5. Sutton

FIVE

SUTTON

I dodged a bullet, not literally but figuratively. Shane’s truck not being in the driveway had me breathing a sigh of relief. It’s rare that he’ll leave his truck and ride with someone else to do whatever it is he does. I don’t ask questions. He’s no longer my husband or my responsibility. Still, when Ryland unlocked the door, I knew the coast was clear. There wouldn’t be twenty-one questions to bob and weave, not that my business is my ex-husband’s, a fact he can’t get through his head. I know sooner or later, I’m going to have to come to terms with dealing with the eviction process.

The only good thing about this debacle is Shane has absolutely zero bills in his name. His car registration and his license are still at his parents’ place. Yep, the grown man-child is just that: a child. Too bad I didn’t see the bad in his eyes when I met him. Had I been more aware, less na?ve, and a whole lot less heartbroken, well, the last few years could have been avoided.

Instead, here I am, looking at the bare bones of my home. Any of the valuables I had of my mom’s were moved into the shed out back. We didn’t have much growing up, but what she had was special. Therefore, I packed away a lot in boxes and put the furniture that meant something to her, like the thimble case and a bookshelf, in the shed. Both were thrifted and aren’t expensive, but I remember her sanding, staining, and working well into the night on those two items. When Shane had a fit of rage, throwing a kitchen chair at the wall, I knew it was time to take action. Meaning packing up a lot, filing for divorce, and biding my time until I could get him to agree to sign.

“Well, this freaking sucks.” I lean against the door after locking it. My eyes take in the rest of the room. There’re beer cans littered here and there, dirty clothes, and even to-go food containers. Interesting considering Shane doesn’t work, so he tries to demand me to bring home whatever he wants. I did at first, thinking he’d contribute. Newsflash, he didn’t. When I realized how things were going nowhere fast, I attempted to put my foot down. Sometimes I’d give in, just to keep the peace, becoming an enabler in the worst way, and clearly, there was no love lost, either. Shane is a user, though not with drugs, at least I don’t think he is. Nope, an addiction I could almost understand; that’s a disease which consumes your soul by demons plaguing your body, mind, and spirit. My now ex-husband is a user of a different sort—he's lazy and wants the world handed to him. It must be extremely nice to think so highly of yourself.

“May as well pick up this mess before I can soak in the bathtub for a while.” Cleaning up after a grown man is ridiculous. How hard is it to throw your trash away and pick up after yourself? I veer off to my bedroom, unlock the door, and set my bags on the wooden hope chest, another heirloom from my mom. This one remained in the house behind lock and key. I so badly want to check what Ms. Catherine packed in that oversized bag. I’m also well aware there is no way I could ever repay her or what Ryland has done for me. That pill has been a hard one to swallow all along.

I take off my jacket wishing it still had his scent like when it first appeared on my doorstep. Sadly, working at the diner ruined that, even with me hanging it up in the employee lounge. I walk back out the door, knowing if I linger any longer, the mess in the rest of my house will be left for another day. Sadly, I don’t have time tomorrow. There’s a morning shift at Down Home Diner to work, then I’ll head home to study for a couple of hours before getting started on my second job. The day after will be the hardest, a morning class where I have to be on the bus and at school in a different town, hoof it back to the bus after, and then work the afternoon into the evening shift at the diner.

These next two days are going to be a doozy, and I’m not looking forward to it. I guess the one plus side is, I’m out of the house, away from Shane and his vice of alcohol along with demeaning me in every single way. I’ve got some tough skin, but one day, I’m going to snap. The only thing stopping me from losing my shit is not wanting to be known for the woman on one of those murder documentaries.

I scrunch up my nose, veer away from the living room, and head for the kitchen. The one thing about Shane is he’s not going to cook, so at least there won’t be dirty dishes in the sink. The refrigerator is not on tonight’s agenda, either. The trash won’t be collected for a few more days, plus I rarely use the kitchen, preferring to keep everything in my room and away from Shane.

A quick opening and closing of the kitchen drawer, and I find what I’m looking for—yellow rubber gloves, then a pair of tongs for his dirty laundry. What I won’t be doing is putting them in the washer, another line in the sand I won’t deal with. I have enough shit on my plate. I’m not adding any extras. The trash can is thankfully empty. I make the trip back and forth to collect the empty drink cans, containers, and even plastic cutlery. A few minutes later, that’s done, and it’s on to the plethora of clothing items on the floor. What I don’t understand is the hamper is in the hallway, the same direction of Shane’s bedroom. Why can’t you just pick up along the way?

“Finally,” I breathe out to the somewhat clean house. There are still a million and one things I could do. But why bother when the other person living here dirties it up faster than I can clean it? Soon, I’ll have my house back to myself. This is a promise I’m going to keep. I toss the tongs in the kitchen sink, then place the gloves in there as well. I’ll have to clean them another day. While the house is empty, I’m going to lock myself in my bedroom.

I make my way back into my room and close the door, then thumb the lock into place. I immediately wedge my shoes off with the tip of my foot. My socks are next. After ripping them off, I finally feel something soft and plush beneath my feet. My eyes zero in on the bag, and excitement bubbles in my stomach when it absolutely shouldn’t. Handouts aren’t something I’m used to accepting, not since Mom needed help many years ago.

“Oh my god.” I pull out a beanie, a scarf, a new pair of gloves, a couple of thermal tops and bottoms. The last piece is what has me blinking away tears. A brand-new pair of sneakers. Catherine Johnson knew what I needed the most, much like Ryland. They have a heart of gold, and I have no idea what my mom and I did to deserve them all those years ago and years later now. One thing is for certain: once my shit is settled and I’m making enough to support myself, I’ll return the favor to someone else in need while also doing something for the Johnsons.