Page 38 of Two Wrongs
Regardless, I can’t take to my bed—this bed. Hell, any bed. Blessed or cursed, with a liberal dose of stoicism, I’ve also a fair helping of common sense.Believe it or not.It’s obvious some sort of cleaning crew will hit this place sometime today, which means I need to not be here.
My shoes lie at opposite ends of the room, and I try to recall how that happened.Did he throw them? Did I kick them off?My dress lies in a forlorn puddle at the bottom of the bed, looking decidedly sadder than something cast aside in passion. I hop down and begin to gather my things, as naked and as ungainly as a newborn foal. I almost topple forward as I bend to grasp a shoe from the floor, and I’m still a little dizzy as I straighten in front of a large silver mirror, wishing quite suddenly I hadn’t.
My reflection... it’s a mess. The side of my neck is a spider web of angry bite marks, and as I turn, it only looks worse. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he did this on purpose, knowing I’d be making my way out of here in a backless dress. Immediately as this occurs to me, I’m dismissing the thought. Dylan was always more at home with his animal self, consumed by the moment without thought for anything else. And last night was... all I asked him for it to be. A pulse had pounded between my legs, blood rushing through my veins, and I was sure he could hear my heart beating in my throat. So sure, I’d moved my head to one side as he slid his way up my body, taunting him to bite. To make it hurt. These marks on my body? I’d asked for them. With my body. With my actions. With my words.
With my desperation.
We fucked. We didn’t make love. He doesn’t love you. Not anymore.
With my belongings clasped to my stomach, I glance down at my thighs. The pattern repeats in the bruise of his hips and in his angry red fingerprints. Marks that will no doubt deepen in colour before the end of the day. In the mirror, I finger the panda streaks under my eyes, distracted by the sense something isn’t right. Beyond what I’ve done and what I’m feeling, I mean. All at once, I become aware of the source of my disquiet. The gold chain I wear around my neck, the one that holds my wedding ring, is gone.
I’ve demeaned myself. Fucked up. And now I’ve... I’ve...
Lost it all.
‘I’m such a fuck-up!’ I yell to the empty room—to my reflection.
Beyond my distraught expression, something catches my attention on the console by the bed. A sheaf of white papers, folded and worn.
‘No.’
I know what this is, even as I’m trying to convince myself it’s something else.
‘No, no, no!’
In a few steps, I’m clutching the paperwork—my paperwork—to my chest, my clothing forgotten. Everything I asked for is there; Dylan’s signature next to every markedx. My legs slide out from under me. Seems I’m not done crying today.
Chapter Eighteen
Ivy
‘I’mno’ the hair expert, but are you sure you’re supposed to add that much bleach?’
‘What? Oh, fuck.’ I tip the bottle upright, staring into the purple tinting bowl and the waste of product I’ve just distractedly half-filled it with. It’s happening a lot lately; my zoning out, lost in the memories of LA. It’s almost as though I’d left a small piece of myself there. It’s been six weeks since I woke in that cottage. Six weeks since Dylan fucked me then left me without another word.
That morning, I’d cried myself dry before realising I had no one else to blame and no one to make it all better. I had to pull myself together and get out of there. I’d slipped on my creased dress and stepped out into the bright California sunshine without knowing where the hell I was.Or what I’d find. My shoes dangled from my fingers as I’d walked barefoot through the gardens, my free hand crushing my divorce papers and purse to my chest. The birds chirped, and the world carried on as normal, yet I’d felt no more substantial than mist. I was empty of everything; my focus has been depleted—as though being filled by Dylan as he’d fucked me had drained me of everything. I was empty. Spent. But how I’d felt and how I’d appeared were two different things, something confirmed as I’d found the cleaning crew. The way they looked at me? I knew I looked like ahoor—a whore, a hooker—for sure.
But kindness can be found in the most unusual of places. As I’d reached the pool, arranging my hair as best as I could to cover the bite marks I could feel on my neck, shoulders, and back, the crew’s chatter came to an abrupt halt. And there among the abandoned condom wrappers, empty glasses, and discarded bottles of lube, I’d found someone who was willing to tell me the exact address and call me a cab. I was treated with such concern and care; I think maybe they thought I’d been abused in some way.
If only they knew.
I’d arrived home—back at Dylan’s house, I mean—to find the place empty. I couldn’t even say goodbye to my dog because wherever Dylan had gone, he’d taken Nigel. I’m certain I’m allowed to hate him for that, if nothing else. Robbed of my dignity, I can take, but of my dog for a second time? No chance.
But if Nigel had been there, what could I have done, short of dog-napping him? Even to do that, I’d have had to borrow the freight money from Mac, and I’m sure he’d need all kinds of shots and maybe a pet passport? No, I wouldn’t have gotten away with it, but it would’ve been nice to have one more cuddle. One more walk.
At least the dog walker seemed to like him.She seemed to like Dylan, too.
‘Fuckers,’ I mumble.
‘Excuse me,’ says an indignant Nat. ‘Did you just say a swear—twice?’ My gaze swings to her. I’d forgotten she was there. I sigh in the face of herwhat the fuckface. ‘Ifyou’regonna start swearing regularly, we might as well sponsor one of them micro-economies, not just one kid.’
The salon currently sponsors a child on the proceeds of a swear jar, mostly filled by Nat. It’s a failed exercise to curtail her language but with a charitable upside. I’d thought it’d help her understand how bad her language is. Instead, it seems I’m joining her.
Unable to hold her questioning gaze, I turn and tip the contents of the bleach and tint soup into the bin. ‘Your ears work just fine.’
Shetsks, adding in a quiet voice, ‘What on earth happened to you in LA?’
I had a wake-up call. ‘Nothing.’ Other than I had an epiphany, one where I discovered I’m not as nice a person as I’d like to think.
