Chapter One

I miss him, but I don’t miss the pick, roll, and flick. 

Everything in moderation. 

Those were my husband’s words, not mine. 

“Don’t give me that look, Elle. It’s low-fat turkey bacon.” 

My absentminded gaze remained affixed to his plate—toaster waffles smothered in butter, drowned in syrup, topped with three blueberries (so he could say he had fruit), and four pieces of bacon on the side.

Orange juice from concentrate. 

Coffee with creamer and sugar. 

The stench of bacon hung in the air since he refused to turn on the exhaust fan over the stove when he cooked it. The noise made it hard for him to hear the news on the TV in the corner of the kitchen.  

“Elsie,” I murmured, blinking at his plate as I lifted my quart Mason jar filled with warm lemon water to my lips. 

“What?” he mumbled over a mouthful of fat, salt, and sugar. 

“My name is Elsie, not Elle.” 

“I’ve called you Elle for twenty-some years.” He concentrated on his phone next to his plate. 

Every inch of me melted into a paralyzed state. I’d succumbed to the depths of my fate, unable to peel my back from the stainless steel fridge door. After twenty-two years, three months, and six days of marriage … I couldn’t do it anymore. So there I stood—an idle statue deciding whether or not I had enough life to stand up. Really stand up. “I know, Craig. And I’ve gone from tolerating it to hating it.” 

He lifted his head along with one curious eyebrow while licking his grease covered chops and burping. 

Did he burp like that when we first met? 

Did I say “I do” to that drawn out belch? 

If he was that way when we met, I must have been wearing the rosiest colored glasses. 

He pounded his fist against his chest to … I had no clue. Work out a few more disgusting sounds like aftershocks of an earthquake? Then he picked his nose right in front of me. 

Pick. 

Roll. 

Flick.

“You hate when I call you Elle?” He dismissed me with a pfft and an eye roll. “Whatcha got on under that robe? The kids won’t be up for another hour or so. Feeling like some Saturday shaboink?” 

I hadn’t always been repulsed by him. The seventeen-year-old version of me chased him. Craig Smith—starting point guard for our Midwestern small-town high school—endured all the girls chasing him. He chose me, little Elsie Stapleton, to be his prom date two years in a row. 

Craig said it was my thick, light brown hair and ornery green eyes that caught his attention. I always knew it was my perky breasts on a tiny five-three cheerleader’s body. 

Narrowing my eyes, I drank the rest of my lemon water and set the jar on the counter—slowly, with a deep breath, and tension so tight I felt my last straw a blink away from snapping. “No shaboink. No bump and grind. No log ride.” 

“Did you start your period?” 

“NO!” I jumped at my own outburst, hands balled at my sides. 

Craig jerked his head back. 

Meadow, our five-year-old golden retriever, scurried into the kitchen, paws dancing in place like she did only when she was nervous. 

Winter howled in strong gusts, revealing all the tiny cracks and spaces in the house and in our marriage. I gazed out the window at yet another round of snow whirling in the wind. Our rural town of Epperly had already been pummeled with over three feet of snow in less than two weeks. 

Emotional meltdowns never came at the right moment. And just days before Christmas seemed like the worst time to let my mind spiral out of control, exploding with all the things I could no longer endure. 

Not one … more … day. 

“I deserve more,” I said with wavering control to my words, a dam ready to burst. 

“Here we go again. You deserve more. I work my ass off to provide for this family. I’ve worked my ass off for years so you could stay home with the kids. So you can have coffee every Friday morning with the other women in the neighborhood, who also don’t have to lift a goddamn finger beyond raising kids. Three of our kids are in college. Bella is a junior. What do you do all damn day? Walk with Amie? Sew shit?” 

“I do the books for your business! I grocery shop for your parents. I make them meals. I mow their lawn and shovel their snow. I pay our bills—”

“I pay our bills!”  He glared at me. “You don’t have a job. You don’t pay for anything.” 

That!

That betrayal—that complete lack of acknowledging my worth—drove a knife deeper into my heart than any affair ever could have done. An affair said, “My gaze wandered.” But that said, “I don’t see you at all.” 

“I just don’t get paid for my work!” I panted, my hands on my hips as my heart thundered with rage, agony, and grief. 

“Oh, so all these years, spending time with our kids, helping out family … that’s been a job? Wow … that will make the kids feel really wanted.” 

I shook my head. “That’s not fair. And that’s not what I meant.” 

He shoved his chair backward and stood. “Yes. That’s what you meant, and it’s such a double standard. Isn’t it? For years, when you needed to do stuff after I got home from a long day, and I acted the least bit tired when you asked me to watch the kids, you got so pissed off. And always delivered that stupid lecture every time I used the word babysitting. Parents don’t babysit … it’s called parenting. That’s what you said. So don’t give me this crap about raising our kids being your job.” 

“Job was your fucking word, not mine.” 

His eyebrows shot up his forehead. Swear words never fell from my lips. Not around him. Not around the kids. It was the first time he heard me drop the f-bomb. 

“I said work, not job.” I ignored his shock at my language. “A lot of things in life are work. Planning a vacation. Decorating the house for the holidays. Cooking meals. Exercising. Pretending that my husband referring to sex as ‘Saturday shaboink’ doesn’t utterly repulse me. It’s all so much work, Craig.” 

“Elle—”

“MY FUCKING NAME IS ELSIE!” 

His jaw unhinged like a stiff door. “Do … you need a minute?” 

My heart thudded against my chest, a racehorse coming into the final turn. It hurt so much I thought it would just stop beating—because I loved him. 

Because I had loved him for as long as I could remember. 

Because we'd made a life together—a beautiful life. 

But that life went to college. That life moved on to start new lives. And I didn’t like my new life. 

“I don’t need a minute. I need out.” Holding on was painful. Letting go—it ripped me to shreds. It felt selfish but necessary for my own self-preservation. 

His unkempt eyebrows knitted together. “A few hours away?” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling and blew out a slow breath. “Whatever, El-seee. I wish I could take the day off every time I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” 

I glanced around the house we’d have to sell, but before I let all the memories it held thwart my moment, I returned my gaze to him. “I want out of this marriage.” Tears instantly burned my eyes. I wanted out, but saying the actual words cut deeper than I imagined—like something died. Like we died. The shock on Craig’s face hurt more than I imagined too. 

“Be…” he shook his head as if it would unscramble the words I said, and they would not mean I wanted a divorce “…because we had a little fight? Because I call you Elle? Because I joked about sex?” 

The tears escaped down my face, but I made no effort to wipe them. “Because I’m miserable.” Why did finally valuing myself feel so … incredibly … selfish?

He coughed a sarcastic laugh. “Miserable? Our house is paid for. We have four amazing kids. I’ve invested so much money we could retire tomorrow. You have a brand-new car. I don’t cheat on you. We don’t fight about money. Every year we take a vacation. You have the life most women would kill to have. What in the hell could possibly be making you miserable?” 

He was right on all accounts.

“Money doesn’t buy happiness.” 

“So it’s me?” 

I nodded.

 “Well, what do you want me to do?” 

“Nothing.”

“Jesus! You want to end our marriage because of me, so there must be something I can do. I don’t get one chance to make things right?” 

“It’s not …” My head eased side to side. “It’s not that simple.” 

Because I’ve fallen out of love with you. You will always own a piece of my heart, but you are not the reason it beats. 

“You’re not perfect either.” 

My focus shifted to my feet, the purple polish chipping off my toenails. “Believe me … I know.” 

When we were younger, before we got married, we’d break up and get back together. This happened several times before I got pregnant with the twins. Breaking up was okay then. Not feeling the same way about someone was okay. A simple “I can’t explain it. I just don’t feel the same,” was enough. There were usually hard feelings for a while, but it wasn’t the end of the world. Giving up after four kids and twenty-two years of marriage felt like the end of the world. 

Why was I okay with letting the world end?

“What? Just tell me what I did to make you feel this way.” 

“It’s not …” I blew out a slow breath and forced my tear-blurred gaze to meet his again. “It’s not one thing, Craig. Like it wasn’t one thing that made me fall in love with you. It’s a whole bunch of little things.” 

“Like what? Elle and Shaboink?” 

“Yes.” I glanced out the window, grieving with more tears. It all made sense in my head. Everything put together made sense. It was enough. I just didn’t want to tell him everything because I knew it would be heartless and self-centered. It would sound petty. And saying it was unnecessary because it wouldn’t have changed anything. 

“And?” he prodded. 

“Let’s not do this.” 

“No.” His tone held a sharp edge. “If it’s over, then we’re sure as hell going to do this.” 

I shook my head and batted away the tears. “No,” I whispered. 

“Fine.” He stepped closer to me. “I’ll go first.” 

“Craig …” I continued to shake my head. I didn’t want to do it. 

“You’re a fucking nag all the damn time. Always nagging me about leaving the cap off the toothpaste. I don’t make the bed right or load the dishwasher right. You’ve been riding my ass about fixing the shower drain, but the reason it doesn’t drain right is because of all your hair clogging it. When I don’t use perfect English, you just can’t help yourself. You always have to correct me like anyone else gives a shit if I say ‘ain’t’ or ‘gonna.’ And why the hell should I make some grand effort to woo you when half the time you shoot me down? Are a dozen roses really going to get you to spread your legs for me? Shouldn’t you do it because you’re my wife and I work my ass off to be a good provider?” 

“No! I don’t spread my legs for roses or a paycheck. I’m not a whore, Craig.” I fisted my hands and gritted my anger through clenched teeth. “If you want me to spread my legs, maybe you shouldn’t pick your nose, roll it up, and flick boogers all over the house! Maybe you shouldn’t overeat like a garbage disposal and burp in my face two seconds before kissing me! Maybe you shouldn’t wink at every woman you see and play it off as you being friendly and me being a snob!” 

“You are a snob!” He pointed a stiff finger at me. “A food snob. A book snob. A cleaning product snob. If someone smokes, you look down on them. If someone drinks more than two drinks, you look down on them. Gordon uses chemicals on his lawn, but you just know his kids and dog are going to die from cancer, yet they haven’t. We’re the last to arrive at parties and the first to leave. Snob … snob … such a nose in the air snob.” 

I opened my mouth to spew a second round of insults. Then I closed it, cupping my hand over my mouth, and pinching my eyes shut as I silently sobbed. 

Twenty-two years. 

Four kids. 

Memories I would cherish forever. 

Why did it have to end like that? Slinging insults. 

Because it’s real … and truly heartbreaking. 

“W-what’s going on?” 

I choked on my emotions, swallowing them back down my throat as my eyes flew open, landing on our daughter, Bella. 

Craig grabbed his truck keys from the counter and brushed past our daughter in her long, red nightshirt, black hair like his—but long and ratted like mine in the morning—eyes like a raccoon’s from not removing her makeup before bed. “Ask your mom. She’s the one who’s trying to break up our family.” 

Two seconds later, the door slammed behind him, and a confused Bella redirected her attention to me—eyes unblinking with confusion as Meadow sat at her feet. “Mom?”