I grimaced, wondering how many times Tammy must have cheated on me before I had a clue.
“So I grabbed the Fabuloso and sprayed it all over the smooth marble of the bathroom floor.”
I bit my lips to keep from smiling.
She nodded, seeing that I knew where this was going. “Yes. He stepped out of the shower and went flying, cracked his head on the counter, and ended up on his ass on the floor, naked. That’s when I took a belt to him, buckle first.”
She nodded again when she saw my eyes widen. “Yes, I know. Psycho move. I beat the shit out of him, then kicked him out of my house, naked. At least neither of the boys were around, so they didn’t know until he told them.”
I started laughing.
“And then your oldest beat him up.”
“Yeah. Took him to town. Got his ass kicked twice, once by a girl, the other by his own son, and then I divorced him. You think I’m psycho now, don’t you?”
I managed to stop laughing, but couldn’t keep the smile off my face. I didn’t think she was psycho, not even remotely. In fact, I thought it was pretty awesome. “No. I think you’re a hero to women everywhere. Any man that does that to the mother of his children should have much worse done to him. There should be consequences to breaking those kinds of promises.”
“I agree. And so do my sons, apparently. Though they were never close to him. He wasn’t exactly an attentive father. He missed every school function, every one of their games, but managed to never miss a football game on TV. I exhausted myself trying to get him to take in an interest in our boys, but he just wasn’t that kind of a father. I think that makes it easier for them to close him out so completely.”
“Maybe they just need more time.”
“That’s what I’m hoping, though they’re both grown men now, so I have no say in it. That’s something they have to decide for themselves. My ex calls me every few weeks, bitching that I’m putting them up to it. What am I supposed to do? They’re stubborn. They make up their minds and it’s not something I can change.”
“I think it’s good that they’re that appalled by his behavior. I think it means you raised good young men. Principled men. Why should they forgive the man who did that to their mother?”
“Because he’s their father.”
I shrugged. “That’s his fight. You just keep being the mother you need to be, and let them fight their own battles.”
“That’s a good way to look at it. I need to block my ex-husband’s number.”
“I did that with Tammy. Then she started showing up at my house.”
“She still do that?”
“Not for a while, thank God.”
“Well, that’s progress, at least. Gives me some hope for my own situation.”
We really had so much in common. It was a pity I was so obsessed with Iris that I couldn’t see or even think straight.
When we were finished, I walked her to her car. It was a silver Tesla (See what I mean? So much in common!)
She hugged me lightly, one brief press of our bodies, and kissed me on both cheeks. We said a friendly goodbye, and I casually mentioned calling her later.
I watched her drive away.
My brows drew together as I noticed a dark sedan filing in behind her. The windows were darkly tinted (illegally so) but I could swear I made out the shape of a big man with blond hair behind the wheel.
I was well aware of my overactive writer’s imagination, so I quickly shook off the thought.
It simply made no sense.
I sat in my car for a good long while afterwards and tried to analyze what I was feeling.
Disappointment.
But why? What had I expected?
The answer didn’t come easy, and when it did, I felt like even more of a fool.
I’d expected to see her. To see Iris. In some corner of my mind, I’d done the whole thing in some hope that going out with another woman would draw her out, if she were anywhere to be drawn.
Basically, I’d spent the afternoon setting myself up for a letdown and dragging someone else along for the ride.
CHAPTER THREE
I pulled back into my drive with a sense of relief. I’d only been gone a week, but a week with my parents over the holidays was more than I wanted to deal with.
A week of pretending I was okay, that everything was normal, that it was the divorce that had me acting like a robot; asocial, going through the motions, quiet and stuck in my own head unless directly addressed.
But of course it wasn’t the divorce. I hardly thought of that anymore.
It was Iris. Or rather, the lack of Iris.
My parents had fallen back on protocol, making polite small talk. They were civilized and well-bred to a fault. They may have been worried, but they’d never pry. Even as a child, they’d always given me my space, to a fault, sometimes.
It worked out for the best. There was nothing I wanted to talk to them about.
But the not talking had me thinking more. And thinking was not a good thing for me to do just then.
Iris had been gone two months and counting.
It had been a rough two months.
Two months of longing and mourning.
Two months of denying and grieving.
How perverse was it to realize just how in love you were with a near stranger only after finding out that she was gone forever? Possibly dead. Probably dead.
I could recite that cryptic last letter of hers by heart, and still, I wasn’t sure how to decipher its true meaning.
I wouldn’t be seeing her again.
Even after reading that letter a hundred times, I had to keep reminding myself of that.
She’d clearly been in some kind of serious trouble, but she’d never let me close enough to help her with it.
I was certain I could have kept her safe. That was the part I thought about the most—the what ifs.
What if she’d let me help her? What if she’d stayed close and let me keep her safe?
The letter had clearly implied that if I was receiving it she was likely dead, but I just couldn’t seem to accept it.
And as for moving on, I hadn’t been doing a bit of that. Instead, I’d been dwelling and obsessing, dreaming and fantasizing.
I’d started writing everything about her down.
I didn’t want to forget a thing about her. Not one tiny detail.