I’ve thought a lot about what I’ll do with the money, but it’s obvious, really. The second it’s deposited in my account, I’ll be donating to three different women’s shelters around Central Texas, the region I’m happy to call my new home. I know I could use the money to pad my savings account or buy a house or start a business, but it doesn’t feel right—not only because I don’t want Andrew’s dirty money anywhere near me, but also because I don’t need that money. Most women in these shelters have no one by their side. I know how that feels. I was there once not long ago, and if my money can help lighten their load even a little, I’m more than happy to send it their way. Also, in case you think I’m doing it for completely selfless reasons, I also get a kick out of the fact that Andrew’s money is going to help these women. He’d hate it. He doesn’t have a philanthropic bone in this body.
Anyway, the fact that I’m giving his money to those women makes me smile at least twice a day. If I didn’t want to leave well enough alone, I’d ask the organizations to each build a new wing: The Andrew Wilchester Shelter for Women Escaping From Andrew Wilchester. Who knows, I still might. It’s not like his rage can hurt me anymore because—*cue confetti drop*—our divorce was finalized today.
I got a call from my lawyer at 1:35 PM and I sank down to the floor then wept like a little baby. It was totally unexpected. If someone had asked how I would react when I got that call, I would have assumed I’d pop some champagne, blast Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies”, and dance until I got a cramp in my side. Instead, I crumbled into a heap of tears and snot. It was like when Frodo finally dropped that damn ring into the fire after three long-ass books full of trouble for himself: It’s over. It’s done.
There was no way to pinpoint the exact source of my tears. It was relief, of course, but there were also conflicting, strange emotions like fear and anger and pity. I cried for the younger version of myself, the naive girl who fell in love with a monster. I cried for the fact that I’d wasted five good years in a manipulative marriage before I finally had the courage to leave. I cried because even though I want to be independent and in control of my future, a part of me is still scared I won’t be able to do it. I also cried because I’m scared of the scars. I don’t want this to harden my heart. I want to learn from my mistakes without swearing off love altogether. I want to make my own money and pave my own path without assuming that leaning on a partner makes me weak, stupid, or crippled.
Even after my ordeal, I still believe in the power of love, and maybe I owe that to Jack. I wonder if I’d still be so reluctant to shun love if I wasn’t currently in love.
An objective observer would say it’s too soon. They would purse lips and cross arms, admonishing me for even considering love at a time like this. They would declare that I should be single for exactly one year and one day and not a moment sooner, that I must take time for self-discovery (Have you read Eat, Pray, Love?!) before I even consider opening my heart to another man. If this were the 1850s, they would demand I wear mourning black out in public and shun all social engagements.
I get it. I really do. It would be great if life worked like that. How convenient would it be to meet someone special at the exact right time it was deemed socially acceptable?
The truth is, life introduced me to Jack less than 24 hours after I left Andrew. Insane, I know, and sure, at the time, I didn’t see him as a potential love interest. In fact, given the choice between lover and potential murderer, I would have put money on the latter.
But the great thing about my life is that it’s my life, not their life. If they think I should let my heart turn to stone, that’s okay. They can think that, but I’ll be over here, accepting love at face value. It’s simple if you don’t think too hard. I want to love Jack, fiercely, naively, and just as strongly as if love had never burned me in the past, because the alternative? Turning into a miserable shrew? Yeah, hard pass on that.
Today is a big day, not just because my divorce is finalized, but because I’m going to see Helen. She and Brent returned from Europe earlier in the week and they’re hosting a small dinner party to show off the renovations on their house. I’ve been nervous about it since she first invited me, planning and re-planning my outfit five different times. She and I have talked a bit over the last few weeks, but it’s been surface-level bullshit, the stuff I hate. Tonight will be different. I wrote her a long letter, and I mean long. It’s 10 pages, front and back. In it, I apologized for my mistakes and outlined exactly what I want for our future. I could vomit just thinking about it. It might seem strange. She’s my sister, but we’ve never really been sisters. I want to give it a try. I’m basically handing her my heart and openly declaring that even though we each have plenty of reasons to be bitter, we deserve more than that. I want us to be close and confide in one another. I want her in my life from here on out.
I told Jack about the letter the other day.
“It’s ten pages.”
“Are you going to bind it in paperback or hardback?”
I shoved him. “It’s long because I had a lot to say!”
He laughed. Hopefully Helen doesn’t laugh.
I have my work cut out for me. Our relationship is damaged with a capital D. Andrew was a wedge between us, along with distance, deep-seated jealousy, and the ten-year age gap. Now, I’m going to be the glue—sticky, annoying, and resilient. She is going to love me because she has no other choice. That’s the plan.
Edith and I ride together to Helen’s house; Jack had to run over to the restaurant first so he’s meeting us there. I’m quiet in the car, cradling the letter on my lap. Edith asks me if I’m nervous and I reply with a noncommittal grunt. Truthfully, yes, I’m either nervous or my stomach has stopped working. I couldn’t manage food all day, and my hands are shaking. I tell Edith we should keep circling the block as we pull up out front.
“I grew up in the wake of the Depression—I’m not wasting gas,” she says before parking.
Edith isn’t an enabler, and that’s a good thing. She gives me the kick in the ass I need, both in the car and midway up the path when I turn back and tell her I left something at the farmhouse. She grabs ahold of my dress and tugs me all the way to the front door.
When it’s swept open, it’s like I’m seeing my sister for the first time in five years. Her light brown hair is trimmed short, just below her chin. Her simple wrap dress accentuates her curves and her glowing skin. I’m glad to see she looks happy.
I hold up the bouquet we picked up on the way—sunflowers. I remember she used to love them when she was younger, and I tell her so. She smiles.
“They’re still my favorite.”
I’m pleasantly surprised to see Daniel and Leanna along with a few other guests in the living room. Helen introduces me as her baby sister, and maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I think I can almost detect pride in her voice. After I wave to the room at large, I follow Helen into the kitchen.
“Can I help with anything?”
She’s got her hands full finishing up dinner and I really hope she says yes, because this is so awkward and I have nothing to do with my hands. I can’t keep wringing them out. I try crossing my arms, but then I seem tense. I prop one on my hip and try to act natural.
“Sure, can you put those flowers in water? There’s a vase in that cabinet over there.”
As I trim and arrange them, she tells me about Europe. She says it was the trip of a lifetime, but she and Brent are both happy to be back home.
“We walked a ton, but I still gained ten pounds. It’s all those damn croissants! I think I ate six a day. Starting tomorrow, Brent and I are going on a diet.”
“I think you look great. You have that post-travel glow. But, if you want, I have a few healthy recipes I’ve been making for Jack and Edith lately. I can write them down for you.”
After we finish talking about her trip, we’re silent for a few minutes as she puts me to work mixing up the salad ingredients. We have things to talk about. The letter is burning a hole in my purse and I know she knows about the divorce. I mentioned it the other day in a text.