Thank you to everyone reading this story.
Thank you, Tinkz, for your super editing skills.
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The only place I could go was to my parents'.
I tried calling my mother on her cell but it immediately went to voicemail. I didn't bother trying my father; he never used his phone. It didn't matter because it wasn't as if they'd turn me away. At least, I didn't think they would.
They lived about two hours north of the city—maybe an hour and a half away from my house. What used to be my house.
The bus ride felt interminable, but the driver did make good time. It was nearing 8pm when I stepped outside, blinking back tears. A bunch of taxis were lined up but it dawned on me I didn't have any cash. There was a little worn ATM near the ticket kiosk. I ran over and swiped my card. After punching in my pin, a notice popped up on the screen saying my card was void. It seemed Mark wasted no time in canceling everything.
My phone still worked, so he mustn't have gotten a chance to call our provider yet. I left a voicemail for my mother, telling her I was at the bus station and that I needed to be picked up. God only knew when she would get it.
I sat on a bench and craned my neck up to stare at the sky. I tried to quiet my mind by singing songs to myself, but it was no use. My leg was jumping up and down and I noticed with horror that I was toying with my wedding ring. It still sat on my finger, mocking me.
Someone pulled into the nearly deserted parking lot. The headlights blinded me, so I couldn't make out the car, but a few seconds later I heard my mother calling my name.
When I was finally in the car and we could see one another, her knowing eyes swept over me. "Did the two of you have a fight?"
"You could say that," I mumbled.
She didn't ask anything else, or attempt chitchat. She didn't seem annoyed with me, her only child, for not calling her in an eternity and not visiting in close to a year. Perhaps she was busy with her own life now. Both of my parents were retired, but they were still quite active in the community and were always hopping from one hobby to the next.
We pulled up to my familiar childhood home and tears filled my eyes. My mother turned off the ignition and moved to open her car door, but I grabbed her arm.
"Mom," I whispered.
She looked back at me. "What's the matter?"
"Mark and I are divorcing."
Mom didn't look surprised, only contemplative.
"I had an affair."
She didn't seem shocked by that, either.
"I'm sorry to intrude like this. I know you guys are busy and the last thing you need is your weeping daughter to come home and—"
"Lucy, you can stay as long as you need to." Her eyes roamed over my face. "Why would we turn you away?"
"I haven't really been a great daughter," I whispered.
Mom was slightly amused. "No. But you're here now, and so are we, and I guess we'll have to act like a family again. Need help with your bags?"
I shook my head and she got out of the car, headed for the house.
A long sigh slipped from my mouth when I pulled myself up. The air was clearer here, and the stars were brighter. We were far from the lights and sounds of the city. Somehow, in spite of the wreckage I left behind and that cloying sensation of devastation rolling through my stomach, I felt safe.
I walked to the house, dragging my baggage behind me.
****************
If I had expected a great deal of fanfare upon my visit to my parents' house, I would have been extremely disappointed. Thankfully I knew my parents well.
Dad was asleep already when I entered the dark house. Mom said she was going to bed, too, and that there were leftovers in the fridge. She appeared reluctant to part from me and it broke my heart that it was because she hadn't seen me in forever...and here I was, on her doorstep, my life a total mess.
I paced around the living room, letting my toes sink into the plush carpet. My feet were still sore from all the glass I pulled out of them, but I couldn't stop myself from walking around and studying pictures of us in various stages of our lives.
My parents' wedding picture hung proudly on the wall. Instead of your standard picture, my parents were gazing lovingly at one another. My father had a mustache, and my mother was a great deal thinner.
Now they were more like friends than lovers. They joked with each other. They understood every action the other did. They knew what to order each other at restaurants, and they knew exactly what buttons to push when they wanted a fight. Sometimes they didn't sleep in the same bedroom when I was growing up. Now they didn't bother staying in the same room at all.
"Your father snores," my mother explained to me once.
Which was true. But they'd never been exactly a model of the passionate marriages you read about in novels, or like my childhood friend Danielle's parents. They'd make out right in front of us sometimes, and we'd go "yuck!", but as we got older I came to consider it kind of cute. Danielle's dad was going gray, and her mother stopped wearing makeup, but they giggled like teenagers whenever they were around one another. I remember thinking, "Wow, they are so in love!"
It never occurred to me that every marriage was different. That not every marriage was a storybook romance, and that in many ways, my parents probably had a more functional marriage. And just because they didn't suck face in front of me didn't mean they didn't touch one another or value one another behind closed doors. They wouldn't dare make out in front me, let alone my friends! It was inappropriate, and I was forced to admit that when I was younger, Danielle's parents absolutely made me uncomfortable underneath my fascination.
My eyes moved over the rest of the photo frames haphazardly placed on different tables in the room. Most of them were me, transforming over the years from a toothless, pigtailed, platinum blonde precocious kid to a woman with long, golden hair and a twinkling grin.
That smile of mine dimmed a bit when Mark joined me in photos. Then eventually we both smiled at the camera— mouths closed, lips curved and eyes gleaming with our little private jokes.
I missed him already. My heart ached looking at his face, the face I'd known and kissed and stared at for seven years.
But I was still torn thinking about his question— "Do you regret it?"
I fell back on the couch and admitted to myself I did. Yes, I regretted it more than anything. I couldn't believe that I had the capacity to do that to Mark, and that I'd so carelessly disregarded his feelings. Seven years we stitched a life together; I tugged at some loose string until our lives fell apart.
I was still stunned Luke managed to fool me so well, and that I'd become such a pleasure-driven slave and fucked up my life by fucking another person. I'd always had a self-destructive streak, but I never imagined it would screw me up this much.
I took the coward's way out. I did something Mark could never forgive me for, and I'd be haunted by that forever. He didn't deserve that send-out. He didn't deserve me screwing around with his coworker. Even if he had, there was nothing that could make what I did okay.
I loved Mark. Sounds crazy, but I still did. I loved him like you love an old friend, but it was so mired with years of resentment and of living in such a bizarre world of pretend. We never really had a chance, considering the way we started, because mingled with the desire and love that grew between us was that little twinge of obligation. We were beholden to one another not out of passion, but by necessity. Passion did initially bring us together, and passion came back later, until it seemed like that was all there was between us. Years of familiarity wouldn't—couldn't— change that.
I spread out on the sofa and stared at my wedding portrait, the one my parents framed in gold and nailed up beside theirs. We were just kids, smiling too wide at the camera with a little too much space between us. That day was such a blur to me. I remember my mother doing my hair. My aunt accidentally stepped on my train and ripped it. Mark had a cold and sneezed all over the priest. His father got drunk and had to be carted away before we even cut the cake.
Remembering that disaster of a day had me laughing, even as I cried. Mark and I somehow pulled off being the most functional people during the experience. We stood quietly but firmly next to the other, for the first time as man and wife, perhaps not understanding yet the kind of friends we'd one day become. Or that we would have a relationship I would utterly destroy. I was still pregnant that day, and even though we were suspicious of one another, and even if Mark felt he hated me then, there was a faint sense of hope and the slightest bit of excitement at the thought of our new beginning.
I tossed uncomfortably on the couch, but fell asleep just as the sun started to rise.
*******************
Dad woke me up, not intentionally, but because he was so fucking loud. I forgot about that.
He made coffee and murmured inconsequential things to my mother. They were waiting for me to get up, that much was obvious, but they weren't going to rush me. A surge of affection for them warmed my chest.
I stood—still in the dress from yesterday—and tiptoed into the kitchen. They both looked up at me and smiled.
"Hi," I said. It was awkward.
"Dad just made coffee. Go get a cup and then we'll talk."
I followed Mom's instructions and put a little extra sugar in my coffee because, fuck it, I'd had a rough few days. I wondered what Mark was doing. Had he gone into work? It was Friday. He probably figured he could take the day off. Everyone would know about my disgrace, and no one would blame him for wanting to soak himself in whiskey.
And Luke? Would he bother showing his face at the office, or had he already sped off to Boston?
My dad watched me sit and shook his head. "So you cheated."
"Sam!" Mom snapped.
"Did you have a better lead-in, Linda?"
I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, Dad, I cheated and he kicked me out."
"This is the first time I'm seeing you in months. Maybe even a year."
The table instantly became fascinating to me. I swirled my fingers around in invisible circles.
"What happened, Lucy?"
