* * *
My determination wilts like a picked flower on a windowsill only days later. I seize the damn bolts on the bed, but no amount of muscle will budge them.
This is the bed featured numerous times in the surveillance images circling Roy’s bloodied feet, the one sullied by Roy and his mistress. I couldn’t sleep on it even if I wanted to, but with the bolts refusing to budge, I may not have a choice.
The only other room in my home seconds as Roy’s home office, and the sofa, although sexy, with big shiny buttons and leather trim, is horribly uncomfortable.
My back has been screaming all weekend.
When a third attempt on the bolt holding together the bulky wooden frame of the bed we purchased within days of returning from our honeymoon is fruitless, I blow a wayward hair out of my eye and slump onto the floor.
The wooden floorboards are as cold as the ice cream I am denying myself of since I’ve forgotten Roy no longer has a say on what I do and do not eat.
I’ve had to hide anything above a zero-calorie rating for years, so it will take more than a couple of days to remember I no longer need to justify my food intake to a man who was meant to love me, warts and all.
“You’re such an idiot,” I chastise myself after recalling how perfectly slim Roy’s surveillance camera partner was.
Her bones didn’t hold an ounce of fat, and she was at least a decade younger than me.
I’d have to diet on lettuce only for a year to get close to her standard of the perfect figure.
I would have started days ago if my body weren’t still humming in the aftermath of multiple orgasms. I didn’t feel gross while standing across from Nero with my trench coat one dangerous flap from a nipple slip.
He made me feel my weight in gold, and I’ve yet to come down from the orgasmic high.
The reminder of my past few days of flightiness sees me dumping my pink wrench into the tool kit I purchased when the furnace needed servicing and clambering to the kitchen.
I rarely bake when I’m home. Roy’s unapproving glares always overcooked the goodies he was adamant I should never consume.
But with the locks changed an hour after I returned from the hotel, and Tempy old enough to face the injustice of an oven cranking out heat for hours while living in the middle of a desert, I pull condiments out of my pantry and refrigerator before dragging over my KitchenAid freestanding mixer.
The past few days have been eye-opening, and not necessarily in a bad way. I’ve taken some time to reflect, collect evidence of Roy’s philandering and seemingly allergic reaction to paying his share of our bills, and seek the assistance of a divorce attorney.
It’s been good. I’m finding my feet relatively fast and am hopeful the stability I’ve discovered with single life continues on a relatively smooth track.
In a matter of hours, my kitchen switches from spotlessly clean to overrun with baked goods.
Baking is as natural as breathing for me. It was my first love. I wanted to open a bakery, but Roy steered me toward event catering instead. He said events such as weddings and bar mitzvahs attract a surcharge bakers would cream their pants to earn in a week, and that I’d be less tempted to sample the merchandise when surrounded by brides vying to fit into their size-zero dresses and mothers wanting to top the MILF rankings for their neighborhood.
I huff before loading ingredients from memory into the stainless-steel mixing bowl attached to the KitchenAid for the umpteenth time this afternoon.
I’m so used to catering for an audience that I triple the quantities without thinking. My small oven isn’t handling the excess. It’s been chugging along all afternoon, but it feels good to cook for happiness again instead of it seeming like a chore.
I splash a little Japanese whisky and yuzu into my current mix before taking a swig out of the almost empty bottle. It’s sour enough to add a husky giggle to my words when I answer Tempy’s silent reprimand with words. “It could be worse. I could have paired it with tequila.”
When she remains staring with her adorable head slanted, I chug down another mouthful of yuzu before adding an extra dollop to the batter whirling around the bowl.
I’m on the cusp of tipsy with barely two sips, so you can imagine how bad my dizziness becomes when my doorbell rings.
Tempy is up on her feet in an instant, barking excitedly and racing for the door.
Panic swirls inside me for half a second before I straighten the rod in my spine by rolling back my shoulders.
Roy’s betrayal didn’t break me.
It made me stronger.
Furthermore, Tempy can’t stand Roy. She growled when he forgot his keys and needed to knock. However, she’s so excited right now she looks on the verge of making a mess on my recently mopped floor.
