Page 9 of Beyond our Forever

Bruce remains silent, just standing there staring, looking me up and down.

“Can you call Beth, get her to come over to watch the kids?” he asks after a few moments. “I’d like to talk to you away from the house.”

Shit, shit, shit.

Triple shit.

The shit is about to hit the fan.

What else could it be?

Like a robot, I go looking for my phone, and then dial Beth’s number—she often babysits the children—silently begging her to say she can’t, that she has an exam to study for. But of course I’m not so lucky.

“Stay like that,” Bruce replies when I ask him if I should change my clothes, since I have no idea where we are going. “I’ve always liked that dress.”

“This old thing?” It’s not false modesty, I swear. He knows I just got it out from one of the boxes in the storage closet. It is literally an old thing.

Very old.

Fifteen minutes later, Beth is outside, ready to take over. With each passing minute, my spirits plummet.

I know, I know, it’s all my fault.

It was me who made the decision, but does it make it less painful?

Does that make it easier?

No, the answer is no.

Of course not.

Because in the midst of everything, disappointment, sadness, and debris of broken dreams, he is still the man I fell in love with. My husband, the father of my children.

The love of my life.

Where can I find an instruction manual on how to fall out of love?

Do they sell a little yellow book for dummies? Falling out of love for idiots?

No car journey has ever felt so endless, as if all the air has been sucked out and I’m being suffocated, to the point where I’m literally sweating like a horse.

“Is Italian okay with you?”

I nod silently, fixing my eyes on the sign in front of us as he parks the car along the sidewalk.

This has been one of our favorite restaurants since we moved to the city. They serve homemade Italian food, nothing fancy, but we’ve always loved it. We used to come here often, usually with our children, who are able to devour amazing amounts of pasta and meatballs.

Unlike weekends, when there is usually a long line to enter, today we get a table without any trouble.

I try to distract myself by looking at all the old images that decorate the walls. After we order, my nerves increase. Bruce has brought me to a place that holds hundreds of happy memories, to cruelly replace them with something far worse.

Asshole.

“Do you want a glass of wine?”

I shake my head.

Tequila would be more like it, but I resist the temptation. Alcohol isn’t going to help me to get my shit together.

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