Page 2 of Room for Us
“What is that?”
“Divorce papers, probably.” I open the flap and peek inside. “Yep.”
Edith’s gasp is horror-stricken, phlegmy, and a few seconds too long. What it hides is an undercurrent I’ve dealt with ever since Chris and I started dating our junior year of college. Until today, it was incredulity that he was interested in me. Now? Validation.
Of course he’s divorcing her.
Finally.
Took him long enough.
Edith stares at me, her eyes unfocused. She’s probably trying to shape her glee into something more socially appropriate. Or she’s thinking about her granddaughter, a recent Yale Grad, and trying to come up with ways to have her accidentally run into my husband. Soon-to-be ex-husband. There should be an actual name for that—a husband who isn’t a husband but who isn’t an ex yet. Almost-Divorced Fuckwad? Nah, it doesn’t rhyme.
The clock is ticking on the third Fate bomb, so I take matters into my own hands.
“Hey, Edith?”
Her mouth opens and closes. “Yes?”
“I quit.”
Bad news comes in threes, but as much as I’d like quitting my job to count, it doesn’t. Which is bullshit, really. I worked hard to land that job, to be hired on my merits and not my last name. His last name. So to blow it up should count for something. A bad something.
But Luck sees right through me, that savvy bitch, and she knows I hated that job. The only reason I had it was to keep busy and avoid the dreaded label of Housewife. I don’t even remember what I wanted to do with my life before I met Chris. Maybe accounting? Gross, I know, but love does stupid shit to your brain. Especially young female brains who want to be loved more than they want to work for an identity.
So, yeah, I hated that job. What I don’t hate? This baller hotel room I checked into yesterday, billed to my philandering, sack-of-shit husband. Who, incidentally, I wish were here. Because I miss him and really thought I loved him. I mean, I do love him. I think. Is it even possible to love someone who reached into your chest and ripped out your beating, bloody heart, tossed it in the sink, and flipped on the garbage disposal? And if my heart is currently clogging the plumbing, why do I still feel it inside me?
Heavy. Hot. Catatonic.
Lifting a pillow from my head, I blink into the offensive morning light. I forgot to close the room’s curtains before falling, drunk and alone, into bed last night.
Alone.
The makings of a sob collect inside me like dew on the hotel’s windows. My eyes sting. My throat hurts. Was I crying in my sleep? It sure feels that way. My whole body aches like I’ve been hit by…
The effing flu.
“Why, God? Why?” My voice is a squeak, my throat screaming in protest.
Groaning, I flop onto my side and flail for my phone, which I know I plugged in on the nightstand, because no matter how drunk or sad I am, I’m socially programmed to never forget to charge the damn thing.
Sure enough, my scrambling fingers find what they’re looking for. I tug the phone from its plug, then hold it in front of my face, blinking until the notifications aren’t blurry anymore.
I have a lot of missed calls, which isn’t surprising since I texted or phoned everyone and their mother while drunk last night. It’s only right that people know why Chris is leaving me. Her name is Casey. She’s twenty-three. Chris and Casey sitting in a tree.
“Fuuuuck.”
One of the missed calls—six of them, in fact—are from my mother. She left five voicemails.
“Please tell me I didn’t call her. Please, please.”
I open my voicemails, scroll past all the random people responding to my drunken oversharing, and find the ones from MOM. They’re progressive in length, from two seconds to fifteen.
My stomach turns. Probably the alcohol and the flu, but more likely something worse.
The third bomb.
“Call me back.”
