Page 3 of Georgia: Britain's Story: Part 1
“Whycan’tyou just leave me here? You carenow?”
I’m breathless when I finish my last question. I’ve never had a panic attack, but I feel like I’m really close to losing my panic attack cherry.
“Get. In. The. Car.” His raised voice is hoarse and angry. I’ve never heard him like this before. “I’m driving you home. Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.Please.” He says “please” as if he’s begging for his damn life. Yeah, don’t letmemake it hard foryou.Fuckface.
The wind picks up, blowing my hair across my face, blurring my vision. As the breeze dies down, my hair continues to stick to my face, and as I reach up to push it back, I realize it’s stuck to the tears streaming down my cheeks.
“I can’t go home right now,” I say. Not like this. “Drop me off at Aubrey’s.”
He hesitates for a brief moment, then unlocks the car and I pull myself down and into the seat. I let out a choked sob against my own will, quickly slamming my hand over my mouth in hopes he didn’t notice. I just need 20 minutes,20 fucking minutes, and then I can break down.
He slides into the seat opposite and starts the car, the engine roaring to life as he tosses the blanket behind his front seat. I shudder. I think I might physically be ill. I can’t believe he just fucked me and then tossed me aside like a piece of trash. He was still inside me when he fucking broke me.What the fuck?!
We pull out onto the highway and I throw my attention out the passenger side window, turning my head to give him as little visual of my face as possible. I know tears are falling down my face. I wish they weren’t, but I’m a crier. It’s what I do, just like my mom. My entire inside lurches with a cringe.Just like my mom.
I hate him, but I hate myself more.Just like my momrepeats over and over in my mind, and I feel the self loathing burn the back of my throat all the way down into my stomach like acid. My mind jumps ahead, thinking of all the ways I could lash out, make him hurt, too. But I stumble over my own thoughts.I don’t think you can hurt someone who doesn’t give a fuck about you.And someone who cares about you doesn’t shatter you while they’re still inside you.
Blink, blink the tears away,I tell myself, as the landscape starts to brighten and turn, as we leave the hills and approach town bringing with it stoplights and lit-up business signs. He makes the turn on to Aubrey’s street and I finally allow myself to glance over to his side of the car. He’s white knuckling the steering wheel, and for a second I’m concerned he might rip it off. Bet he can’t wait to get me the fuck out of his car.
We slow to a stop in front of Aubrey’s house. Well, her parents' house, a well-kept 1950s rambler with a perfectly manicured lawn. And next to it, another rambler, with a perfectly manicured lawn. And so on and so forth till the end of the block. I snap to and realize, I’m just staring out at the street, but have yet to make the move to rid myself from his vehicle. My subconscious knows what I can’t bring my waking mind to understand, this is the last time I’ll ever be in this car. The last time I’ll ever see his face. Against my own volition, my head turns to face his and the moment our eyes meet, I feel like I’ve been sucker punched. The pain is too much. His stupid, perfect face stares back at me with a hard expression and gritted teeth.
I can’t imagine how awkward this must be for him — breaking up with someone face to face while you’re still inside them. I bet he normally just sends a text message. Something like “We’re over, lose my number.”Asshole.
I’m still staring at him, though, half hoping he’ll say something. That he’ll take it back. He didn’t mean it, right? He’s madly in love with me. But the seconds push on, and he says nothing.Noted.My pride won’t allow me to remain here a moment longer, so I turn and push to open the door.
“I’ll see you around, yeah?” he says in his low, deep tone, as I’m half outside his car. I turn around without a second thought, stealing one last look.
“Ha!” My part choke, part laugh, part sob escapes me. “You’ll never see me again.”
I slam the car door shut and run straight through the perfect lawn to the front door. My pride is screaming at me,don’t you dare look back, don’t even think about it!So I don’t. I bend down, snapping up the key from underneath the doormat that I know is always there, unlock the door, and slip inside. I don’t make it one step before my gutted sobs slam my back against the large wood door, my knees give out, and I slide to the cold, tile floor. A moment passes before I hear his car roar as it accelerates, then fades away as he severs me from his life.
ONE
Britain
35 years old
“How have you been sleeping?” Carla asks in her perfect, irritatingly calm therapist voice.
“I haven’t,” I cut her off. My reply is curt, sharper than I intended. I wince from the sound of my own voice. “I’m sorry, I’m just…I'm just irritable right now.”
“It’s okay. You’re allowed to feel this way. You’re allowed to struggle. This is a safe place.”
Ugh.I’m sitting on a worn leather sofa, in a beige room, with low lighting. Generic, unmemorable pieces of art adorn the walls. Carla sits in her Eames lounge chair, her dark hair done in a sharp bob, and she’s wearing the same thing she always is: a crisp oxford shirt, chinos, and slip-on loafers. Her legs are crossed at the ankles and her trusty notebook is settled across her lap. She’s holding a pen in one hand, and gently tap, tap, tapping the tip across her paper while the white noise machine shrouds the small room. It’s always the same. Carla is constant, predictable.
I’ve been seeing Carla for six years now. First with Damian for couples counseling, and now alone for the last three years. So when she says crap like‘this is a safe place,’I mentally roll my eyes and groan. I’m just grumpy, and tired because Ihaven’tbeen sleeping. I feel like I haven’t gotten a good night's sleep in two years. Not since Georgia died, really. Since then, my problems have only multiplied, and now I’m here with Carla for my second session of the week.
Ironically, in the last year, I’ve seen Carla more than I’ve seen Damian. So it shouldn’t have been a surprise when I was served divorce papers four months ago.At least he waited till after the holidays.Itwasa surprise though, but not the way most people think. The surprising part was the lack of feeling, period. I was numb and have been for the last 17 years, partly from some kick-ass antidepressants and partly because I’d felt enough 17 years ago that I never wanted to feel that way again. So I didn’t. I never let myself feelthat wayagain.
Aside from feeling numb, I eventually found myself feeling relief — something I absolutely did not expect to experience. I felt like I could take a deep breath for the first time in ten years after walking on eggshells in someone else’s shadow. Most people would think I’d be devastated, heartbroken, shocked even. But I wasn’t. I’m not. Most people think I’ve lived a charmed life, too, and in some ways I have. But no one really understands how un-charming it’s all been.
The kicker is, I never wanted to get married in the first place. But that’s what people do, right? It’s what was expected of me eventually, and to be honest, I needed some financial security and a bit of stability in my life, so I agreed. I may not have wanted to get married at 19, but I wasn’t a complete crap wife. I was young, and eager to please, and just thankful to not be alone. I gave him babies, and stayed home to raise them. I held down the fort for years as he finished his MBA, then started the hustle to build his company from scratch. I was simultaneously the nanny, the housekeeper, the chauffeur, his executive assistant, and his compliant sex partner, all while slowly piecemealing credits together to finish my own degree.
I didn’t have a lot of complaints in the early years other than struggling with all the typical ailments that accompany new motherhood. I was too busy learning how to be an adult and figuring out how to survive in my new environment than to complain about my handsome best friend who wanted me to be his wife more than anything in the world. But, as is the theme of my life, all good things must come to an end.
As the kids got older, our relationship looked a lot more like logistics management between colleagues than a cherished bond between two loving adults, and we drifted apart. Two ships in the night that managed shared responsibilities and goals. The goals had always been pretty simple: raise decent kids, build the company, then sell the company, then come back together in the end. The only goal we missed was coming back together. Damian got tired of me and my stunted, emotional bandwidth, and I got tired of him and his domineering and controlling ways.
Don’t get me wrong, we drifted apart, but that’s notwhywe’re getting divorced. Well, that’s not theonlyreason we’re getting divorced. No, we’re getting divorced because Damian’s assistant, Summer, gives amazing blowjobs, and he’s decided to trade up. Summer’s all tits and ass, platinum blonde, and in her early 20s.Good for him.
