Page 2 of From Rivals to I Do

Normally, being sent home would be fine. . . but we are really depending on the extra money. Instantly, I am worried about Joseph getting frustrated, but he’s a reasonable man, and I know that I’m projecting my own insecurities onto him.

“I’ll have Tabby come along with your discharge papers,” Doctor Lee says after giving me a good look over. “I suggest calling Joe and trying to get a ride. . . your pupil dilation is alright, but I’d rather be safe. I tried calling already, but I didn’t get an answer.”

“Alright,” I say, finding it curious he didn’t answer. But I just brushed it off.

“Penny left your purse on the tray there,” Doctor Lee says as he goes to leave the room. “Feel better, Darla.”

“Thanks, Doc,” I reply, and he gives me a smile and a little wave before heading back out into the atrium, slipping my folder into the stack for ‘discharges’ before grabbing another clipboard from intake and speed walking off.

“Shoot,” I say as I snatch my purse up off the table and begin fishing through it until I finally find my cell phone. “It’s two in the morning,” I mutter to myself as I scroll through my contacts, find Joe, and immediately dread hitting the call button, once again overcome with the worry that he will be upset—the threat of disappointment my daddy would have had carrying over into my adult life. He’s going to be so irritated. . . he’s finally got a day off tomorrow. . .

I sit and wait, listening to the trill of the phone as it rings, waiting on bated breath for him to answer. However, instead of being met by his rich, velvety voice, I’m met with his jovial voicemail message, and I quickly hang up.

Weird, I think to myself as I call again, only to get the same result. Did he turn his ringer off? I ask myself as I try again. Same thing. Voicemail. I mean, he might have the day off, but he’s the neurosurgeon on call. . . he’s got to have the thing turned on.

After Tabby comes in with Tylenol and my release forms, I slowly creep out into the hallway, my bag slung over my shoulder. I don’t want Doctor Lee to see me leaving without Joseph, so I peer through the glass, waiting until he ducks into another room to make my escape.

I’m confident that even though my head is thumping like a drum, I’ll be fine. My vision isn’t double or blurred so I scurry out to the parking lot and head home. A part of me is sure that Joseph is okay, but we are in our forties now—anything can happen, and it’s really bothering me that he’s still not picking up.

I spent the whole drive home trying not to panic, reminding myself he just had a physical, and they’d given him a clean bill of health. But my mind was being vicious to me, remembering how my daddy had gone, fast and without warning. So, as I pull into the driveway, all I can think of is whether or not he’s alright.

I rush out of the car and toward our big, beautiful home—a ranch house in the hills—that we’d bought years and years ago, and I quickly scuttle inside. Immediately, I’m hit by the scent of candles—warm apple pie to be exact, a scent that I buy in bulk whenever I can, my favorite.

It reminds me of being back home on the ranch with my folks in Kansas. The White Dahlia, named after my granny, memories of my mama in the kitchen making apple crisp and crumble. But Joseph has never been much of a candle burner himself. So, what’s he doing burning my stash?

“Honey?” I call out, and instead of an answer, I hear shuffling coming from the back hall leading to our room. “Honey, are you alright?” I ask, but still no answer, and my heart begins to pound as I get closer and closer to the doorway and hear muffled, almost urgent whispers.

“What in the world is going on?” The words spill out of my mouth as I bust open the door to our bedroom with a swift kick, and I feel like my whole body is on fire when I don’t find Joseph alone. Instead, there’s a young woman in lingerie, her derriere hanging out as she tries to climb out the window, my makeup clattering off the small dresser she’s standing on. “Hold it right there,” I snap, and the lace-clad lady of the night freezes in place at the sound of my voice.

“Darla, I can explain. . . ”

“Explain what? You in bed with this hussy?” I yell, and Joseph’s face goes from a pale peach to a bright red as she pulls herself out of the window, nearly slipping and falling to the floor as she struggles to get down, covering her heaving bosom with her arms.

“There’s no need for all that!” he yells as the woman cowers by the window, trying to bend down and gather up her clothes.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” she sputters nervously. “He told me that he was separated and getting a divorce.”

“Oh, is that so?” I say as I cock one hip, all the fatigue and weariness completely dissipating as I cross my arms over my chest.

“Darla, I—”

“You what? What? Go on and try to make some sort of excuse now!” I holler, adrenaline blasting through my veins as his face falls. He looks down into his lap as his mistress hurried to get dressed.

“Don’t you worry, Joseph, I’ll give you exactly what you want,” I say as my voice begins to crack, and my eyes sting with tears. “Now, you take your harlot and get out of my house,” I say as I pick up his jeans near my feet and throw them at him hard, right in his face, before I turn on my heel and walk away.

I can hear arguing between the two of them as they hurry to get dressed, and I walk out into the living room, putting my head in my hands. Don’t you dare show any emotion, I beg my brain and body. Wait to cry until they leave. Don’t even give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’s got to you. It’s obvious he could give a lick about how you feel, bringing another woman into your bed. You hold your head high and make him think you don’t give a crap. He certainly didn’t.

She walks out first, sheepishly mouthing sorry to me, pumps in hand as she sneaks out the door. A few minutes later, Joseph follows with a couple of small suitcases in his hands. He stops and looks at me and shakes his head.

“You know, none of this would have happened if you were ever home,” he says, and immediately I feel rage creep through my veins. I have been working my tail off for us. For our home. For our farm. To keep the lives we’ve been living sustainable. . . and he dares to say something like that to me after I find him with some twenty-year-old filled with ten pounds of silicone?

I let out a guttural scream before picking up the vase on the coffee table and chucking it at him.

“Get out!” I scream as I finally break, tears streaming down my face as the vase shatters against the wall, missing him by inches.

“Are you crazy?” Joseph yells, and I feel a little smirk creep into the side of my mouth as I hear Patsy Cline play in my mind.

And I’m crazy for loving you. . .

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