Louboutins & Lattes

Chapter Three

He nods, "Of course."

"Fuck, it hurts so bad," I whisper and ball up my fists on my tote.

"I know." He says quietly, closing his hands around the rings. "I'm sorry."

I realize then, he's going to say it forever. Even if I can someday manage forgive him, he's never going to forgive himself for this. I look up and take in his face.

I'd avoided all questions about him and Clarissa and where their relationship or lack thereof stood in the past week since she showed back up. Besides him openly demanding a paternity test while she stood in our living room, I had no idea what his decision was about the baby and as much as I didn't want to know, curiosity lingered.

"Take care of the kids." I state, "No Dyes. And don't let Em take Bugsby out of the house, last time we lost her she didn't sleep for two days. And watch out for Weston, he's suddenly a streaker. If you think he's ready to start potty training, the potty is in the upper..."

"Cabinet in the mud room. I know El," He interrupts, "I've got it. I promise they will be fed, happy and healthy when you get back. I can do this." He nods.

"Thank you," I say softly before I turn and finally climb out.

He doesn't follow and I'm grateful and crushed all at the same time. Crushed for what used to be, grateful we don't have to extend an awkward goodbye and force a hug.

I pop the trunk of his navy Range Rover and grab my luggage before closing it again. Then I wave him off, letting him know I have everything, and turn towards curbside service. As I walk away from him, I simultaneously feel the weight of the world lifting off my shoulders and yet it also feels like it's crashing down around me. I woke up that morning in a fog and it feels like the haze just keeps getting thicker and thicker. I know it's grief for what I lost, I learned that in therapy, but I still haven't mastered the art of managing it.

I'm about to get a crash course in grief management without the distraction of the kids and everyday responsibilities over the course of the next six days, though. Another realization that has me starting to crumble on the inside in a way I haven't had an opportunity to since the day my marriage fell apart. I just pray I can hold it together until I'm safely tucked in my airplane seat. At that point, who cares if the person next to me thinks I'm going to start claiming to see people dancing on the wing, as long as we're off the ground before it happens.

I look up at the sign for Gamma Airlines and stare at it for a solid minute.

"My marriage is over," I say. "And I'm going on a fucking girls trip."

I stand there a moment longer and shake my head before mumbling. "What is this? Fucking Sex and the City?"

Turning my head to my left, I wince as I catch a teenager side-eyeing me from a few feet away.

"Yeah, I'm questioning my sanity too," I sigh and make my way towards the curbside check-in counter.

Once I'm checked in and through security I decide to wander until boarding time, worried if I'm stationary the fog I'm wading through will swallow me whole. Sadly, even the distraction of overpriced useless trinkets I'd have once needed as if my life depended on it can't rouse my spirit from the pits of despair.

Debating heading to my gate, I'm shuffling through the faceless crowd of midweek commuters when I suddenly hear a horn followed by screeching brakes and a booming, "Look out!"

"Oh shit," leaves me in a whoosh as my head swivels around to find a transport cart barreling towards me, just as someone grabs me from behind.

Hands yank me backward as the cart whizzes past and I gasp, twisting around to grasp either side of a crisp white button-down shirt in my face. Instead of clutching the person, I clutch the fabric and feel it strain under my fingers as I stumble, my legs getting tangled and my tote bag hitting my back knocking us just a little further. Suddenly we stop and I'm grateful I haven't sent us sprawling onto the floor.