Page 6 of Ella Gets the D
“You—left to go camping?” Her frown trumpets through the phone.
“A circus tent, for kids.”
“You left Duke’s party to sit in aplay tent?”
“Yes—no!” I rub my temple. Believe me when I say Jackson and Haile weren’t at all happy to leave early. My four-year-old kindly scolded me for ruining her Saturday plans. She was her brother’s plus-one, by the way. “I needed to clear my head. So I drove around and ended up at IKEA.”
“But Charles only likes impractical furniture made from the hairs of a goat’s sack. Why are you shopping there, and what’s wrong with your head?”
“He cheated!” The rest spills out in a rush. “I heard him having sex. Inourbed. He didn’t even have the decency to take her to a hotel.”
Decency would have been to not jackhammer into anyone other than his wife, but we’re past that. It’s the point of no return.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes!”
“The actual nerve of that no-good dick!” Morgan loses it.Join the club. “You were too good for him, El. That man couldn’t get from his ass to his face without a map.” There’s a long exhale. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know! What survival guide do you use after you catch your spouse with a woman ten years younger than you, a woman who still has perky breasts?” My heart pounds in my ears. “I haven’t worked ineleven years, Morgan. I have no job, a small savings that won’t buy a shoebox in Falls Church, and two kids in tow.”
I could stay in a motel for a month before I run out of money, and there are short-term rentals around the DMV, but who will put out a welcome mat for a mom with no income?
Charles would take all the furniture and cut off the water before he left the house willingly, and going back isn’t an option. Neither is his parents’ house, or my mother’s in Ohio. I wouldn’t put it past Charles Sr. to conveniently lock me out and keep my children when he finds out I’m leaving his son. Charles inherited many things from his father, and spitefulness is right up there with generational wealth and a prenup that leaves me with the same thing I came in with: nothing.
Sweat prickles between my bra and the oversized blouse now clinging to my skin like a magnet. I squeeze my eyes shut andgrasp the side of the tent, which almost topples over against my weight. Every decision I need to make hits me at once.
Tears turn into an uncomfortable sob. Leave it to Charles to break our marriage and force me to deal with the mess.
“You’re coming to stay with me.” Morgan’s tone is final. “We’ll figure this out together. After we burn down that morgue you called a home with him in it.”
I sob harder at her offer—the temporary housing part. Not the arson and murder. That part is tempting.
“Morgan, I can’t—”
“Youwillbring your butt and those babies over here. You’d do the same for me, so don’t even think about telling me no.”
“Just—thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” The hiccup lodged in my throat becomes another sob, this one encased in fury at the man who’s turning my world upside down. “I was loyal to that asshole for sixteen years! I cooked. I cleaned. I took care of our kids, stroked his ego whenever he had a bad day at work, had sex when I was too tired to fake it. And what do I get for honoring our vows?” I punch the side of the tent and scream, “Hecheats onme, andI’minside a kiddie tent in the middle of IKEA, losing my shit?”
I jump at the outline of a figure at my side. The voice is faint when the person crouches near the tent flap. “Hello? Are you okay?”
My chest tightens. Please don’t let me open this tent and find people recording me on their phones. I won’t survive The Shade Room orGood Morning America.
The pain in the back of my throat from screaming makes it hard to swallow. My fingers fumble with the ties to open the tent. I hesitate to stick my head out but meet a sad pair of eyes when I do.
A woman with white-gray hair looks at me with a smile that makes my shoulders drop. Even though she’s crouching, I cantell she’s chest height. “Hello there,” she says in a gentle voice. “I’m Thelma. I work here, and it’s good to see you.”
Ms. Thelma reminds me of one of my Sunday school teachers, which is why I will not call her by her first name. She has soft curls pressed back into a bun and plump cheeks that have held a lifetime of smiles. The aroma of fresh cinnamon buns surrounds her like a halo.
I bet she gives wonderful hugs.
I need one.
“Hi.” I wipe the snot from my face in a desperate attempt to not reflect roadkill run over twice.
