She wondered what, if anything, he had told his parents. Did he tell them he walked out on her? She doubted it. There was no way he could even explain what had happened without sounding like a prick. Elizabeth had had to tell Agnes and Thomas that they were separated. She told them that Peter had left because he didn’t like who she was. It was true. He didn't like that she was depressed. He didn't like that she cared that people were talking about her and being cruel. He didn't like that she needed him to validate her. They, of course, strongly encouraged her to try to make it up to Peter.
Despite the fact that she had been afraid of failing in her marriage previously, she was now more afraid of having failed herself. Peter was a dick. He was not right for her. He never had been. His behavior throughout all of this proved it. He did not meet her needs, and she was done bending over backwards and twisting herself inside out to please him. Although she would never admit it to him, in a way, he was right. She needed to worry less about making him happy, and try making herself happy. She was right back to where she had been almost two years ago. The thought of ending her marriage was not that devastating to her. Now, she had the extra added benefit of already having her reputation ruined, so she didn’t need to worry about the mothers talking. They already were.
Of course, the fact that Elizabeth and Peter split up over the book would only solidify people's beliefs that Elizabeth had cheated on Peter. He would be the wronged party, and she would forever be the adulteress. No one would ever see her as the victim in all of this. Despite that, Elizabeth felt like she ought to fight for her marriage, rather than just let it slip away. It was probably the controlling aspect of her personality. The Agnes-stubbornness.
Peter did actually seem to notice that she had made the effort to pack up the kids. He even smiled and thanked her. "I think this break will be good for us. Can we talk when I get back?"
Now? Now he wanted to talk?
Unable to totally let go, Elizabeth agreed. She hugged the kids extra tight and gave them last-minute reminders to behave, just as they would if she were present. She would miss them terribly, but having them gone would give her the chance to fall apart for just a little while before she pulled herself back together.
She knew she would get back together with Peter. She wasn't strong enough not to. She would beg him to take her back, like a battered wife pledging allegiance to her abusive husband. She hoped that their reconciliation would improve overall communication between them. He would want her to trust him more, but he needed to see that he had betrayed her trust by leaving in the first place. They would need some serious counseling if they were going to make it work. That would be a non-negotiable item if she took him back. When she took him back.
Shit. No wonder Jack had thought she could be written about in such a way. She had no spine. She was weak. She deserved to be taken advantage of, at least on paper if not in reality. No wonder Peter thought he could treat her in such a manner. That he could belittle her and demean her so. That he was the innocent bystander in the communication breakdown disaster that was their marriage. Thinking about both men at the same time, Elizabeth was struck by the similarities. Both desired to dominate her. Both felt that she had no ability to stand on her own, to think for herself. They saw her as being able to accomplish only what she was directed to do. They both betrayed her and then made her the villain rather than the victim.
Elizabeth felt abused. True, no one ever laid a hand on her, but she had been beaten into submission her whole life. First by her mother, who told her she had no talent and no prospects. That she would never succeed on her own. That she would need someone to take care of her because she wouldn't be able to. That she wasn't beautiful.
Then by her husband who preyed on her need for validation. He held it away, dangling it like a carrot in front of her. If she worked harder, if she made more money, if she denied who she was, then perhaps, just perhaps, he would give it to her. But he kept moving the carrot further and further away, with no intention of ever meeting her needs. He was cruel and taunting.
And then, by a virtual stranger, who laid her open and then let the world in to see. He told her deepest, most shameful secret. He exposed her, letting everyone see and judge, which she had confessed was her kryptonite. He left her bare and raw, and having to defend herself, despite her innocence.
As she watched Peter drive away with her children, she was suddenly very angry. No more shame. She was the victim here. She was the wronged party, not the other way around. Fuck Peter. Fuck Nancy Beemer. And fuck Jack Davis.
She was seething. She spun around and opened the door. She slammed it, which made a vase on the nearby end table wobble. Reflexively, she put out her hand to steady it. The heat of her anger transferred onto the smooth ceramic exterior. She grasped the lip of the crimson vase, and lifted it, the weight heavy in her hand. With her other hand, she re-opened the door and threw the vase as hard as she could. It shattered on the porch, sending white lily petals and fragile red fragments splintering across her welcome mat.
Elizabeth had never experienced such red-hot rage coursing through her. In addition to the vase, she had pulled a picture off the wall. It was Peter and Elizabeth on their wedding day. She threw that as hard as she could in Peter's study, shattering the frame, and breaking his computer monitor. He never used the PC anymore, but it felt good to be destructive. No one else seemed to mind that they had caused such destruction in her life. It was good to cause some of her own.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: August 26, 2012
She drove. She probably shouldn't have been driving in her current frame of mind, but she was too enraged to think of anything else. She definitely had some road rage going on. At first, she wasn't even sure of where she was heading. She thought she should probably go see Susan to help her calm down and work through this.
Elizabeth tried deep breathing as she drove to Susan's. She wasn't sure how Susan would be able to calm her down. Part of her was hoping that Susan would join her in her anger, in her outrage. How had Elizabeth not seen all this time that she was being controlled? That she was being held down and beaten with words into submission? Into the "acceptable behavior" out of fear of scorn and being looked down upon?
Somehow, that realization brought her some, albeit minor, relief. She still didn’t know how to make things better, but the enlightenment was the first step.
Elizabeth was not really paying attention as she drove. She had made the drive so often this summer that she was on autopilot. A far cry from relying so heavily on her GPS that October night when her life changed. She now knew that she got the flat tire approximately 1.2 miles from Jack's house. If she had walked the opposite direction, there was a house 0.3 miles away. If only she had walked in the other direction. Why hadn't she walked down the mountain instead of up it? It seemed she always had to take the harder road. Literally.
A flash of brown off to her left caught her eye. She slowed, afraid whatever it was would dart out in front of her. She focused enough to realize that it was a dog. Not just any dog. She recognized the animal, and the scarlet collar he wore. It was Harold, Jack's dog. She reflexively pulled into the driveway, not even really aware of what she was doing. Harold ran up to the car to investigate his new guest. As she got out of the van, she saw Jack, dressed in rumpled khaki shorts, work boots, and an orange t-shirt coming around the side of the house. He looked surprised, but not unhappy to see her.
"Hey, Liza. What's up?" He was so relaxed and casual, wiping his forehead and hands on a navy bandana that he then stuffed in a back pocket. She could not believe he was so calm and collected when rage and venom and hate were coursing through her veins.
"How could you?" she yelled. She was heading toward him, wrath pouring out of her.
"Wha—" He couldn't even feign innocence before she charged.
"How could you do this to me?" She was about a foot away from him, screaming into his face.
"I didn't do anything to you—I—"
"Bullshit.
" She wouldn't even let him attempt to defend himself. "That's complete and utter bullshit and you know it. You ruined my marriage. You ruined my life!"
He leaned casually on the newel post by the front door. She had stopped about ten feet from him, standing in the middle of his lawn. Harold ran back and forth between them, looking for someone to pet him. When it became apparent that no one would, he went and laid down in the shade of a large shrub by the front of the house.
"From what I saw, your marriage was already D.O.A. If it can’t withstand this, if he can’t believe you –"
"Believe me what? That's not it at all."
"Okay, then if he can't believe in you," he continued, looking smug as the pained look on Elizabeth's face told him he'd hit the nail on the head, "then maybe it's time to cut your losses and move on."
"Move on? To what? To you?" She asked incredulously.
"I never said that."
"You might as well have the night of Nancy's party."
"I thought you knew then and were fine with it. It wasn't until after that I realized you had no clue."
"Yup, that's me, clueless as always."
"I wouldn't say clueless. I'd say more –"
"If you say innocent, I swear to God I will punch you."
He chuckled, not taking her threat seriously. He obviously had no gauge on how angry she really was. It wasn't until she had charged up on him and was cocking her arm back that he realized. "Jesus, calm down, Liza. Holy crap, you're really upset."
He held tightly onto her wrist, bringing her arm down by her side. He grasped her other wrist and held it there, her arms down at her side. "Liza, you need to calm down."
"Why? You fucking ruined my life."
"I highly doubt that. What's the problem?"
"The problem is that you wrote a three-hundred-page wet dream about me for the entire town to read. You told everyone that I tried to kill myself. You described me naked. You painted me as an amoral harlot." She wrenched her hands away from his firm grasp and sank down on the step. She put her head in her hands.
"It's just a book," he said, sinking down besides her.
"No, it's not."
"Do people not understand the term fiction?"
"Not when it really happened."
"But it didn't. I made the story up."
"But that’s the thing, Jack. You didn't. You took what happened to me, how I was feeling and all I confided in you that weekend, and you used it for your book. You stalked me. You used Nancy, playing on her insecurities, knowing that you were leading her on, just to get to me."
"I used enough to make it real. It's still fiction."
"You used a little too much to make it real. I can't believe you described the actual clothing I wore. Do you realize how creepy that is? Do you realize what effect that has had on my life? I've been totally ostracized. I might as well be wearing a scarlet letter. No one will speak to me, but man, they certainly speak about me. About how I'm a whore. About how I am constantly having sex. Doing perverted things. And, if I'm so busy doing all of that, I can't possibly be a good mother. No one will let their kids play with mine. I have no friends left. My kids have no friends. Oh, and my husband walked out on me too."
Jack looked astonished. "People are really thinking that? Don't they understand that it's a made up story?"
"Apparently not." She paused and waited for him to explain himself. "That's all you have to say? What about the Facebook thing?"
He had a look on his face that was a mix of pride and surprise. "I just can't believe people who know you would really think you would act like that. I was nervous about writing an adult book. Especially one that was so out there. It was definitely outside my comfort zone. Your Facebook pictures really helped me describe the look of Nellie. I do research like that all the time on the internet. But if people are giving you a hard time about it being true, then it's better than I thought it was. Cool. My agent said it was good, but you never can really believe what they say."
Elizabeth turned and looked at him, staring in disbelief. She stood up, shaking her head.
"What?"
"Are you seriously turning this into a brag session about what a kick-ass writer you are?" She started walking away.
"Liza, wait!"
She stopped and turned. Her shoulders sagged. All of the anger had run out of her, and now she was exhausted. She slowly sank to her knees, the stiff grass causing a thousand pin pricks on her legs. The anger had sapped her energy. She couldn't even cry. She was totally drained. Before she knew it, Harold had come over and was sticking his wet nose through her hair and into her face. She weakly lifted a limp hand to his head. Her eyes were closed tightly.
Jack approached her, not sure of what to do next. "Why don't you come inside and have a drink?"
Through her hair, she said bitterly, "Why? Are you looking to write a sequel?"
"No, although ..." he teased.
She looked up. "You can't be serious."
"No, and you're too serious. You used to have a sense of humor. Relax. Just come inside for a little while. I promise, what happens inside stays between you and me."
She nodded slightly, and he helped her up. He kept his arm around her waist as he helped her up the stairs and into the house.
Walking into the house brought all of the memories and feelings crashing back upon her. It was a good thing Jack was holding her up, as her knees threatened to give out. He steered her towards the large oak table in the kitchen and parked her on a bench.
"Jack Daniels again?"
"Oh God no. I hate that stuff. I can't believe you got me to drink that—" she broke off.
Elizabeth sat there, picturing the heavy glass tumbler full of whiskey in her hands. Memories from that weekend came flooding back. Jack put a beer down in front of her. She took a long pull. She stared at the amber bottle. It was some kind of fancy microbrew that she had never heard of. She stared so long it became hard for her to focus. With a glazed look, she finally said, "I told Peter that you had seen me mostly naked when you helped me get undressed. That it was perfectly reasonable, because my hands were frozen and I couldn't do my own clothes."
"That's true. That is when I saw you and noticed the scars on your back. As you walked down the hall. I just thought they were interesting."
"Funny, when you were helping me, it seemed to me like you were doing your best not to look at me."
"I was."
"I thought you were just like Peter, who doesn't see me even when I'm standing in front of him."
"A mostly naked woman is pretty hard to ignore."
"Any woman?"
"No, not just any woman. Let me rephrase that. You, standing mostly naked, are pretty hard to ignore."
She cast her glance downward, unable to stop the blush from crossing her cheeks. "I told you at Nancy's party that my memories from the weekend were a little spotty."
"Splotchy, I believe you said."
"I need you to be honest with me, because I don't remember a lot of what happened."
"Okay, shoot."
"I drank kind of a lot, didn't I?"
"Well, I made you hot cocoa and it made you cry."
"It was the damn marshmallows." She couldn't help but smile, just a little bit.
"And then we got into the whiskey."
"Go on."
"You were putting them back pretty good."
"I hate whiskey, especially Jack Daniels."
"I know, you kept telling me a story about how you did six shots in a half-hour when you were a freshman in college."
"Ugh, it was awful."
"I can only imagine. I remember you back then. You couldn't handle your liquor."
"I got better, but I don't drink that much now, so I don't think I can handle it that well anymore."
"I gathered."
"What happened?"
"Don't you remember?"
"Only vaguely. I remember waking up on the couch under that great heavy fuzzy blanket with Harold on
top of me."
Jack pursed his lips together. "Do you remember how you ended up there?"
Bits and pieces were flashing back as she tried to remember. She could feel the weight of the glass in her hand. Like a ghost, she stood up and walked out to the living room. She looked around. The comfortable worn brown leather couch. The fireplace was now dark and cold, unused in the hot summer months. Flashes of conversation were coming back to her. She had cried. Jack had held her until finally the tears stopped. Standing, the world tilting. Being caught. His hand, brushing her hair out of her face. Her arm, clutching at his firm back. His bright blue eyes, crinkling at the corners when he laughed at something she said. Crying. Laughing. Hugging. Kissing.
Elizabeth's head snapped up and looked around in panic. "What exactly happened between us?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: August 26, 2012
"Oh my God, did we have sex? What did we do? Oh my God, I can't believe I did that. I can't believe I don't remember. Don't you think I should remember doing something like that?"
"Liza, calm down, you're rambling."
Just then, the doorbell rang, startling Elizabeth so that she almost dropped her bottle. Jack steadied it quickly, as he started heading towards the door. "Um, this, um, shit. This isn't going to be good. Sit down."
"What do you mean, this isn’t going to be good?" She asked as she sank onto the far end of the couch.
Jack reached the door, but before opening it, he turned so that he was facing into the kitchen. He was looking at the screen door off the side of the house. "John, time to come in. Your mom's here." Then, he met Elizabeth's eyes, mouthing the word 'sorry' as he pulled open the door.
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