhoid to school with you. I’m not sure if our health plan covers typhoid.”
“If I find the right witch doctor, you’re not going to have to worry about a thing. It will be an isolated incident. I just decided that I don’t really want to kill thousands of people.”
“Kate?”
“Yeah?”
“As your therapist, I’m going to need you to separate yourself from your delusions and tell me five real things that happened in your life this morning.”
Surprised laughter bubbled up inside me and I started to feel just the tiniest bit better. “Unfortunately you’re not my therapist. Also, does that work with your students?”
“How should I know? I just made that shit up.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Thanks! But if we’re honest, most of what I use is made up.”
“Wow, K. Summa cum laude from Northwestern is really coming in handy, huh?”