Crushed

by Jennifer K Thomas

  Copyright © 2018 Jennifer K. Thomas

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  ISBN 978-1-7323987-0-2 (Print)

  ISBN 978-1-7323987-1-9 (ePub)

  ISBN 978-1-7323987-2-6 (Kindle)

  Library of Congress Control Number 2018946125

  Cover design by Fiona Jayde/Fiona Jayde Media

  Interior formatting by Tamara Cribley/The Deliberate Page

  Edited by Indie Solutions

  Published by On The Verge Publishing

  P.O. Box 891633, Temecula, CA 92589

  Visit www.authorjenniferkthomas.com

  To Kathi

  Without your encouragement, my stories may have remained trapped in my head forever.

  Thank you for all your advice and your enthusiastic support of my identity crisis.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  I used to think whoever said “there is a thin line between love and hate” was a complete moron. I didn’t understand it. I love my family and friends with my whole being. I couldn’t imagine ever hating any one of them. Sure, I could be angry with or even disappointed in them. But hate? That simply wasn’t a word I would ever use, let alone feel. Turns out I am the moron.

  Yesterday I loved my husband.

  We sat across from each other last night at the dinner table. We recounted our days at work over spaghetti and garlic bread. We laughed and sipped wine as our daughter told us a joke her teacher had told the class. We all talked excitedly about our upcoming vacation to Orlando this summer. He went to bed early, almost right after dinner. He’d had a long day and was tired. I didn’t think anything more of it.

  I crawled into our bed and read for an hour or so before falling asleep. My only worries were those concerning the normal stuff: what I needed to accomplish at work, trying to remember if I signed the field trip permission slip that was due at school, and whether I had requested the day off for that trip. I fell asleep without any gratitude for how uncomplicated my life was. That was yesterday.

  Today I hate him.

  I hate that I believed he was different, that I believed he would stay. I hate that I was stupid enough to trust and marry someone who could laugh with me and lie to me in the same conversation. I hate that I married someone who could sleep soundly next to me at night, without any trace of remorse or guilt. I hate him for ruining our family.

  The shock of reading the texts this morning, the ones I was never meant to see, was overwhelming. I had grabbed Amelia’s tablet off the floor so that it didn’t get stepped on. The tablet, the one he bought for her birthday even though I said she was too young to need it, displayed an unread notification on the messaging app. I opened it, wanting to make sure my seven-year-old hadn’t accidently stumbled onto something she shouldn’t. I quickly realized the tablet was somehow linked to and mirroring his phone.

  The unexpectedness of it left me confused and numb at first. That numbness encapsulated me long enough to get Amelia to school without drawing too much suspicion. I was quieter than normal, but that’s not something a child would necessarily notice. Even if she did, she didn’t ask me anything about it. By the time I dropped her off, called in sick to work, and made it back home, Grant had left for work.

  I’ve been sitting on the couch for the past hour, silent and unmoving. What did I do wrong? Had I missed something? Was I blind to some character flaw I should have seen? Were there warning signs? Could I have stopped this devastation, or had it been inevitable?

  I don’t have the answers to these questions right now, but I will have plenty of time to figure them out. I’m going to have plenty of time for lots of things because I’m going to be alone. For the first time since I saw the texts this morning, I cry. Not a normal, that-was-a-sad-movie cry, but a gasping-for-air meltdown. The sounds I’m making and the contortions I can imagine splayed across my face fill me with a rush of embarrassment. I feel like I’m decomposing from the inside out. I don’t know how much pain, how much torture, the human body can withstand. At some point it must simply give up, seeking rest. I must be near that breaking point.

  I allow myself to experience all of it. Time moves in slow motion, and I feel like I’ve spent years on this couch. Gradually, something flips in my brain. It’s not that the pain goes away, but my resolve to overcome has been growing. When it grows larger than the hurt and fear, I get up. I pack bags through my sobs instead of being paralyzed by them. I pack my stuff and Amelia’s. I know I’ll never keep her from him, but she is coming with me.

  My crying intensifies when I think about my daughter, my sweet little girl, who has no clue that her life changed in an instant. My father left when I was old enough to understand dads aren’t supposed to pick up and move across the country with their new family. They aren’t supposed to forget they once had another life, another child. I regret my decision to leave will hurt her, but I can’t remain here and pretend either. I contemplate staying. Part of me wishes I could, for her sake, but I’m just not built that way. I push through my grief and doubt.

  Outsiders would say we have a perfect life. Yesterday, I would have said we had a good one. My time with Grant began as a series of moments. Glances that led to conversations. Conversations that led to a relationship. A relationship that led to a family. It ended abruptly, at least for me. It ended with me finding those damn texts this morning.

  For the first time, I have no plan. This thought stops me in my tracks and causes the room to spin. I push through and load my car anyway. I don’t know what my new life will look like, but I have no choice but to continue moving forward. I decide to do one more thing before I leave our family home.

  Four months after leaving Grant, I’m still searching for normalcy. My feelings change daily, sometimes hourly. Some days I convince myself I made the best decision in leaving that day. I tell myself that leaving will be viewed as courageous someday. Other days I miss Grant terribly and force myself not to dial his number. Most days I’m simply sad. I distract myself by making Amelia my primary focus, making sure she is adjusting. My career has been especially challenging and a welcome distraction. The weekends I don’t have Amelia with me are the hardest. I stay in pajamas, eat ice cream, and read self-help books well into the early morning hours. My mother and friends love me enough to realize my moping and sadness have gone on long enough, past the point of being helpful or healthy. Over the past several weeks, they have encouraged (or demanded) I start to act more like the strong woman they know I am. I feel more like a wounded bird, wanting to take flight but not having
the strength to make it happen yet.

  The first few times I was dragged out of my house, in makeup I didn’t want to wear and heels I wished were slippers, were painful. Lucky for me, my mother and girlfriends are a tenacious bunch. I act as though I resent their persistence. They grow more determined.

  A couple weekends ago, I found myself suggesting a new restaurant I wanted to try. There was a look of victory in my mother’s eyes, but she simply said, “Sounds good.”

  My risotto dinner was excellent, and I enjoyed joking with my mother about my crazy aunt who lives in Florida. She’s not actually crazy, but she’s into new age stuff, like crystals and aura readings. I made one mistake during dinner though. I mentioned my ten-year high school reunion was coming up. My mother was relentless. She went on and on about me needing to get out and have fun. I told her I’d rather go to the dentist. She frowned and said I had to have a better attitude if I wanted to be happy again. I do want to be happy, so after several more rounds of “will she or won’t she go to her reunion,” I caved and agreed to make an appearance.

  That is why I find myself walking from the valet toward a high-rise hotel in downtown San Diego this evening instead of being in my favorite pair of yoga pants, enjoying a pint of cookies and cream. Reunions are awkward under the best of circumstances. I do not consider going through a divorce an ideal conversation starter. My plan is to try to avoid the topic as much as possible.

  My senses are assaulted when I walk into the ballroom. Loud music from my youth is blasting through the DJ’s speakers as colorful lights swirl across the walls and ceiling. Mixed with the hip-hop song currently being pumped through the room are the sounds of muted conversation and polite laughter. I see dozens of semi-familiar faces. I haven’t seen or even talked to most of these people in years. With the advent of social media, many people choose to keep in touch with old high school friends, but I haven’t had the same desire.

  I head to the bar to grab a drink and order a glass of red wine without thinking. I take one sip and realize it’s too sweet for my liking. I order a dirty martini instead.

  I sip my drink and watch the room. Women in cocktail dresses, ones they bought especially for tonight, flitter around, squealing in delight at seeing old friends. They ask each other about marriages and families and where they found their fabulous dresses. Men in suits, the same ones they wear to any other occasion requiring them to dress up, engage in more serious conversations. My guess is they are discussing their careers and trying to convey as much success as their bland attire and uninteresting positions will permit. Going to a party as an adult isn’t much different than going as a teenager. You scan the room hoping to find someone you know to talk to, someone you want to talk to.

  I nervously twirl one of my dark brown curls, notice, and force myself to stop. This is where keeping in touch with some people would have been helpful. I actually enjoyed high school for the most part and had some good friends, but I left it all behind. Reminiscing about that time of my life stirs up some heartfelt emotions and some painful memories for me. Avoiding these feelings has been a great coping mechanism for me up until this point. Being here, surrounded by music I listened to after school while I lay on my bed doing homework, and by colorful balloons in our school colors of blue, white, and silver, I can no longer hide from the memories.

  I met Luke my freshman year at Rancho Bernardo High School. We’d gone to different middle schools, so our paths hadn’t crossed before. He was a sophomore and already had a reputation for being one of the best baseball players at the school. He was athletic, smart, and fearless. Some guys are confident to the point of being cocky, but not Luke. He had enough confidence to make him stand out, but not so much that he alienated anyone. Despite his popularity, he didn’t have a girlfriend at Rancho Bernardo. He’d gone on a few dates, but never anything more than that.

  I was getting lunch one day with my friend Karen when I saw him with my neighbor, Matt. Matt and I used to play together when we were younger, but once boy/girl segregation became socially important in elementary school, we went our separate ways. Our friendship never recovered, and we moved on to different social groups. I noticed Matt and Luke looking in our direction and talking. I looked away when they caught me staring at them and didn’t dare a glance back in their direction. I was caught off guard when they walked over to us. I don’t know if I was nervous because I hadn’t talked to Matt in years or because Luke was with him, but I started to overheat. I wasn’t necessarily shy, but when caught off guard I could get flustered. I made it a point not to make eye contact with Luke, since I was sure it was Matt who was coming over to talk to me.

  “Hey Jess.” Matt was acting as if we talked all the time.

  “Hey Matt, what’s up?” I answered, trying to sound cooler than I felt.

  “Nothing much. What did you get for lunch?”

  “Um, pizza.”

  “Cool,” he replied. He paused before adding, “This is my friend, Luke. Luke, this is Jessica.”

  I finally allowed myself to take Luke in. I had never seen him this close. My teenage hormones seemed to be doing laps through my body, causing my heart to race and my stomach to flutter. He was beautiful. It made me uncomfortable to look at him directly. His bright blue eyes made me feel too vulnerable when I gazed into them. “Hi.” It was all I could say before I had to turn away.

  “Aren’t you in my geometry class?”

  I glanced at him again. He was smiling at me. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “That class is killer. Are you good at math?”

  “I guess so.” I shrugged and took a deep breath. My heartbeat began to slow. He wanted help with his math. Any number of people could have told him I was good at it and would make a good study partner choice. It suddenly made sense why they were talking to me.

  “Maybe you can help me sometime? I need to get my grade up in that class before Coach finds out I’m not doing so great.” He flashed me the most dazzling smile I’d ever seen. I forgot to breathe for several seconds. I remember wondering if he knew how disarming that smile was or if he just threw it around, unaware of its power.

  I’m pretty sure if he used that smile on Mrs. Mendoza, our geometry teacher, even she would have helped him. “Sure, I can do that.” I wasn’t surprised, but it was a letdown to discover he was only interested in my brain. I watched his fingers quickly type my number into his phone so we could set up a study time.

  Our food was ready, and it was time for us to return to our tables of friends. “Sounds like I’ll be talking to you again soon, Jessica. Thanks.” Luke flashed another smile at me.

  “No, thank you.” I immediately wished I had only nodded, or waved or had a seizure.

  The boys had longer strides than us and ended up walking in front of us.

  Karen grabbed my arm and leaned in to whisper. “That was awesome. He’s so hot.”

  I smiled back at her, feeling my cheeks flush. Karen and I began to giggle.

  Luke glanced back at us over his shoulder. “Hey, quit checking me out!” He winked and turned away before I had a chance to respond.

  I never did tutor Luke in geometry, but we went on our first date that Saturday night. I got over being so awkward around him, and he admitted he’d planned the entire meeting as a way to get my number. I was flattered and excited, but also worried. I knew after that first date this boy had the power to ruin me. I also knew I wouldn’t stop him.

  A woman accidently nudges my elbow as she walks past me. “Sorry.” She continues on without a backward glance.

  “I’m sorry.” My answer is automatic and unnecessary, a consequence of being overly polite.

  The encounter startles me from my daydream. I sip my drink and scan the crowd until I spot someone who makes the room stand still.

  He’s here. I knew with the reunion being advertised as an event for several graduating classes that him being here w
ould be a possibility. Seeing him causes instant, unwanted butterflies in my stomach. I feel like that girl in the cafeteria, so unsure and overwhelmed. It’s as if all my years of maturing and growing into a confident adult have disappeared.

  I’m unable to take my eyes off him as my heart throbs furiously. Luke was a good-looking kid, but he’s developed into something even more impressive. His body is bigger, more muscular. His stubble makes his face appear more masculine than I remember. His light brown hair is long on top and shorter on the sides. It’s perfectly disheveled and begging for hands to be run through it. His flawlessly tailored suit conveys the kind of achievement the other men in the room are faking.

  As I admire the man he’s become, his eyes find mine. His eyes search mine for a moment before grazing down my body. I suddenly feel warm, so I down the remainder of my martini.

  I close my eyes while I do, and when I reopen them, the mood has shifted. Luke narrows his eyes slightly, and they take on a cold quality. He shakes his head before running a hand through his hair. He returns his attention to the boisterous group of men he is talking to.

  I had wondered what his reaction would be, seeing me after all this time. His response causes me to feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. I shouldn’t be happy to see him. I have to get over whatever leftover emotions are being stirred up inside me, because it’s clear from the expression on his beautiful face that this will not be a happy reunion, at least not between the two of us. If Luke can convey these sentiments from across a room, I’m afraid of what he could do with actual words. I need to stay away from him.