I glance around the bedroom for hidden cameras because I feel like the author is speaking directly to me. She’s described my life to a t so I feel compelled to act on her advice.
Sighing, I put the book aside and rack my brain for any unfulfilled dreams I have, something I can make come true right this minute. Eventually, I have an idea. With thread of excitement weaving in my stomach, I pull on a clean dress and wander down to the kitchen with my cellphone clutched in my hand.
Go do that thing…Go do that thing…Go do that thing…I repeat it to myself over and over and over, with each step that I take.
I lean my phone against a tall coffee can, fiddling around until I get the perfect angle. I feel silly as hell. Why am I even doing this?
Because it’s time for you to take your life in hand, Gracie. It’s time for you to take charge.
The red light blinks impatiently, telling me that it’s recording whether I open my mouth or not. Life keeps rolling by whether I live it or not.
A part of me tells me that I’m a mother now, I’m about to go through a divorce. I don’t have time to be making silly YouTube videos, but the other part of me feels like I need this, I need to do this for me. It’s part of my healing process, I guess.
I mutter under my breath. “Okay, here goes.” My smile is heavy. It burns a thousand calories just to push up the corners of my lips. But I’m going to do it anyway. “Hi everyone, I’m Grace Monroe-Trotten –”
Shit – I should probably use my maiden name, shouldn’t I? It’s kind of messed up to be using my husband’s last name on this when I just served him divorce papers in the most humiliating way possible.
I hit the little trashcan icon on the corner of my screen, deleting the video, and start over. “Hi, I’m Grace Monroe –”
‘Grace’ sound so formal. I should go with ‘Gracie’. That’s more approachable. And maybe I should drop the last name altogether.
“I’m Gracie and today, I’ll be showing you how to make my grandma’s secret-recipe chocolate chip cookies.”
My hands shake as I reach for the package of butter but I hold on to my smile.
This isn’t my grandmother’s recipe, by the way. (I don’t think I ever saw that woman turn on an oven.) It’s something I borrowed off of Instagram and made it ten times better. But that’s not why I’m nervous.
I’m a really reserved person. Standing in front of a camera and making a video that complete strangers may see is a big deal for me. But I’m ready to stretch beyond the limits of my comfort zone.
This is something I’ve always thought about doing but I had a list of excuses. Always busy with Sebastian. Don’t have the time. Hate seeing myself on camera. I put my dreams on hold for a long time. Daniel’s career was taking off. And no, he never pressured me to suffocate my projects for his sake but it was sort of unspoken because there just wasn’t any time for me to be playing around in front of a camera when there was laundry to be folded and toilets to be cleaned and ABCs to be taught.
But right now, I need to just get this done. For me. I’ve always loved cooking and I’m good at it. I’ve been feeding my friends and family for years. It’s time that I take my passion to the next level.
My heart is pounding as I add the sugar to the butter, explaining the process to my invisible audience and making awkward jokes to fill the dead airtime. I take a separate bowl with every intention of separating the egg yolks from the whites but my hands are shaking so bad that I end up dropping the entire egg – shell and all – into the batter.
Darn!
I pause the video and start over. But by the time I’m stirring in the vanilla extract, the battery on my phone goes dead and the camera turns off.
I have to drop everything again and rummage around my bedroom for the charger. I’m just about to get back into the groove when the landline rings, startling me and I drop the entire bowl of cookie dough to the floor.
I start over again, I power through, determined to get this done.
Eventually, my cookies are in the oven. And then, they come out, golden and crispy. Pleased with myself I film the results. Then, I upload the video to YouTube and play it back.
And – Look ma’, I’m on TV!
I bite my lip to keep my smile under control as pride blooms in my chest. I hit ‘replay’, still euphoric at my accomplishment.
I started an online cooking channel. I laugh to myself because it almost sounds absurd.
I did a thing…
Chapter 9
Daniel
I kick the door closed with my shoe and set Sebastian down on his feet. The little boy tears across the room, diving headfirst onto the makeshift bed shoved into the corner. Giggling, he buries his snotty face in the rumpled sheets and then crawls across the mattress. He climbs into standing position and promptly begins to jump in the middle of my bed. Rain boots and all.
I should probably stop him. Scold him. Tell him how dangerous it is to jump on the bed. But I like the sound of his laughter. The only time this place ever feels alive is when he laughs.
Or when he cries at the top of his lungs like some homicidal psychopath is brutally extracting his teeth one by one with no painkillers.
But personally, I prefer when he’s laughing.
When we lived under the same roof, I took him for granted. But now, I only get to have my son every other weekend. I had to wrangle this agreement out of Grace. The last thing either of us wanted was having a judge decide how much time we get to spend with our child. Anyway, I’m determined to make the most of tonight.
Setting down the diaper bag and dashing across the room, I throw myself onto the bed and that causes the toddler to bounce a few inches into the air. Manic giggles break free of his little body and he collapses on top of me, snuggling for only a second before his jumping spree recommences. This kid is my life.
I pull him to me and start tickling him like crazy. He shrieks and flails, setting my heart ablaze. But when he tosses his head back in a frantic move to escape, I don’t see it coming. His little skull smacks hard into my chin.
He freezes and for one tense moment, I wait for his reaction.
And then, bam! He starts wailing loud and shrill like the siren of a fire truck.
Playtime is over!
I do my best to comfort him, using every trick in my toolbox. Kisses and snuggles. Silly faces. Offering him a bottle of milk. I even start singing that Boyz II Men song he likes. He just looks at me like I’m an idiot and continues to howl.
Only Grace knows how to calm him when he gets like this. Frustrated, I leave him thrashing about on the bed. I crack open a can of ravioli in tomato sauce and stick it in the microwave. When I offer it to him, he rejects it and I collapse at the foot of the bed, just staring at him and feeling completely helpless.
Sometimes, looking at my son is painful. He looks so much like his mother. With his blonde hair and his chestnut eyes. It makes my chest go tight. It makes me miss her even more.
This isn’t what I imagined when I planned my life with Grace. We were going to have a herd of babies and we were going to raise them under the same roof. And yes, they would cry, they would throw tantrums, but we would face it together. We would be a family.
Instead, we’re…this.
Living apart. Unable to be in the same room for more than a few seconds without fighting about the most inane things.
I bury my face in the mattress, Sebastian’s wails hammering into my skull.
And because my night isn’t shitty enough just yet, that’s when the banging starts. And when I say ‘banging’, I mean ‘banging’ quite literally.
Moans penetrate the thin partition and the headboard slaps frenetically against the drywall as the people next-door unleash their sexual frustration on each other. It sounds downright savage but I only expect the ruckus to last three to four minutes. My neighbor is a broad, little man with an angry mustache and a frightening resting bitch face. He walks around in a white wife-beater and overlong pants
held up by suspenders with his chest puffed out like he owns the place. He has the confidence of a Hollywood heartthrob thanks to the trashy little brunette who’s usually clinging to his arm. Gratefully, he doesn’t have much stamina.
Anyway tonight, the banging just keeps going on and on and on. Well beyond his standing record of five minutes. My puzzlement is solved when the woman screams out. “Oh baby! This Viagra has you on fire tonight!”
Of course…
I thump my fist against the wall for the better part of ten minutes. I finally give up and call the police station to report the disturbance. Some officers turn up next door and get my nymphomaniac neighbors to give it a rest. Sebastian eventually wears himself out from all that crying and dozes off.
Mentally and emotionally drained, my gaze flits around the barren room. All I have in here is this bed, a fridge, a microwave and an armchair. I could have gotten a much nicer apartment. Something with a closed bedroom and a decent-sized bathtub. Something where the scent of half-cooked hamburger meat and wet socks didn’t seem to seep through the floorboards. Something that doesn’t look like the perfect location for shooting an episode of Murder, She Wrote. But when I signed the lease on this dump, I thought it was a short-term thing. Renting a shitty place made my separation from Grace seem a little less real, a little less permanent.
But now it’s definitely permanent. Fuck!
The pile of papers on the seat of the chair catches my attention. That’s the divorce petition. It’s been there since the day I lugged it back from that embarrassing incident at the courthouse. It looks like a rather innocuous stack of pages but it weighs a thousand pounds and it has claws that dig into my soul. I won’t go near it. I don’t have it in me to accept that my wife is really done with me.
Lying on my back, I stare up into the darkness and I try to hate her, I try to despise Grace for what she did. But the truth is I'm hurt and I'm scared. I wish that she were here on this uncomfortable little bed with Sebastian and me.
She’s my wife. My best friend. My baby mama.
She's the other half of me and I don't want this to be over. Please don't let it be over.
I try to hate her but I love her more than anything.
Chapter 10
Grace
Sunlight pours in through the open blinds as I set my hands on the door handles. With a determined yank, I pull open the closet doors. My gut clenches hard but I know what I have to do. It won’t be easy, though.
This is the chapter my self-help book calls “The Detox.”
At the very least, tackling this big chore will keep me from driving myself crazy all day, wondering how Daniel and Sebastian are spending their time together. I step inside the small room and press my nose to the burgundy silk of Daniel’s paisley jacquard tie. This is one of my favorites. It’s the tie he was wearing the night he proposed. My ribs tighten in my chest when I realize just how faint his scent is now. He’s been gone so long. But whenever I touch this tie, I’m transported back to that night, in that Italian restaurant in Chicago.
“Babe, are you feeling okay?” I ask as I peer across the candlelit table at my usually outgoing boyfriend and he’s sweating bullets, he’s practically green and he hasn’t said more than a dozen words over the hour or so that we’ve been sitting here. He looks downright queasy, alternating between sneaking peeks at the door and checking his phone. “Do you need to throw up?”
I glance around for the server. I knew that eggplant Parmesan smelled funny. Most of it is still sitting on Daniel’s plate.
He swallows hard, drumming his fingers against the table. “I don’t need to throw up.”
Well, something is definitely wrong with him. He looks like there’s something in him that needs to come out.
“Oh shit…” I mutter as it dawns on me. I lean across the table and whisper. “Do you need to poop? Do you have diarrhea?”
He scowls. “No. I do not have diarrhea, Grace. Please keep your voice down.”
He won’t talk about whatever is going on. He just sits there, tense as ever. This is so not like him, especially on date night. Whenever we get dressed up and hit the town, he spends the evening trying to make me laugh, pressing kisses to my face and trying to grope me discreetly. Tonight though, there’s none of that.
“Wait! Are you breaking up with me?!” I blurt out, dropping my fork with a loud clang against my ceramic plate.
A few eyes are drawn in our direction and I feel my cheeks blazing. Daniel shakes his head vigorously. “Just…just eat. Okay?” He nods at the classic pasta and meatballs in front of me.
I reach for the bottle of red wine instead. “Wow. You are so breaking up with me. This is mortifying.” I swallow a whole glass without even flinching.
“Why do you always think I’m breaking up with you? It’s a disease, a complex. You should have it checked out.”
“So, now you’re breaking up with me and you’re calling me crazy?”
“Grace, I’m not breaking up with. I love you.” He takes a glug of his wine, not seeming to notice the way my heart jolts when he says those three little words. No matter how many times he utters it, every time he says those words, it sounds brand new.
I sit there quietly, fiddling with my fork, trying to herd the competing thoughts clashing in my head.
Maybe he’s stressed about finals…Maybe he’s been arguing with his dad again…Maybe he does have diarrhea but he’s embarrassed to admit it…Maybe it really is just nothing.
Just as I’m about to let his innocent declaration of devotion win out, he looks over at the door and the words, “About time…” slip from his mouth.
When I follow his line of vision, I see the hostess seating a petite woman wearing a trench coat buttoned all the way up to her throat and a dark hat pulled over her brown hair. She doesn’t take off her sunglasses and she refuses the drinks menu. Instead, she rummages around in her purse.
Frowning, I turn back to Daniel. “Why is your sister sitting in the corner like a creep with a camera pointed at me?” This night is starting to feel a little too Sin-City-meets-Kill-Bill for my appetite.
Daniel’s shoulders heave as he sighs. “Because I’m going to ask you to marry me and I’m hoping that you’ll say ‘yes’.” He reaches into his chest pocket and slaps a beautiful solitaire round diamond onto the table. He slides down to one knee. “What’d you say, Angel? Will you be my wife?”
My excitement overpowers my shock. I drop to my knees in front of him and clench my fingers around his tie, pulling him closer. “Oh my god, baby! Of course I’ll be your wife!”
I drop the necktie into the empty suitcase open at my feet. I dump a dozen other ties into the suitcase, too. A tide of emotion sneaks up on me, but I push it down. Then I move on to the shirts. I pull them off of their hangers one by one, folding them neatly and tucking them into the suitcase. Next, I do the pants.
When I get to his t-shirt drawer, the first one that I pull out sends a wave of nostalgia crashing into my chest.
Daniel lies next to me on the grass, staring at the side of my face. He bumps his shoulder against mine. “What are you thinking?”
Disturbed from my silent introspection, I glance over at him with a smile. “Nothing.”
He doesn’t seem to buy it. “Come on. Talk to me. What’s on your mind?”
It’s a few days into our last semester of law school. Like nearly everyone else, I have an internship lined up for after graduation. But unlike most of my classmates, I have an engagement ring on my finger. I’ve been feeling differently about things since Daniel asked me to marry him a few months ago. Yes, I get good grades and I’ve paid my way through school on academic scholarships, but I’m just not sure that I want all this anymore.
Daniel’s face is no longer playful. He wears a grave expression when he says, “Talk to me, Grace. You’re worrying me.”
He never has to work too hard to persuade me to give him what he wants. “I don’t think…I don’t think I want to be a lawyer
,” I confess softly, rolling over onto my back and staring up at the sky. “I’m not sure what I want to do with my life, but practicing law isn’t it.”
I peek into his eyes and the judgment and disappointment that I’d expected to see aren’t there. He’s silent for a long while and then, he pulls in a slow breath. “I’m glad you can finally admit that.” He stares blankly at the students milling all around us on their way to and from their classes.
Dirty Forever (The Dirty Suburbs Book 8) Page 5