Off the Menu

I pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger, eyes closed as I listened to my husband once again accuse me of cheating. I had never cheated on anyone, not even once. Nor had I ever given him a reason to think that I would. Yet here we were. My grandma would say it was a sign of his own guilty conscience. It’s what she’d always tell my mom when my stepdad accused of her cheating. “So who are you going with?” Alan demanded again. He refused to believe I was going to a comedy show with my mom. In my thirty-two years alive, she and I had never had an opportunity to do anything like this together. I had went to plenty of concerts and shows with my dad over the years, but never her, so I was excited to finally share this experience with her. I wasn’t going to let Alan ruin it. “It’s just going to be my mom and me.” The exasperation was clear in my voice. I wasn’t sure if he was mad he wasn’t invited or if it was just simply an excuse to start an argument. I was tired of it though. He continued to prattle on, making baseless accusations that I had already quit listening to. Two years ago I would’ve been crying, arguing back, begging him to believe me. Willing to do anything it took for him to stop being mad. Something about being put on anti-depressants because of a man changes something in you though. I’d had enough. Before we got married, he’d been a loving and doting boyfriend. He would spoil me, even if I told him not to. I would try to pay for my own things, and he would hand over cash before I had my debit card in the machine. Then we got married, and it was like a switch flipped. He started accusing me of seeking attention from other people if I dressed up nicely or put on makeup. He started accusing me of talking to guys anywhere that I went without him. He started complaining about buying household necessities because sending money to his freeloading siblings in the Philippines was more important than us having toilet paper. He made it a point to cause us to be late to appointments and events that were important to me, and would criticize how I looked. I was beaten down emotionally and had become numb. I gave up on the marriage. I stopped crying. When we’d argue and he said he wanted to go back home, I wouldn’t ask “What about us?” Instead, I’d tell him to go. I had even looked up flights to Manila and offered to take him to the airport a couple of weeks ago. He hated that. I dragged my hand down my face before slapping it against the arm of the couch. “I want a divorce,” I sighed, finally opening my eyes to look at him. I kept my voice low, trying to keep my emotions at bay. Even though I had fallen out of love with him a long time ago, it hurt to think I had failed as a wife. Something that was supposed to last forever barely made it two and a half years. I was drained. I couldn’t keep going through this fight anymore. Alan was stunned speechless for a moment, his mouth working as he tried to figure out a response. “Then go,” he finally said. “Pack your s**t and get out. You’re not taking a car though, so good luck.” “I can and I will,” I told him defiantly. “I made the down payment on the Nissan, and a judge wouldn’t care that it’s in your name. We’re married so I’m entitled to half of everything obtained during the marriage.” I wasn’t actually sure how true that was, but he wasn’t smart enough to tell me I was wrong. I didn’t give him the chance to either. I got up and went to the spare room that had become my sanctuary to start packing my things. I had moved all of my stuff into it three months after we’d married. It wasn’t being used as anything except a storage unit for his sister’s things. I convinced him to get a real storage unit for her, painted the walls pink, and started decorating. Between his massive movie collection and the entirety of both of his deceased parents’ wardrobes crowding the closet, not to mention his own stuff, there was no room for me in our bedroom. So I made the spare room mine. Alan finally worked up the nerve to follow me, standing in the doorway as I pulled my suitcase down from the top of the closet. “You have a boyfriend, don’t you?” I didn’t bother to look at him as I returned to the closet to grab an armful of dresses. Even though I wanted out, and had wanted out for a while, I couldn’t shake the tension of the moment. My hands trembled as I pulled hangers free of fabric so I could fold my clothes and place them in the suitcase. “No, I don’t. I’ve never actually given you a reason to think I did either. Unlike you though. You’re the one stashing random hair ties in the car and hiding condoms in your bedroom.” “Do you think I have one?” “I don’t know,” I finally looked at him. Holding a dress against my chest. “Do you have a boyfriend?” I watched the fury and anger wash over him. If looks could kill, I would’ve been dead right there. Despite the satisfaction I felt in asking, a part of me thought he might actually hit me this time. I wondered if maybe my grandma was right. Maybe I could be too mouthy sometimes. Surprisingly though, he turned around and walked away. I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until he slammed his door shut. The sound jarred me. I flinched. Then I relaxed, breathing out while my shoulders eased themselves down from my ears. I took another deep breath while my heartbeat slowed. My grandma. I would need to call her and tell her what happened. I needed to call my best friend, Willow, too. Both conversations went the way I expected them to. My grandma told me to call her again when I was headed her way, and to be safe. Willow lived in a neighborhood a few streets over and insisted on coming to help me. A few minutes after we’d hung up, I saw her headlights in the window as she pulled in next to the Nissan. She let herself in and joined me in my room. She didn’t ask what I needed her to do, she just started grabbing bags and stuffing them. Thankfully I had a weakness for cute, reusable shopping bags. “Are you okay?” she finally asked, her voice quiet. “Yeah,” I nodded. We both froze at the sound of Alan’s door opening. He walked past, but didn’t stop to say anything. Most likely just being nosy and wanting to know who was here. “It’s been a year and a half in the making,” I whispered. “It’s like a weight is finally lifting off my chest.” There was a deep frown settled over Willow’s slim features, concern set in her dark eyes. “I’ll start carrying everything out,” she whispered, grabbing the packed suitcase and a duffel bag. I nodded, handing her my key so she could start filling the car. I intended to take as much as I could fit, and hoped I’d be able to come back for the rest. “He’s just sitting in there on the couch,” she whispered when she came back. I shrugged, carefully placing my perfume bottles in a backpack. “Just ignore him. Don’t even look at him.” I finished filling the bag and we grabbed more, taking them out to the car. We made a few more trips in and out of the house until the Nissan was packed to the point that the only empty space was the driver’s seat. “I’m going to go lock the door to my bedroom. I don’t trust him with what’s left in there.” “Do you want me to go back in with you?” she asked. I shook me head. “I’ll be fine. In and out. Wait for me?” She nodded and I took a deep breath, preparing myself to reenter the metaphorical lion’s den. I didn’t say anything as I headed to the bedroom. I shut and locked the door, mentally rehearsing what I needed to say before I had to face Alan again. I took another deep breath upon entering the living room and launched right into it. “I work all weekend. I’m off Monday though, I’ll come back then to get the rest of my stuff. I’ll bring a cop with me if I need to.” “You don’t have to do that,” Alan told me, a sadness in his voice that didn’t exist earlier. It was too late for remorse though. “You’re actually going to let me get the rest of my stuff?” I tried not to sound shocked, but it was hard. “Yeah.” He stood, and before I could process what was happening, his arms were around me. I froze, my whole body tensing as a grimace twisted my features. I’d grown to hate his touch a while ago, and now I could actually show it. My arms hung dead at my sides, my jaw clenched. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “It’s too late.” This time I was successful in keeping the emotion out of my voice. He finally let go of me and stepped back. There were tears running down his cheeks. Fake ones, I was sure. “So just like that? It’s over?” “Yeah.” I didn’t wait to hear him beg. I went back outside. He wouldn’t make a scene in front of Willow. Not where neighbors could see. Not where there could be witnesses. I ran my hands through my hair, sucking in a deep breath as I went. “Are you okay?” Willow asked when I reached the car. I nodded, “It was awkward, but not the worst. He was crying and he forced me into a hug. But he’s going to let me get the rest of my stuff with no problem.” “He was trying to manipulate you into staying,” she pointed out. I nodded again. “I know. It won’t work though. Not this time. I’ve waited too long for this.” I reached up to wipe at my eyes. I wasn’t crying because it was over. I was crying because I could finally leave. Willow pulled me into a tight embrace, and this one I did return. I closed my eyes. Another deep breath. The scent of her rosemary and mint shampoo grounded me. We didn’t hug often, but when we did, it was meaningful. She pulled back slightly, hands lingering on my shoulders. “Call me when you get to your grandma’s.” I nodded, “I will. Thank you.” “I love you, Nica.” She gave my shoulders a gentle squeeze before stepping away completely. “I love you too.” I got in the Nissan and started the engine, but I waited until she was in hers before I backed out. ~*~ I spent the weekend working, even managing to pick up an extra shift so that I didn’t have to be at home dreading Monday’s approach. When my day off finally did roll around, I woke up to a text message from Alan: When do you plan to come get your stuff? I groaned as I rolled onto my back, stretching my legs and yawning before typing a response: Don’t know, just woke up. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way. I spent breakfast trying to convince myself that I didn’t need any of the stuff that I had left behind, that it could all be replaced. Unfortunately, I knew I’d hate myself if I didn’t retrieve my great grandma’s tea set or my record player and vinyl collection. So after I had ate, I reserved a storage unit online and got dressed. Then I made the dreaded return to the house I had failed to make a home. Alan was quiet while I loaded up the car. An unexpected but welcome surprise. He didn’t say anything on any of my return trips either as I slowly moved my things into storage. If it wasn’t a “necessity” it wasn’t going back to my grandma’s. My room there was barely big enough for my dresser and a bed. The relief of not having to listen to him or explain why I didn’t want to be with him anymore dissipated when I was about to leave for the last time though. I groaned internally, hearing my full name, “Monica?” Alan stood on the porch, I stopped, propping my forearms on the top of the car door. The only response he was getting out of me was an arched eyebrow. “When are you bringing back the car?” he asked, walking closer. I clenched my teeth. I should’ve expected this. Of course he wasn’t going to just let me keep it. Not without a fight. “I don’t know,” my voice was lower than normal, I didn’t even recognize myself. But I was trying, once again, to keep any sign of emotion out of it. “I guess I’ll save up some money and bring it back when I get my own.” Unless a judge says I can keep it. “Okay.” He paused and I took advantage of the moment to get into the car. Before I could shut the door though, he asked, “Can I have a hug before you go?” “I’m sorry, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I told him, shaking my head. I closed the door before he could say anything else and started the engine. I could still see him in the rearview mirror as I drove down to the stop sign. He just stood there in the yard, watching. I made the turn on to the main road and took the first true breath of relief I’d had since the argument, fully intending to leave him in the past.