Page 49 of How to Ruin Your Ex's Wedding
“But how does she not realize that I’m a step up?”
“I do love your humility, P. It’s awe-inspiring.” He slows the car in front of my house.
“Appreciate the ride home, G. Talk to you later?”
“Yup.” He pulls away before the passenger door is all the way closed. I stumble to my front door, suddenly exhausted. I manage to get it unlocked on the third try, kick off my shoes and fall onto my couch, clothes and all. I’m passed out within minutes.
13
Tabatha
Hunter falls asleep shortly after we make love, as is his habit. I don’t even know if he ate dinner. But instead of worrying about it, I throw on some yoga pants and a sweatshirt and head out to the living room. As much as I hate to admit it, this is a routine that we’ve fallen into of late, where I’m wide awake after sex and he’s conked out. I enjoy sex with him, very much, but it isn’t typically an activity that will exhaust me.
I grab my favorite throw blanket and spread out on the couch, grabbing the remote to turn on the TV and flip the channel to infomercials. Between them and any sort of home shopping channel, I can occupy my mind for hours on end. The key is to not think too hard on any one thing. I suppose, in that respect, it’s almost like meditation. If I start to concentrate too much, I just switch the channel. If there’s one thing that late night television is never short of, it’s mindless marketing.
Right now, my thoughts tend to breed discontent. Which is not to say that I’m unhappy. Or maybe it is, I’m not sure. I’d be lying if I said that seeing Pax, knowing that he is lying about who he is just to participate in my wedding, doesn’t do strange things to me. And by strange, I mean those thoughts that lead to discontent.
My life with Pax was not what I would have calledhealthy.But there was a passion that is hard to ignore when looking back. When you’re young, or at least when I was young, it was easy to confuse passion with love. Still, I know in those deep moments when I’m honest with myself, that Pax is the great love of my life. Regardless, it doesn’t make him right for me.
Which is just one of the many gems I’ve learned in therapy. Along with just because she’s my mother doesn’t make her a good one. All it takes to become a mom is compatible eggs and sperm, along with a nice place to hang out for forty weeks or so. Which, in no way qualifies a person to take responsibility for the molding and sculpting of another human being.
According to my therapist, my mother and I have the classic representation of a co-dependent relationship. As long as you understand that I’m the co-dependent one.
I hate thatdiagnosis,by the way. Hate the way it sounds, hate the way it makes me feel. My therapist says that much like most things we are trying to change, acceptance is the first step. So, here I am accepting that I am co-dependent on my mother.
All of which makes my mom sound like a horrible person, and she’s not. She’s just not a good mom. She was a great business manager and motivator in my career though. If she was careful with the money I made her, she’d never have to work again. I can’t say the same for myself. With “my” money, we were more reckless. Since Hunter doesn’t really want me acting, the clothing line is a much-needed lifeline. As is the autobiography. It’s near impossible to stay relevant when you aren’t thrusting yourself into the public eye.
Since social media has become more and more prevalent, and with the upsurge of citizen journalism, you have to be one of the lucky few who are in demand just because you exist, or you work your ass off to remain interesting. And the only way to do that is to put your life on display. Your very fractured and imperfect—as is everyone’s—life.
It makes me think of a very well-known actor. He was huge up until about five years ago. He’s still a box office success with everything he touches, but his personal life has gotten in the way. Mostly because of his wife, a B-list actress at best, who comes out with something near-headline worthy every couple of months to get her name back in the press. She’s addicted to porn, she’s a sex-addict, she was abused as a child, she hasn’t cried in twenty years. All of it is sad, but the near compulsion to reveal it so publicly, that’s what I can’t take anymore.
My talk show was so popular due to the stories I would share with my guests. In reality, I was a kid no matter how mature I may have acted. Because it was acting. As such, the shit that would come out of my mouth was usually honest and brutal. Whether about myself and my life or someone who I’d worked with before. It was pretty much no holds barred, all speculation and gossip to get the laughs.
So, it stands to reason that I no longer want to be on display. Hunter, however, craves it. He craves it like his next breath of air. The irony of who I picked to share my life with is not lost on me. Hence the big wedding, the media announcements, the photographic proof of the entire process, and he’s entertaining the idea of broadcasting the ceremony on the internet. Like we are royalty or reality TV stars.
Shit, I kind of am a reality TV star. Or at least I was.
I grab the remote to change the channel again. I need something a little more engaging if I’m ever to turn my brain off and fall asleep. I have sleeping pills that I use in an emergency, but I don’t like to rely on them all the time.
I find an old black-and-white movie with Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn, two of my all-time favorites, and settle back into the couch to watch it. Cary Grant plays a scientist who gets caught up in one of Hepburn’s many schemes. If I were to go back to acting, this is the type of movie I’d want to star in. Unfortunately, there isn’t a market for slapstick comedy that relies solely on dialogue any longer. Even with comedies now, special effects are key. Unless it’s raunchy. Which I don’t care to do. And it’s not like Seattle is the hub of the entertainment industry.
Sigh.
* * *
I wake with a start just as the sun starts to rise. I fold my blanket and place it back over the arm of the couch then make my way back to our bedroom. I’m not sure if Hunter realizes I sleep on the couch most nights. It’s nothing to do with him, I just can’t relax with the silence and I don’t want to disturb him.
I crawl into bed next to his prone form. It amazes me how he can fall asleep on his back and stay that way until he wakes the next morning. I will wake up thirty-seven times a night and in a different position each time. I curl on my side, tuck my pillow between my arms, with my cheek resting on the back of my left hand and somehow fall back asleep.
* * *
“Good morning, my queen.” Hunter sets a cup of coffee on my nightstand and wakes me with a kiss to the forehead. He’s dressed for his day already.
“What time is it?” I ask groggily.
“Just after eight,” he says. “I didn’t see anything pressing on your calendar and didn’t want to wake you.”
“Oh, thank you.” I smile, pleased with his thoughtfulness. I sit up and take a small sip of my coffee and sigh with happiness. Hunter makes perfect coffee.
