The One

The sound of my mother’s sobs seep out from under the door of my master bath, and I breathe a sigh.

The ivory silk dress she was going to wear lays in a heap on the floor, next to the small sofa in my bedroom, the Merlot she dumped all over it reminding me of my birthmark.

“Mom,” I call out, leaning against the door to speak into the crack where it meets the wall. “Come back out. We’re going to be okay. We’re always okay. You’re always okay.”

My heart breaks as I hear her try to answer, but the sobs take over again.

Things have not exactly gone to plan.

She arrived at the house at 8:30 as scheduled. Glowing. Hopeful.

An hour later, here we are with a ruined wedding dress and screenshots of the social media pictures and subsequent text conversation with one Emily Wilmarth, who met Hamilton after he left the hotel this morning for coffee.

She managed to get his phone somehow while he stepped away. Found out about Mom, the wedding and everything, then proceeded to text my mother pictures of her and Hamilton. And we’re not just talking about a brief ‘last hurrah’ before he tied the knot. Oh no. This has all been going on over the last month.

And just to add the icing to the cake, there was a little video of him coming back to the table, leaning down and kissing her, and then Emily dropped the little bomb that his jig was up, and she’d looked through his phone.

From there, the shit storm ensued, and here we are.

“Shit,” I mumble, laying my hand flat on the door, wishing I could take this all too familiar pain away.

Sometimes we don’t get smarter with age and experience — just another example of why love is not worth the risk. I don’t know if I could ever fully trust a man. I’ve seen just about every possible example of how trusting someone kicks you in the teeth. And I happen to like my teeth.

As that thought crosses my mind, another crashes headlong into it. The entire time in his room and in the truck this morning with Van, I’d felt something so unfamiliar.

A longing.

A desire.

Not just sexual either. Although, I have to say that was part of it and it surprised the hell out of me.

But I thought about something more.

Something…that felt like home.

I hear a text notification on my phone and my stomach sinks, hoping it’s not Hamilton trying to pull me into this cesspool from his side. He actually tried to get my mother to believe it was all a misunderstanding, she was just a friend, blah blah. But the text strings she screen shotted, which happened to include some rather wonderful cunt and tit shots, seemed to indicate otherwise.

What an asshole.

I walk over and pull my phone from my purse, the screen showing Van’s number.

It’s him.

My stomach goes from sick to something else I can’t quite identify as I read.

Van: Baby, I’m so fucking sorry about my dad. I don’t even know what to say. How is your mom? Is she okay? Are you with her? I’m very worried, please let me know. I just got off the phone with my dad, the shithead, and told him exactly what I thought about the mess he’s once again created in other people’s lives. I can’t change what has happened, but I want you and your mother to know I care and I’m here. Please let me know how she is. How you are. I’ll be waiting.

Me: About as expected. Thank you for checking in. We will be okay. Take care.

My fingers tremble as I read the messages through again, then I hear the bathroom door click open and turn to see my mother’s red-rimmed eyes. I re-read the first part of the text. It’s the third time he’s called me baby. Anyone else, in the past, I mean men who would use a sweetheart, honey, baby or the like…well, they would quickly receive a verbal smack-down.

Instead, when I hear it from Van, I get this odd mixture of safety and wet panties. It makes me tingle inside. Every fiber of my being wants to message him back, to talk to him properly, but I decide I have to let it go. There are more important things to deal with at the moment.

I slip the phone into the back pocket of my jeans as Mom comes back out of the bathroom. She looks ten years older than she did this morning when she arrived, and I step over to her, immediately wrapping her in a hug which only releases another round of gut-wrenching crying.

I hear the text notification go off on my phone, but there’s nothing left to say, and even though there’s this pull to see if it is Van texting back and what he is thinking or doing, I leave it for now. I have to pay attention to my mom. She needs me.