9. THE BETRAYAL

THE BETRAYAL

M y hands were shaking in my lap while the couple's therapist, Stephani, observed me carefully from her worn armchair. The throw pillows pushed into my back on the burnt orange sofa and I resisted the urge to fall over, pull my legs into my chest, and scream.

Steven, the bastard, had not shown up to our appointment.

He came home from China and went back to work. Then Friday came around and after school, I sent the girls to stay with their grandmother again–two weekends in a row, which I did not love–so Steven and I could make this Saturday morning appointment and then have the rest of the day, and part of Sunday, to process. I'd imagined a nice scenario where we met with the therapist, grabbed brunch, and talked about all of the ways that the therapist was totally right. Over omelets and coffee, we'd make a plan for how to fix all of it in a big black notebook that was essentially a marriage to-do list. Do the things, check, move forward, check. This morning, I'd even called out to him before leaving to do some early Solstice shopping to remind him of the appointment. "I'll see you at eleven!" I hollered at him through his office door. He gruffly replied, "Yeah, okay." I went shopping and bought a few nice outfits for the girls and an amethyst ring for my sister for protection. I'd stopped by a coffee shop and sipped a latte while I checked in with Ria and Liv, who were apparently on their way to get a haircut with my mother. Great.

I added a new listing to my personal website— one of my own paintings, not my commissioned animal work —a piece I'd named, "There's No Place Like Home," an oil painting of a woman sprawled out on the floor, half of her painted brown, the other half white, with each half of her body in a differently decorated room. One half was a traditional British home, the other half a Persian one with ornate carpets and gold details glittering on the shelves. Catholic symbols mixed with the elements of nature. Mixed. A dichotomy of two colliding worlds, two pieces of a whole.

The clock ticked loudly on a nearby shelf in Stephani's office as if it were taunting me. Tick tock. Tick tock. Like a tongue clicking against teeth in disapproval. She shifted in her chair, papers rustled, a pen scratched across a notebook.

"Are you alright?" She asked, gently, as if I were about to break.

"Yes. No." I said, without looking up from my hands.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I fought against the sting in my eyes. My voice cracked, "I've been asking him to come to therapy for four years. He's always said no. But he finally agreed and I was relieved and hopeful. And this was the last shot. I know it might not seem like that big of a deal; people miss appointments, but Steven doesn't. He's the most punctual person I've ever met. He's been in China until a few days ago…and…I'm tired. I'm just really tired. And I wonder if there's something wrong with me that I haven't given up until now."

She exhaled, "Of course, you held on for as long as you could. It sounds like you really wanted it to work. That's understandable. All of this must be really hard. Would you like to wait a little longer?" Stephani asked.

I inhaled sharply, flicking my gaze up to meet her doe-like emerald eyes. She tilted her head in question, and her auburn bob shifted with the movement. Her office was painted a pretty dark blue that complemented the strands of orange in her hair, and two still-life paintings of flower bouquets hung above where she sat. I chewed on the inside of my cheek.

"It's been thirty minutes. I don't think he's coming." I said, quietly. Swallowing hard, I tried to dislodge the knot in my throat.

"I don't think so either." She said with a sigh, "Would you like to reschedule?"

I shook my head. Panic struck hard as the finality set in. When I left, everything would be different. Everything. My life was about to fall apart. Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply, counted to four, exhaled, and counted to four again. It didn't help. My skin began to crawl.

I opened my eyes slowly.

"No, thank you."

I forced a polite smile and tried to muster the strength to pull myself from the couch. I needed to get up, get to my car, and drive home. So many difficult conversations lay ahead to start the slow, painful untangling of our lives. But I was so exhausted–not in a sleep-deprived way, but worse, like I was tired in my soul.

Stephani gently cleared her throat,

"Danny? Would you like to do an exercise for the next ten minutes? It might be really helpful to get you centered right now."

"Okay," I whispered.

"Get comfortable and close your eyes."

I leaned back against the soft cushions and let them envelop me, hugging a taupe throw pillow into my chest. I held it like a baby. Stephani spoke soothingly, like a low, lulling, song, instructing me to feel the weight of my body, telling me to let go and be in the moment, but her words were swept away by my frantic thoughts. All I could see behind my closed eyes for those ten minutes was a montage of things to come: Steven's face when I asked for a divorce, telling my daughters, being a single mother from this point forward. Fuck .

Afterward, I thanked Stephani and left the appointment bleary-eyed and confused.

Driving home, every song on the radio seemed to validate my rage. Not even K-pop could dim the red I saw or cool the fire roiling in my veins. Images swarmed in my head of our life together, seeing him on campus that first time, our first date at that pizza place, our wedding dance, and the look of awe on his face when our girls were born. And then the moments of us drifting away from each other. How the past few years of disconnect had all come down to this one moment, this one crucial opportunity to heal it. But he'd left me there, alone, to crumble in front of a stranger as I realized my marriage was officially over.

Motherfucking rage. I felt unyielding rage at that moment and my foot became leaden as I pressed down on the gas so hard my car lurched forward like a bullet. How could he do this to me? To us? To them? Changing lanes, I cut someone off and they laid on their horn. I bared my teeth, flipped them off and gunned the gas again, weaving in and out of cars on the freeway, zipping around trucks, as if I were trying to outrun the hurt, the inevitable pain. I was speeding past a diesel truck, jerking my car into the lane in front of it to exit the freeway, when I caught sight of Olivia's empty booster seat in my rearview mirror. What the fuck was I doing? I let off the gas, let the car slow to the speed limit, and allowed the rush of sadness to hit me. Pulling into a supermarket parking lot, I swung my car into a space. Anger, disappointment, rejection, fear–all of it consumed me as I crossed my arms over the steering wheel and wept.

Ugly, heaving sobs poured out of me. Salty trails covered my cheeks and arms. Snot leaked in a big sticky mess as I let myself come undone. As I let the truth hit me, again, and again, in waves.

I was truly, irrevocably, absolutely, heartbroken. And I was terrified. Would I be okay? Had I failed my children? Could I really do this alone?

That had always been my fear, the one that lurked in my subconscious, the one that had kept me from leaving last year, or the year before that. The fear that I couldn't handle it all alone, that I couldn't handle the reality of being alone in the vast demands of adulthood and parenting.

But then again, I'd already been doing it alone, hadn't I? Steven and I were not a team. We were an illusion. If I was being honest, all he contributed was a sticky fog of negativity that clung to me day and night, slowing me as I made my way through this life.

I pulled a baby wipe from the glove compartment to clean up my face, dabbing away at the tear lines, the mascara stains under my eyes, and the snot that clung to the skin around my nose. I chucked the wipe onto the floor behind my seat, put the car into drive, and slowly made my way home.

Steven was on a conference call when I flung open his office door, my face a mask of horrible calm. Startled, he jerked back into his chair, then relaxed. His face twisted in rage, eyebrows knit together, teeth slightly bared, as he mouthed, "I'm in a meeting."

"I don't care." I mouthed back.

Then, without much thought, I bent over and unplugged his computer. When he lunged forward to grab the cord from my hands, I pulled them back and growled,

"We need to talk. Now."

He got to his feet and stood over me.

"Whatever it is that you need to say, hurry up. I can't miss this meeting, it's—"

I glared up at him.

"—more important than the couples therapy you agreed to and then didn't show up for?"

"Oh, Jesus Christ. Is that what this is about? It's not the end of the world, Danny. I said I'd think about going; I never even said I'd go for sure. Just reschedule."

He turned as if to say, "Conversation over."

Oh, but the conversation was not over. I flung the cords down on the floor, fighting against the ache in my chest.

I growled through my teeth, "You did not say you'd think about it, Steven. You said to make the appointment and I did. And I sat there waiting for you."

"Whatever, Danny. Can you get out of here now so I can get back to work? You know one of us has to wor—"

A voice in the far recesses of my mind whispered in an otherworldly tone that was both angel and demon. "Easy, child, easy," it said, "Breathe and be done with it." It would have terrified me if I weren't burning with fury. I bared my teeth and ground out a demand to Steven.

"—Look at me. Look at me!"

He turned, rolling his eyes, before looking into my face.

"I am fucking done. I am walking out of here and filing for divorce. We are done." My vision blurred as my eyes filled with tears, "I told you that therapy was the final straw, and I meant it. I needed you to be there," my voice began to crack, "and maybe you didn't take me seriously or didn't care. But I will be filing divorce papers." Steven's mouth had slackened as he watched me, silently, surprise written all over his expression. I turned to leave the room but paused, and without looking at him said quietly, but not weakly, "Please, start moving your stuff to the mother-in-law above the garage. We can work out the details later and talk with the girls when we're ready, but just start doing that."

Steven's chair shifted underneath him.

"Danny, I just got back from China. I'm sorry, I–" He started.

I didn't turn to look at him as I shook my head emphatically.

"No. Nope."

My legs began moving. My body buzzed with uncomfortable energy, my hands twitched and ached from wringing them, and my heart thundered so fast I worried that I might be having a heart attack. I snatched my phone from the counter and texted my sister on the way to my studio in the backyard.

"Jess, what was the number of that lawyer friend of yours? The one you said is cutthroat and amazing?"

"Oh, okay. I'll call you when I leave the library. Sending!" Jess responded.

In my studio, I plopped onto my stool. I breathed in deeply, inhaling the sharp fumes of oil paint and thinner. I exhaled slowly, letting go of the tension in my back and shoulders. With a brush in my hand, Rebecca seemed to smile down at me, and I felt a kernel of pride for how she'd taken form on my canvas and now appeared before me in all of her larger-than-life, albeit a bit broken, glory. A few more strokes, a few more shadows, a touch of highlight, and she would be whole.

My phone dinged. Jess sent the phone number for her lawyer friend. Brush in one hand, phone in the other, I waited for someone at the law firm to pick up.

"Yes, hello," I said to the receptionist. I'd like to make an appointment with Lara as soon as she's available. Yes, I'd like to file for divorce."