Aftermath

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Continued from this entry...

And there you are on your knees

Begging for forgiveness, begging for me

Just like I always wanted

But I'm so sorry...

I'm not a princess.

This ain't a fairy tale.

I'm gonna find someone someday

Who might actually treat me well...

--Taylor Swift, "White Horse"

So it was over.

After nineteen months of refusing to give up and walk away, he had done it for me. I had held on by the tips of my fingertips for so long... my immediate reaction was relief.

And then anger.

P, because she is a good friend, immediately took over. She took me to her apartment, dressed me up in a boob shirt, and took me to Aspen to shake my booty. We were hanging out with a bunch of guys from the golf club where we worked, and they, being caddies, were flush with the cash heaped upon them by rich golfers. We drank, we danced...

And then there was the desperation.

What was I doing? I don't know how to do this! I snuck away to find a quiet corner to call my husband. He, of course, was at her house. But he wasn't sure he had done the right thing. He wanted to come home.

"Come get me," I said. "We'll talk about it."

But no. He was mad at me for being out (and not sitting at home, crying and waiting, I suppose). And something in that attitude finally (FINALLY!) flipped a switch in my brain. And I realized... that I most certainly DO know how to do this.

And I did. I knew how to dance, and flirt, and accept drinks from cute guys. I also apparently remembered how to make out in a back seat. And the front seat. Of my husband's truck (note to ex-husband if he's reading: I actually had sex in your truck four times before I gave it back to you. You're welcome for that piece of information).

A week later, he came to the house that had been ours to help me complete my move out. He had on his sad face. He boxed and cleaned and looked at me with hangdog eyes. He begged. He said he was wrong. He wanted me back. There was nothing he wouldn't do to get me back. I should give him another chance. I started to feel bad. I wasn't giving in, but I did feel sorry for him.

And then, while taking a load to the car, I saw her. Sitting in the truck. Waiting for him. He had brought her along, and she was outside waiting for him while he groveled for forgiveness.

I laughed. Out loud. He was unbelievable.

But there were more conversations. He continued asking for more chances. He left presents, one a week, on my doorstep (which creeped out my roommate to no end). He called. We met for lunch and he cried. He made promises. And when I told him I'd consider it if he'd 1) move out of her house (hello!) and 2) get counseling, I knew that neither would happen.

And it didn't.