Page 1 of That Weekend in Paris
Dillon
“Don’t spend time beating on a wall, hoping to transform it into a door.”
?Coco Chanel
STAND BY YOUR MAN.
The title from the country song my mama used to play in our Smith Mountain Lake kitchen on Saturday mornings pings through my head, Tammy Wynette’s gold-standard Nashville voice attached to the melody. She had loved her classic country, and no one hit the notes for Mama like Tammy.
But the song in my head scratches to a sudden halt, as if the needle’s been dragged across the record. My eyes fly open.
Most of the passengers around me in the first-class cabin of the Air France flight are sleeping, blankets tucked up around their shoulders, eye masks in place.
I glance at my watch, see that we have three hours to go before landing in Paris.
I close my eyes again, remembering how many times I tried to talk Josh into taking a second honeymoon to Paris. Tried to convince him it was the perfect city for two people in love.
I guess he finally believed me. That it was the perfect city for two people in love anyway. The kicker? I wasn’t the person he was in love with. Or the person he wanted to take to Paris. No, he’d opted for a newer, undamaged model instead of me.
Exhaustion tugs at me. I wish I could sleep like the people around me. I envy the fact that they will arrive relatively refreshed. But I hear Mama’s voice again, clear as if she were sitting on the seat beside me.Men mess up, honey. It’s just a fact of life. What are you gonna do?
Leave his ass. That’s what I did.My subconscious offers up the response, and I already know what Mama’s going to say.
Did you give him two arms to cling to?
No. I gave him a stiletto in the kneecap.
I hear Mama’s indulgent laugh.Not saying he didn’t deserve that.
Yeah, but it didn’t fix anything.
Sometimes, forgiveness is the only thing that will.
I don’t have it in me to forgive him.
Yes, you do.
No. I don’t.
I raised you to have a forgiving heart, Dilly.
That was before sexting, and iCloud, and a husband too arrogant to remember he shared an account with you.
You shouldn’t have been poking through his messages.
I wasn’t poking. Okay, I was. But I had cause.
And who did you end up hurting the most?
Me, I guess.
Right.
You’re the one who taught me to listen to my gut.
Yes, but did your gut tell you something was wrong in the marriage long before you found those messages?
Maybe.
