Page 15 of A World Without You
I couldn’t keep the local paper running.
I couldn’t only work at the lodge on Mondays and Tuesdays to “fill my time.”
I couldn’t be the mother—hell, I couldn’t even get pregnant.
I can’t be who Graham wants me to be, but more than that, I can’t be who I want to be. Not here in this house and definitely not in Roslyn.
After showering, I slip into my clothes and let out a quick laugh as I open the makeup drawer. There are five items, all purchased from Walgreens. Still, I put on the concealer and foundation to cover the splotches remaining on my cheeks as evidence of my tears. I brighten my sad expression with blush and add two layers of mascara, making my green eyes bright. It’s not the same luxury as my dream, but I clean up well. I don’t look tired or lonely. I don’t look like I just asked my husband to finally sign the divorce papers.
I breathe out, letting the calmness of my decision wash over me. I grab the bag I packed yesterday and left by the front door. It’s filled with only clothes and toiletries and my stomach sinks as I realize how little of this house is truly mine.
Ours, we said.This place isn’t just Graham’s. It isn’t just mine. It’s ours.
But it no longer feels that way because I want nothing to do withus.
As I exit the room, I spot Graham through the kitchen window, staring out at the field where we once rode horses and he told me all about the life he wanted to build.
I avert my eyes from the memory and see the divorce papers sitting on the counter, signed. I close the manilla folder, slip them in my red suitcase, and grab my coat without going out back to say goodbye to Graham. I know he’s going to cry as soon as I leave. A part of me wants to stay to catch his tears. A part me knows my hands are bloody and I should stay to clean up the crime scene. But I also know it will only prolong the inevitable.
This isn’t out of the blue no matter what he tells the boys at the pub tonight. He knows the truth. I know the truth.
We were over before we began.
The snow crunches under my boots as I make my way to my car. My breath leaves my lungs in a cloud of heat.
I travel down the long gravel driveway, lightly dusted with snow and frost, and lined with pine trees until I hit the highway. It curves and winds between trees and hills with cabins and homes popping up in between the sways of each branch. As I get closer to town, the quaint country Christmas feel comes to life. Wreaths with red ribbon hang on each light post, fresh garland flanks each window, and Christmas lights are wrapped around practically every surface of each building.
When I stop at the only stoplight, I roll down my window so I can smell the freshly baked cinnamon rolls from Ralphie’s Bakery. I can practically taste the delectable icing oozing out of each layer. His wife, Colleen, makes a pretty delicious latte. I stare at their red door. The paint is chipped and the handle is rusted. It’s charming in its own way if I didn’t know the truth behind it. Ralph and Colleen are barely staying afloat. They break even and pay for the rest of their lives with investments and social security. When I look at the red door and smell the cinnamon rolls, my heart breaks a little for this town.
It’ll survive somehow—because that’s what towns like this do: they last long past their expiration date. But I won’t be around to see it because I’m done trying to play the part. Maybe that’s all I was doing when I met Graham. Maybe I thought the storybook meeting needed a storybook ending. And maybe we just forgot that the story doesn’t end when you decide to stay and forfeit the only life and love you’ve ever known. There’s still life after that, and as hard as we tried to love it, neither of us could accept it.
I should be afraid the farther I drive away from the house, but I’m not. The farther I drive, the freer I feel.
The town disappears behind me in a mist of newly fallen snow and Christmas lights. The perfect small town left behind as I drive closer to reality. There’s a fear of being alone that pounds in my gut, but I refuse to give it life. I can be alone. I can make my life what I want it to be again. I can be respected and admired and proud of every part of my life.
And I can open my own damn pickle jars.
I make a right onto I-90, and relief hits me because I know this wet and muddy freeway leads me straight home.
––––––––
IPULL INTO THE DRIVEWAYof my childhood home and escape my car to the front door. I don’t ring the doorbell. I never have and never will. I walk in, letting out a huff of air as soon as my feet touch the cherrywood flooring of the entryway. The white wooden spindles dance up to the second floor, adorned with garland and white lights. I breathe deeper, smelling pine, cinnamon, and vanilla.
“Livvie, is that you?” I hear from around the corner. I turn into the living room to find my parents decorating their Christmas tree.
“Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad,” I say, chin trembling.
They drop their ornaments and scoop me in their arms, both squeezing tight. “It’s okay, honey,” my mom whispers in my hair. “It’s all going to be okay.”
“We got you now,” Dad says, and then I cry. Hard, shaking sobs.
I know they’re sad about me leaving Graham. I know they’re sad it wasn’t my dream come true. But I also know they understand why I’m standing in my childhood home, armed with tears and regret, after leaving my husband of less than five years.
I wipe the tears from my eyes and sigh. “Happy Thanksgiving,” I try to sound cheery through my tears.
Mom taps her forehead to mine. “It is going to be happy, Olivia. It will.”
I nod, wanting to believe even if I don’t know if I do. I hate being this person. Sad and angry during the holidays, but alas, here we are. I put myself here. I know I did. I took a chance on someone I hardly knew in a town that never made sense for someone like me, and it didn’t work.
