Never Say Forever

I’d railed and yelled when he’d asked where I’d go. Told him I’d rather live under a bridge than stay one more minute in any place that was his. Dramatic, no? But what else is there to conceal a heart and a pair of eyes that were bleeding infinite sadness.

I’d probably have booked us into some cheap hotel, but even through my rage, through my haze of grief, I knew the solution was only temporary.

So I swallowed my high-handed ideals and put my daughter first.

But we’re not staying here. We can’t. Even if I don’t know where the hell to turn. Next week, I have four shifts in Marta’s brother’s bar. I’d forgotten all about it until he’d called. Sophia will come home with Lu and me to help out, and I’ve agreed to pay her Uber fare home with her cousin. The money will help, and it’ll give me something else to concentrate on in the evenings when Lulu is asleep.

It’ll stop me from fixating. Imagining. Seeing him. Seeing him with women. His hands and lips and smiles no longer for me. How many women were there? Did he enjoy it? Did they? Of course they did. How fucking could he? How could he taint himself like that? How could he think that he could keep it from me? How could I—

I force my mind in another direction. These are the things I contemplate in the darkness, a madness I can only allow to reign while Lulu sleeps.

I’m worth more than this, I remind myself.

I have an example to set.

I made a mistake in opening my heart to the wrong man.

It doesn’t define me.

It only crushes me.

“Mommy, this ’partment is so cold.”

“I know, sweets.” I turn to find Lulu at the doorway. Wild hair and pink pyjamas, fluffy socks that have wriggled their way down her ankles, making her look like she’s wearing long clown shoes. I snatch her up and carry her into the living room, covering her with a throw. Apparently, Ally has someone coming to look at the thermostat “soon”, whatever that means. “Want milk and cookies for breakfast?”

“It’s Saturday,” she says, her voice brimming with recrimination because she knows the cupboards are practically bare. I haven’t had the bandwidth for a full grocery shop and left our small pantry of staples with my kettle.

“We’ll go out for pancakes. And hot chocolate. How about that?”

“Can Uncle Car come with us?”

“He’s still away on business.”

“And his ’partment is still broken?”

“Yes, his apartment is still broken.” I’d told her there was a flood, and that’s the smallest of the lies I’ve fed her. But I’ll tell her the truth this weekend. Or some semblance of it. I guess I was just giving myself enough time for it to sink into my own head.

“You promise my bedroom will be okay?”

“Yes, I promise.” If okay means empty.

I’m pleased I’d saved the news that Rose will be here in less than a week, along with Remy and Rocco and the rest of their entourage. I’m not sure how I’ll handle it myself. I can’t see how I can tell Rose what happened between Carson and me, not without telling her I’d kept that night secret all these years. How could I tell her that the man she regards almost as highly as her husband has screwed women for money? Would she believe me? She’d certainly be as confused as me. As hurt. As disgusted. Maybe that makes me a hypocrite as someone who has always championed choice because not only do I not understand his choices but I also don’t get his motivation.

Why? With all the blessings the world has bestowed on him, why would he do this?

The only thing I can come up with is he did it for kicks. And maybe that’s why he couldn’t tell me.

I’ll think of what to tell Rose another day and just concentrate on how good their visit will be for Lulu. It’ll be something else for her to concentrate on when I break the news that Carson is no longer going to be a part of our lives.

That there will be no more Lulu-Carson dates.

That there will be no puppy.

No potential daddy.

She’ll learn that men are a disappointment earlier than most of us. That they do indeed “suck big hairy ones”. I blame myself for that.

33

Carson

I can’t bear to look at you.

It’s the last thing I hear before I drift off to a liquor-aided sleep and the first that whispers to me in the morning.

God, I miss her. I fucking miss them both.

And I’ve no idea what to do about it. What can I do? Send flowers? A bunch? A hundred? A field full? How many bouquets say, please forgive me. I can’t be without you?

What about diamonds? Fucking poetry. Do I prostrate myself at her feet?