Page 26 of When We Were More
“Honey, you can do better than that. That was barely louder than your normal voice. I heard you screaming from all the way inside the house when you saw a snake by Grandpa’s shed, so I’m sure you’ve got it in you. Do it. It will feel good. Let me hear it!”
Jesus, this woman. I love her with all my heart, but when she wants something, she’s relentless in pursuing it. Still, I want to spend the evening with her, and she isn’t letting me off the hook.
I take a deep breath, stretch dramatically (earning one of her classic grins), and prepare myself.
Then I yell at the top of my lungs: “Fuck you, Joe!”
Damn, that does feel phenomenal.
I do it again.
And a third time. She makes me walk around the porch and yell it in all four directions.
Guess what? I feel better. Childish, but better.
I use the tips of my toes to gently push the porch swing as I reminisce about those times. I’m not an asshole—definitely not someone who usually revels in the fact that she’s divorced—but the shit that man put me through? The fact that I got away and that I’mokay? That’s worth celebrating.
My eyes burn a little thinking about it.
I never could’ve done it on my own. God knows what my life would be like now if it hadn’t happened the way it did.
When I came to Gram five years ago, my fourth anniversary of being married to Joe was only a few weeks away. Instead of excited or happy, I felt stuck. My husband was unfaithful, and I had almost no access to money because he had pressured me to whittle down my hours until I was only working a little here and there. I had been working full-time right after college, eager to begin my career as an accountant. He took that from me. Another thing that brought me joy, which he kept from me, and I let him. That’s the worst part; that I let him.
I love numbers. Some people hate math. Not me. I love to read, but I never liked my English or writing classes. But numbers? Numbers tell the truth. Numbers don’t hurt you. Well... unless it’s the number on a scale. Joe made me hate that number when we were married.
“Fuck you, Joe,” I whisper. “Fuck you.”
I swear I hear Gram’s voice saying,“Louder, baby girl. Yell it out.”I chuckle, knowing she would have said exactly that.Tonight is the fifth anniversary, and Gram and I had decided that it would be the last “Fuck you, Joe” celebration. After tonight, he gets no more energy from me. This one tonight isn’t even about him, either. It’s about saying goodbye to another thing that was mine and Gram’s.
I set my drink down on the small table next to the swing and climb down. I’m ready. My eyes burn with tears forming as I walk to the part of the wraparound porch that faces the woods on the northern border of the house. They aren’t tears for Joe or my marriage, they’re tears that Gram is gone.
I take a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.” I grab the railing, and at the top of my lungs, scream: “Fuck you, Joe!” Gram would be proud. I then walk to the area facing the back yard, east. “Fuck you, Joe!” I yell. It’s loud enough that I wonder if the neighbor a half mile away can hear me. When done there, I go and stand in front of the swing, and I repeat the same steps facing south—one more to go.
I turn to face the west, where the stairs are, and open my mouth to yell now that my adrenaline is pumped up a bit. “Fu—” I jump back, startled, when I see Henry standing there, holding a pizza.
“Hey there, tiger. You okay?” I can’t tell from his expression if he’s worried or trying to hold in laughter.
“Is that my pizza?” It’s the only thing I can think of to say.
“Yes, it is. I tipped the delivery driver heavily, too. I walked up to him, wide-eyed, as you faced the back of the house yelling, ‘Fuck you.’ Pretty sure he’s traumatized.” He chuckles before his face changes. “Seriously, though, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Why are you here, Henry?”
He peers down at the porch floor and kicks at the worn wood with the toe of his shoe, then looks up.
“I came to apologize for how I talked to you the other day. I tried to call first, but there was no answer. I promise you, I’m notusually such an asshole.” I narrow my eyes at him. Is he sincere or screwing with me? “I’m very sorry, and I’m hoping we can rewind and start over. All the way back to the start. Possibly even be friendly.”
I say nothing at first, but I stare at him for an awkwardly long time. Then I ask, “Do you want to stay for pizza?”
His eyes widen in surprise.
“Um… sure. If it’s okay, I will.”
“Put the pizza over on that cast-iron table for now. I have to do one more ‘fuck you,’ then we can go inside.”
He doesn’t even question me, but moves to do as I asked. My heart pounds. I’m unsure if it’s because I’m embarrassed he caught me screaming “fuck you” to the wind, or because as soon as I saw him standing there, my thoughts transport me back to the other day in the kitchen, especially when he called me tiger again. The incident had me amped up enough that I had to use my vibrator to relieve the tension for the first time in forever. He stirred up desires in me that had long been dormant. It was both exciting and terrifying.
Embarrassed or not, I need to finish. But when I open my mouth, I sense him next to me.
