Page 25 of Love Beyond Repair
It was so rapid that I hadn’t had time to process the initial diagnosis before she was dead. I think it took all those six months for Dad to accept she was gone permanently.
It was that rainy afternoon that he broke down for the first time and cried. Long, heartfelt sobs echoed through the empty house. Losing Mum so quickly and unexpectedly has made me terrified of change. That’s probably why I have held onto Ben so tightly.
Even when he found out about my infidelity. I hung on with a death grip, using my tears, and ultimately, my loss, to keep him around. He struggled to move on from my affair with Sam, but I promised him it was a stupid mistake. I begged him to give me another chance. Then Iblamed him for it happening at all, telling him if he showed me more attention, I’d never have strayed. Neither of us believed that.
Ben has always been my rock, and I can’t imagine life without him. There was no way I was letting him go without a fight. To my relief, he stayed.
The tables have now turned, and I was doubting Ben’s feelings for me. He wasn’t as in tune with me recently. Since Halloween, his mind has been elsewhere. I thought I was imagining it at first. The glances toward her. The way his breathing increased ever so slightly when she entered a room.
Bex has never been beautiful. The kind of woman men used to overlook entirely. But something has changed in recent weeks. Her confidence is growing, and she holds her head up with pride. People are noticing her. I couldn’t deny it anymore. My Ben was noticing her every day. He watches her as she moves around the apartment.
Knowing him as I do, after almost a decade together. I know him well enough to be confident that he’s not acted on his feelings. But I need to protect myself from the loss. I need to be in control of this situation. I need to make the next move on my terms.
The lack of control is frightening, that feeling when the world is moving around you. When you’re standing, watching it spin, and you can’t reach the stop button. I’ve never doubted his feelings for me until now. Anger bubbles to the surface again.
How dare he lose interest in me this way?
How dare he not want me?
As irrational as it sounds, even in my own head, I’m at a loss as to why on earth he would prefer her over me. We’re meant to be together. We are the ultimate teenage dream. He has no right to ruin the story, but I can feel him slipping away. I need to hurt him first.
Three suitcases and ten grocery bags. That’s all I needed to pack up all the worldly possessions I have in this apartment. Ben is on shift today for twelve hours. I have plenty of time to clear out all my stuff. I haven’t decided how I’m going to tell him it’s over yet. That I’m going back to my dad’s.
The taxi is organized to arrive in an hour. I’ll be long gone before he gets home. Part of me is excited about the upcoming situation. I love a bit of drama. It’s a trait I don’t particularly like about myself, but one I love to indulge in every now and again.
My suitcases are heavy and crammed full. Hauling them, one at a time, down the three flights of stairs is back-breaking. Time is marching on, and I panic that someone is going to get home early, ruining my escape. My keys lie on the dining table alongside an envelope markedBen.I want my exit to be worthy of a soap opera.
I want to shock him.
Just to be gone. I want him to want to know why. To chase me for answers.
The taxi pulls up at the curb, and the tall, lanky driver unfolds himself from the front seat. He lugs my three suitcases into the trunk. Opening the rear door, I take a long final look at the building I called home. Then, before losing my shit, I climb in to the SUV. The door slams shut, and we pull out into the late morning traffic.
The journey passes quickly, even though it takes an hour to drive. My mind flips from sadness to excitement as I wait for my phone to ring. We come to an abrupt stop in front of my childhood home. Everything looks the same as it has for the past fifteen years. The roses in the garden are pruned to perfection, and the small fishpond has a fountain that bubbles away happily.
The house is a standard two-up, two-down townhouse in the suburbs of a small town near London. There’s nothing exceptional about it, but it’s home. Dad didn’t want to change anything after Mum died. I know the house will remain the same until he takes his final journey to meet her.
My feet are slow on the path, and I stand, looking up at the only house I’ve ever really called home. My father is standing in his usual position at the living room window, his brow creased with concern. Next thing I know, I’m running and jumping into his arms at the front door. He’s warm, cozy, and safe. My defenses drop. The tears fall freely as I let myself melt into the safety of my father.
“What’s happened, poppet?” he whispers into my hair. “Has someone hurt you? Where’s Ben?”
I look up into his worried eyes and shake my head. “We’ve broken up, Dad. It’s over. I’m home.”
Then my sobs start again. Big wet tears fall as I lay my head on his chest, soaking into the cheap shirt he wears. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and then leads me inside.
As I sit on the sofa in the front room, my breathing finally starts to steady. The room is clean and warm, the decoration subdued, and most items are in tones of cream and beige. A bright orange cushion piques my interest; there is a slogan written across the front in squiggly black writing. I squint to try to make it out.
The wordsHot Stufffollowed byCuddle this and think of methrow me completely. Why the hell would my dad have a cushion saying that? It must be a joke from his pub friends. I return to my self-pity.
Dad sets a cup of tea down in front of me, but not before carefully placing a coaster with a picture of our late pet dog, Bertie, underneath. My mother hated rings on the table from mugs; it drove her crazy. Concern percolates from every pore of him as he watches me. I’m normally the one who is in control and sorting situations. This reversal of roles is making him uncomfortable. He’s strugglingwith what to do next.
“So, poppet,” he ventures, “what’s Ben saying about this? You two are such a team. This has come as a shock.”
“Well, the thing is, he probably doesn’t even know I’ve left him yet.” He looks at me dumbfounded but stays silent. Taking a deep breath, I continue, “I’m not sure what I want. I need some time to think. It was easier to pack up my stuff and leave. The letter I left for him explains it all.”
My admission is embarrassing. I brave a glance in his direction. My dad looks as though I’ve slapped him hard, his eyes questioning, unsure what to make of what he's just learned. He gazes at me for what feels like hours before settling onto the sofa across from me. The old seat creaks under his weight; always a big man, he’s gotten huge since my mother passed.
“I just couldn’t deal with the conversation, Dad. I needed space,” I stammer.
