Page 1 of Welcome Home
Prologue
Ithadbeenthreemonths, three incredibly quiet months when I laid my head down on my cold pillow. My russet dyed hair that I haven't bothered brushing in a while tugging free from the messy bun that's contained it since noon when I woke up today. The smell of fabric softener and a heavy dose of my perfume masking any trace of my former bedmate. Sprawling my legs out across the king-sized mattress, no longer forced to one side now that his remains empty. It’s been three months since the last confirmed sighting of Oliver Neilson.
My husband.
You'd think more anxiety and restlessness would accompany the sudden absence of the person I've spent the last near decade of my life with. You'd think I’d wander the empty halls of our home sick without him. Without the man who has seen me at my worst and stood beside me at my best however brief that ever was. Nothing quite screamsall American dreamlike marrying your high-school sweetheart. The jock that everyone loved in school, all the girls hated me for taking him and all the boys wanted to behim. You’re living the dream,they said. A perfect husband, a perfect house that’s too big for just us.
A fact he never failed to remind me of.
The last nine years of my life have certainly been eventful, but I wouldn’t call it a dream, not further than surface level, anyway. Certainly not alone in my thoughts, away from anyone to impress. We found out pretty early on that theall-American dreamwould never really apply to us. Or maybe just not to me. This absence of his… it was inevitable. Like a high-speed chase through the pouring rain ending in a fiery crash fit for the big screen in those cringe worthy action films he always forced me to watch.
It was always going to end like this.
Thisall-American dreamof ours came pre equipped with a whole hell of a lot of plot holes. No sexy, leather clad protagonist walking away from the devastation as everything explodes behind her. To be honest, I never expected a happily ever after. I'm perfectly content with however much peace his absence will bring me. And as long as we’re being honest, I'm not all that devastated.
Not really sure what that says about me.
Hate is a word I’ve tried to use sparingly throughout my life. Live laugh love and all that shit, you know? Like the sign I can’t wait to rip off the wall in the hallway above the stairs. Miss Carey, my babysitter in elementary school, I hated her. I hated the way she’d make me stand in the corner for the slightest transgressions. Hated the way she smelled like vegetable beef soup all year long. The way she’d make me run laps around the house in the winter without a coat. I hated the way my dad was in the wind and my family never took more notice of me other than a weak smile in the halls of our family home. Ralf, the neighbor’s cat that always hisses and charges at everyone that walks by despite my best efforts to befriend him. The way he waits until you aren’t paying attention before he bolts at you on your way to the front door. There’s maybe one or two more, but I’ve forgotten them years ago. Not Oliver Neilson. I could never forget the man that swooped me off my feet, the cool kid jock that took an interest in the resident weird kid. The man I vowed to love and cherish until death does us part. No, I could never forget him because Oliver Neilson, I absolutely hate.
1
Warning Signs
Happy Pills - Weathers
Twomonthslater
My lungs burn as I push through the last block back to my house, casting the occasional weak smile and half wave to my neighbors. Their kind and sympathetic faces barely hiding the judgmental tone of their stares. The murmurs they think I can’t hear or the occasional social media post that I come across using hashtag#whereisoliverneilsonor my personal favorite#didshedoit. Perhaps if any of them bothered to spend half as much time on their own lives as they did judging everyone else’s, they’d be happier. A little less inclined to stick their perfectly groomed heads up everyone else’s asses. I groan inwardly as Rachel steps out of her electric blue Hummer, thesoccer momdecal on the back opposite herboy mom,one that we used to make fun of. Why her entire personality seems to be centered around mothering male children is beyond me. The only thing we ever seemed to agree on was our dislike for the neighbors. Not that it stopped Oliver from burying his dick in her any chance he got.
“Oh, hey Cora!” She yells, tossing her signature sleek platinum ponytail around with every shake of her head. I equip my best forced smile, slowing my jog to a walk as I near our houses. “Hey.”
She saunters over as I wipe the sweat from my forehead. I can’t tell what exactly about her always makes me feel so self-conscious. It was an issue far before she started sleeping with my husband. From her higher than high cheekbones, BBL or perky as hell tits, it’s not like there isn’t enough to choose from. Rachel Hemmings is gorgeous in that stereotypical Stepford wife kind of way. Rachel Hemmings is also a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Hiding her pill and other people’s husbands’ habit behind a sweet smile and PTA meetings. I glance at the bags in the back of the oversized SUV. “Getting ready for the annual block party?”
“Of course, I'm making my famous wheat cookies again this year. I hope you’ll make it. Although we understand if that would be too awkward or painful for you… what with everything going on.” She grabs for my hand, and I let her despite every muscle in my body tensing, barely suppressing the desire to punch her in her perfect face.
Or jerk her extensions out.
Or key her car.
Key her.
Light her house on fire too.
I blink hard, trying to clear my mind of the disturbing path my thoughts are taking. She hasn’t so much as offered an apology or explanation when I sat in the police station watching her be escorted to the detective’s office. No doubt she’s aware the cops caught me up to date on all of Oliver’s extracurricular activities.
Not that I wasn’t already aware.
But they don’t need to know that. The last thing I want to do is draw more attention my way. One in every five homicides is committed by an intimate partner, so when I reported my husband missing, I knew I’d be at the top of the list as to reasons why. Factor in that he was known for being a pompous ass and a chronic cheater. I’m as good as guilty. I hang my head, staring at my running shoes. “Yeah, I don’t know Rachel probably not this year.”
“Oh sweetheart, come here.” I let her pull me into a hug, biting back a smirk at the way she cringes when she realizes how sweaty I am.
I hope I smell like a jockstrap.
“How are you doing? You’ve barely been leaving the house. That’s not good for anyone. Especially not someone prone toemotional episodes.” She whispers that last part, more for dramatic flare than respecting my privacy.
My teeth dig into my inner cheek, forcing what I hope to be a calming breath through my lungs. Her ready to fire condescending tone grating at my rapidly weaning self-control. “I'm hanging in there, thanks. But I'm all gross, so I'm going to go hop in the shower.” She just smiles and nods as I all but run to my house.
Episodes…
