Page 13 of Letting Go

Chapter 6

I can’t go home. Not yet. It’s too raw, too close.

Is this why I stayed, with Mike, with my parents, with all of it? Because I was scared of disappointing them? Scared of being seen as the failure they always quietly suspected I was? I thought I was over it. Over needing their approval. But clearly, I’m not.

Hannah used to ask me why I still talked to them, why I didn’t just go no contact or at least low contact. I never had an answer. Not a real one. But I do now. It’s stupidly simple.

I wanted their love.

So, instead of driving home to the quiet house where my maybe-cheating husband might be, I find myself at Chucky’s. A grimy little college bar two blocks off campus, where I used to bartend during law school. My safe place. The staff back then were all broke, overworked, sarcastic twenty-somethings. My kind of people.

It’s packed, as always, but I manage to snag the last stool at the corner of the counter, right where the lights don’t quite reach and no one tries to flirt with you. I order a drink and sip slowly, letting it warm me from the inside out as my whole life flashes before my eyes like some clichéd near-death montage. Maybe I am dying. Emotionally, anyway.

I think back to when I got into UC Law. Partial scholarship. No one gets into UC Law from community college, especially not someone like me. I’d spent years flailing, working shifts, switching majors, trying to outrun the black sheep label my parents stitched to my back. I didn’t even know what I wanted to do until my fifth major change, when the college counsellor threatened to freeze my academic record. I panicked, read the entire course catalogue in one night, and showed up the next morning with a case prepared. The advisor just blinked at me and said, “You ever thought about law school?”

And that was it. Contract law clicked. It made sense. Strategy and charm and reading between the lines. I loved the chase. The loopholes. The deals. I could leave the courtroom theatrics to someone else, most of the work happened at desks anyway.

I went all in. Aced everything. Hustled for an internship in a judge’s office, which, plot twist, turned out to be Mike’s dad. That’s how we met. When I got into UC Law, my parents barely looked up from their phones. Said, “Well, it’s your passion for now.”

Mike threw me a surprise party. Right here in this bar. Back when he used to sit in the booth for hours watching me bartend, all heart-eyes and pride.

“Another?” the bartender asks.

I blink. He’s not a college kid, he’s older, maybe early forties, greying at the temples. Looks like someone’s uncle who knows a thing or two.

“I thought Chucky’s only hired broke-ass college kids,” I slur slightly, lifting my empty glass.

He chuckles. “They did. Until they threw an unauthorized rave and trashed the place. Now I’m here. Probationary Dad-Bartender.”

He slides me a water but doesn’t walk away.

“So,” he says, resting his elbows on the counter. “What’s got you drinking in corners on a weekday?”

I let out a breath and laugh. God. I know this role. The priesthood of bartenders. Sacred listeners of half-sober confessions. Might as well give him something real.

“I’m avoiding confronting my husband,” I say, staring into the rim of my glass. “About whether or not he’s screwing his coworker.”

He whistles low. “Yikes.”

“Yeah,” I nod. “Big yikes.”

He doesn’t ask anything else. Just gives me that bartender look, part sympathy, part respect for the sheer mess of it.

So, I drink my water, avoiding his gaze.

He leans against the bar, wiping down a clean spot that doesn’t need wiping. Then he asks, not gently, not harshly, just curious:

“How’d you find out?”

I stare into my drink, then say, “You know those women? The ones on talk shows or in documentaries, saying ‘I had no idea. None. That my husband was sleeping with the babysitter or the secretary or whoever.’” I look up at him. “They’re lying.”

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t interrupt.

“You know. You know when something shifts. When he looks at you differently. Like you’re not it anymore. You feel it. But you push it away. Tell yourself you’re imagining things. Tell yourself he’s just stressed or tired or pissed about something from work. And then you bury yourself in your own work, hoping if you just keep moving, it won’t catch up.”

I pause, swirling the water in my glass, the ice clicking softly.

“But then… you don’t have work anymore. And you can’t pretend it’s just you being busy. You’re not busy. You’re alone. And it’s still there. That feeling.”

---