Page 7 of A World Without You
The confession makes my chest collapse. The feelings, the animosity, and the pent-up regret leave my body in one exhale, and my body feels limp.
Graham watches me, his jaw pulses and instinct makes me want to touch it—smooth it out with my thumb and kiss away the anger I planted inside him, but I don’t. I stand stoic at the foot of the staircase and stare at my husband, wondering—wishing—for a different life. The one I almost had. The one that all my friends in Seattle said I was stupid to leave.
I swallow once, blinking over my wet eyes. “I don’t love you anymore, Graham.”
He takes one last step and I’m in his arms. I can smell the freshness of snow and the muskiness of pine on his shirt. I can feel the warmth of his heart under his flannel and the cold of the outdoors on the tip of his nose. He tries to kiss me, but I’ve grown immune to his charms and turn my cheek.
“I don’t want a divorce,” he whispers against my skin, trailing kisses to my collarbone. I know he doesn’t. A part of me doesn’t either, but that part of me is small and minuscule and covered in shame.
“You just don’t want to be embarrassed,” I say, pain coating each word. “But you don’t want to be married to me. I’m not the girl you want. I wasn’t five years ago and I’m not now.”
When he takes half a step back, it’s almost as if he shoved me.
“You know you don’t want a divorce either, Olivia. You love me,” Graham tells me with soft, green eyes. He’s manipulative when he’s angry. The problem is I’m certain he wants this divorce just as much as I do. He just doesn’t want the failure.
“But I don’t love you enough to stay,” I confess, then crumble into tears.
“Don’t say that,” he says, his words desperate as he takes me back in his arms, holding my face in his hands.
“Please just sign the papers. I’ll be out of here by tomorrow,” I say, not meeting his eyes.
He clenches his jaw, but he doesn’t say anything or wipe the tears silently streaming down my cheekbones. I grab his wrists, pull them away from my face, and turn toward the door.
“I’m going to go for a drive while you wait for your pizza,” I say, slipping a coat over my shoulders. The dog whines in hopes I’ll bring him and I painfully ignore him. I don’t get Bowser in the divorce. I get nothing. I don’t want to fight him for anything. I just want to leave, and this was the easiest way to accomplish that. Even still, he’s dragging his feet.
“It’s almost midnight.” Graham steps toward me.
“I don’t care. I don’t want to be here. I need—” I hesitate with the tactfulness of this next statement, “I need be anywhere but here.”
He draws back, searching my expression, pondering how resolute I am.
Sagging my shoulders with a depleted breath, I say, “I’ll be back for my things, but I won’t be back for you.”
I don’t stop to see his expression. I slam the front door shut, praying he won’t stop me as I slide into the SUV and turn the keys in the ignition.
Putting the vehicle in reverse, I pull out of the gravel driveway onto the narrow forest road lined with evergreen trees. I hold my breath until I hit a highway. I pick up speed, each yellow dash in the center of the road rushing by faster and faster until it’s all a blur.
Then, when I can finally breathe, my phone buzzes in the console. I glance quickly at it and see Graham’s name pop up. I hit reject with an angry swipe of my thumb, and when I look back at the road in front of me, my headlights catch a reindeer in the middle of the highway. I slam on the brakes, and the tires scream as they skid against the icy pavement until I’m within inches of the animal. Against my better judgment—and simply because of reflex—I squeeze my eyes shut, regretful anticipation swirling in my gut. I jerk forward and a loud thud vibrates from the hood as the car comes to a complete stop. I open my eyes and peek over the steering wheel, but the animal is gone. There is only an empty highway beyond the snowy windshield.
“No,” I breathe, worry drowning my chest and my hands tingle as I fear I hit it. I swallow hard as I get out of my vehicle to walk to the front bumper, praying the reindeer isn’t dead on the ground. My boots crunch against the snow and my steps mimic a slow beat of a drum just before the monster jumps out of the darkness.
When I round the front, and the reindeer comes into full view, it hops up on all fours. I startle, jumping back and tripping onto my backside. My tailbone lands on a yellow reflector on the middle line and I wince as a sharp pain shoots up my spine.
“What the hell, Rudolph?” I mutter, my heart pounding with the strength of a thunderstorm. It keeps staring at me. Snow is lightly falling and landing on its nose and antlers. The moment is majestic. Slowly, I maneuver back to the open driver side door and grab my camera from the console. When I meet the reindeer again, it hasn’t moved. It’s still just staring at me, its brown—almost black—beady eyes studying me.
“I’m just going to take your picture,” I tell it as if it understands. I internally mock myself but snap the picture. I glance at the preview screen. The picture perfectly captures the moment. The half-fallen snowflakes frozen in midair are lit by the moonlight and the gleam in the reindeer’s eyes are all thanks to moonlight on the crestfallen snow.
I smile at the screen on my camera then at the reindeer. “You gotta get to the North Pole, buddy. Rest up for Christmas,” I say, feeling as whimsical as the photograph.
The animal blinks and then lowers its head slightly. I reach out with a timid hand to stroke its nose. It lets me at first and then, as if suddenly realizing what’s happening, it takes a quick step back.
I withdraw my hand, ready to mutter an apology to a wild animal but don’t get to because it makes a snorty grunting noise in response and then a shiver runs through it. As it shakes its head, its antlers fall off, and I scream.
I slap my hands over my mouth.
It pauses, grunts again, and gallops to the other side of the road.
“Sorry, that scared me. I forget you guys do that,” I say to the reindeer that continues to stare at me.
