Page 6 of Perfect
I fuckinglovebeing Alexandria Shearer.
3
ALEX
FOUR MONTHS EARLIER
My phone pings as I park in the driveway, but I ignore it as I grab my gym bag and water bottle and head straight for the kitchen. Going to Pilates was a mistake. The bruises on my arms are finally gone, but I almost passed out doing oblique crunches.
My ribs still aren’t healed, apparently.
I drop my stuff in the kitchen and grab a half-empty bottle of vodka from the freezer, eyeballing what will make me feel less anxious and in pain as I pour it into a glass. I’d prefer wine, but vodka will make the discomfort go away quicker.
I lean against the counter stiffly and pull my phone from my leggings, sipping my drink quickly as I open my texts to find a text from my Pilates instructor with a link to an Instagram video.
Gabi, 1:39 PM:
So great to see you today! Feel better!
BTW I’m volunteering with this great non-profit and just did a video for them - can you watch it so I can get more views?
Alice, 1:46 PM:
missed you too! can do :) see you next week, hopefully!
I open the video she sent, letting it play in the background as I pour another drink. It’s an affirmation video, and I let Gabrielle’s calm, cheerful voice wash over me as I sip my vodka, cringing a little at the stupidity of the affirmations. I finally look down at the screen as the video plays to see Gabrielle dressed in purple, moving through heart-opening yoga poses in a room decorated in shades of cream and purple. I look at the name of the account, @purpleribbonyoga, and click on the page.
It’s a non-profit for domestic violence.
I tense up immediately, thinking back to anything I’ve ever said or done that could get back to Danny. I know Gabrielle does stuff for charities all the time, so I’m sure that’s all this is. I aimlessly scroll through the videos on the page, drinking quickly to combat the cold dread creeping up my spine as I listen to what’s being said on the videos. I pause on an aesthetically pleasing infographic about the cycle of abuse and stare at it for a second.
The glass in my hand starts to shake as I read it.
It’s my life, reduced to a fucking chart.
I put my phone down and drain my drink before emptying the rest of the bottle into my glass.
It’s not like I don’t know what my marriage is, what mylifeis. It’s not like no one has ever tried to help before, I just didn’t want to hear them.
I don’t know what’s different now, but I hear every message from every video and post. They hit like bullets, lodging themselves in my drunk brain and breaking apart the carefully constructed compartments I sort my life into.
I stare at the empty vodka bottle, trying to remember how full it was half an hour ago. My brain is fuzzier than it should be, but instead of feeling numb, I’m feeling all the emotions I keep locked away. I head to the fridge and grab a bottle of wine, seething.
Things have been good for over a month, but Danny’s been spending more time at home lately. This morning, he snapped at me over a shirt not being properly folded, even though itwas, and I know without a doubt that he’ll be looking for reasons to make me apologize soon, and then he’ll freak out aboutsomethingand fly off the handle.
It used to take so much longer before he’d freak out again.
I keep scrolling, unable to stop myself, and before I realize it, I’ve spent all afternoon scrolling through Instagram, jumping between hashtags and accounts and posts, crying on and off, drinking through the whole bottle of wine.
I’m so tired of my life.
I hear the garage door open, and I scream, dropping my phone. My eyes fly to the clock on the wall.Fuck, fuck, fuck,I lost track of time. Panic slices through me and I grab my phone, quickly deleting the texts from Gabrielle and my Instagram search history before running around the kitchen and frantically putting together dinner.
Maybe he won’t be mad.
He slams the garage door, his heavy footsteps heading for the kitchen, and I work hard to keep my cool and act sober. I look up from the salad I’m preparing and force a smile that feels too tight, but I take one look at his face, and I know I’m fucked.
He’s already mad.
