Page 3 of The Reluctant Hero

Amanda

I park the car at a truck stop and sit inside all night. I’m not going back home anytime soon, I know that much. I spend most of the night awake with my phone in my hands, waiting—waiting for a phone call that never comes, as if he wrote me off as soon as I let his phone go.

I think about that for a long time. Each hour that goes by increases the pain and knocks back the anger. They’re at war inside me, and pain is winning.

We didn’t have a clear and calm conversation about it like he prefers. Does he even have a clue why I’m so upset? Does he evencare?

Everything points to the fact that he doesn’t. He probably invited Annette over as soon as I left. What’s a hotel room compared to a nice bed atourhome?

The choked scoff that erupts at that thought sounds like a dying animal.

My fist smashes into the horn on the steering wheel, and the sharp shriek of sound startles me out of the rage. My knuckles sting, but the pain is nothing against this emotional deluge.

The sun starts peeking over the horizon, and my alarm goes off. It’s Monday. It's time to make myself pretty and go to work.

I’m not sure what to do with myself. I can’t see going in there, even if it’s a half day. I haven’t slept. The last bouquet of flowers he sent me is still on the desk in my cubicle at the bank.The thought of seeing them makes me want to throw up. And let's not forget the teeny tiny fact that my boss will be there.

No wonder I’ve been working a few extra hours every day.

Every. Fucking. Day.

Fucking, being the operative word there.

I can’t figure out the point of it all. Why the romantic gestures to me? Why make it seem like everything is going better than it has in years? Guilt? A subtle placing of blinders over my eyes in case I got suspicious?

The shock has passed, and a new reality is taking its place—one that has no mercy on my ego or sense of self. My pride is wet toilet paper in a stiff breeze.

It’s over and done. He doesn’t want me. He wants a perfect woman, and I am definitely not that.

I’ve gained weight, as one does when one relaxes in a comfortable relationship. Sure, I’ve exercised and dieted a bit here and there because he was complaining. But he gained weight, and I didn’t say a word.

Suddenly, the anger is back. I recognize that I'm on an emotional rollercoaster that isn't going to stop until I've either puked or passed out. I refuse to do either, using the anger to keep me moving forward.

I pull out my phone to call Annette.

It rings twice before she picks up with a happy chirp.

“Good morning, Amanda. Are you calling out?”

“Why would I do that?” I ask. It’s surprising how sweet my voice sounds while unbridled rage stirs inside me.

“You never call this early unless you’re sick,” she laughs. I hear a rustle as if she’s rolling out of bed.

“Oh, I’msick, alright,” I agree with a light mocking laugh.

There’s a pause as if she doesn’t know what to say.

“Sweetie? What’s going on?”

Sweetie. Sweetheart. Both of those words do not match me in the least, and these morons have no idea. There’s a time to be nice, and there’s a time to wreak havoc. Theirnicetime has worn out its welcome.

I turned into the weakest version of myself to please a man. To keep him happy with me. He didn’t like my cursing. He didn’t like my snarky comebacks. He didn’t like not knowing where I was or who I was with. A million other things that seethed beneath the surface of our relationship, held down by my own desperate hands.

What the hell have I done with my life?

“I’m just wondering if Justin managed to wreck that pussy last night,” I idly run a finger over the steering wheel.

“Excuse me?” She sputters. The choked-up sound of her panic makes me laugh. What right does she have to sound surprised? Insulted? I’m not the woman texting a married man with begging eye emojis to schedule a sexfest.

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