The Other Side of Someday Page 2

  Can this day get any worse? I groan and unbuckle my belt. I smack my steering wheel a couple times before apologizing to it.

  My spare is in the trunk. I peel off my suit jacket and toss it into the passenger seat before timing traffic to get out without having my door hit. I get the lift set before it starts raining. There’s the answer to my ‘can it get worse’ question. Great.

  I stop to check my phone, hoping Mike has called, texted, or something, and grumble to myself when I see he hasn’t. The rain has done nothing to kill the heat of the day. It’s as if I’m in an outdoor shower in my clothes. The wayward hairs, which frame my face, have escaped the rubber band and now are plastered to my cheeks.

  I want to cry. I want the rain to disguise my tears. Some stubborn piece of me refuses to allow myself that relief. Every car that passes I both hope and worry that they’ll stop. No one does stop though. My wet hands on the crow bar make removing the lug nuts holding the rim of my now destroyed tire a nightmare. My hands slip more often than not.

  Squatting there in the rain, a wet mess, I realize it’s not so bad. This is the worst of it. My spare tire is now on. I can get a new tire, and I can get a new job. The new job part might be difficult without a reference, but I can do it. I get back in my car and shake some of the rain from my hair like a dog. I search for the closest mechanic on my phone and find one at the next exit. I slowly make my way to it, hazards on.

  It’s a small garage called Pete’s. I clamor back into the rain to the front office.

  Seeing no one there, I tentatively call out, “Hello?”

  “Be right with you.” A voice returns from a back room.

  The air conditioning has me shivering in my wet clothes. I cross my arms and rub my hands up and down them attempting to warm up. A moment later, an older man with a backward baseball cap walks out.

  “Got caught in the rain,” he remarks sympathetically.

  I nod. “I blew my tire and had to put the spare on.”

  “You don’t have roadside assistance?” He sounds surprised.

  My shoulders sag and I groan. “I didn’t even think to call them.” I glance back up at him. “It’s been a rough morning.”

  He pats my shoulder. “I can get you all fixed up from here. Want me to check your other tires while I’m at it?”

  I shake my head. “Honestly, I want to get home, crawl into bed, and pull my covers over my head.”

  “That bad?” he asks.

  I nod and give him a small smile. I pass him my keys and he directs me to the ladies room telling me to use as much of the paper towels as I want to dry off. The ladies room bulb blinks in refusal before fully illuminating the small bathroom. A roll of paper towels sits on a small table between the sink and toilet.

  I wring my shirt and hair before even trying to dry them further. The soles of my wedge dress shoes are soaked. I make a squish sound with every step I take. By the time, I’m back in the front office the rain has stopped. Stupid summer downpours. I try Mike again. At this point, I don’t know whether to be angry or worried.

  The older man, who I assume is Pete, has my new tire on in no time. I thank him profusely as he rings me up, passing him my debit card. He runs it through the machine twice before cringing and looking up at me.

  He rubs his chin, passing my card back to me. “It was declined.”

  My jaw drops, my lower lip shaking. “That can’t be right.”

  He hesitates. “Do you have another card?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t.”

  I don’t want to cry. “Let me try to call,” my voice trails off as I try Mike again.

  To avoid his kind eyes, I turn my face attempting to hold myself together. When it goes to voicemail, I fall into an uncomfortable plastic chair and hold my head in my hands. Fired, flat tire, rainstorm, and now my debit card is being declined. I don’t know what to do. I start to call my mom, but stop myself when I see my battery is almost dead.

  “Can I use your phone to call my bank?” I quietly ask.

  He walks over to me, my bill in his hands. Standing right next to me, he tears it in half.

  “I can pay. I just need to…” I say.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  He helps me up, patting me on the back as he walks me to my car. After opening my door for me, he tells me to go home and get some rest. That everything will seem better tomorrow. Once I’m far enough away that he can’t see me, I pull over so I can cry. His kindness and his generosity on this being maybe the second worst day of my life gives me hope.

  Tomorrow I will call Mr. Fulson and ask them to provide proof. I will call a lawyer and find out if I can get my job back because I have been wrongfully terminated. I dry my tears and get back on the road.

  I’ll be home early enough to make something nice for dinner. Moreover, I have to call the bank to find out why my card wouldn’t work. Even if I have to stop by my branch and pull out cash, I am going to pay that nice man back.

  When I pull into our complex, I see a car in my spot and Mike’s car still in his spot. I park in a visitor spot further down and slowly walk up to the stairs to our condo. Having a car in my spot has happened before. This car seems familiar somehow. When I’m passing the car, it comes to me. It’s Stacy Callahan’s car. Her father is Mike’s boss.

  Stacy is a sweetheart; we’ve all hung out before. I hurry up the stairs and into the condo. Our front door opens right into the living room and I’m surprised I don’t find them in there or in the kitchen that feeds off it. I start to wonder if they’re even here when I hear it, a moan, Mike’s actually. The sound he always makes right before he comes.

  I stand outside the doorway of my bedroom, frozen. I know what they’re doing, and I now know why every call and text I have sent my fiancé today has been ignored. I deliberate whether to confront them or not. Do I want to see the man I have spent the last eight years of my life with, the man who asked me to marry him, making love to another woman?

  I decide another eight years may need to pass before I want to see his face again or hear his excuses. I grab a sheet of paper and write a quick note. “You sounded busy.” I sign it and leave my engagement ring with it on the kitchen counter. I can figure out how or when or if I want anything from this condo another time.

  That earlier summer shower has nothing on the tears I cry on the drive to my mom’s house. The foundations of my ability to trust are cracked and crumbling. Eight years of my life, for what? While I don’t have eyewitness proof Mike was with Stacy, the fact her car was there, and in my spot, is too much of a coincidence to ignore. We haven’t been close friends or anything; but the fact I’m not a stranger to her and she’s been in my house as my guest is painful.

  The brunt of my anger is focused on Mike; however, a healthy helping of heartache tones it down. For Stacy, I have no reason to agonize if I’m not enough for her. Mike is who is supposed to be committed to me, not her.

  My mother’s more heartbroken over what Mike has done than I am. After telling her I will leave and never speak to her again, she stops asking if I think we could work it out. I have spent two days in bed. I have cried, I have punched the pillows on my bed, I even have screamed aloud a couple times.

  Mike has called my phone nonstop until my battery has died. I just lie here watching the incoming call notifications. I don’t want to talk to him. I’m terrified I’ll slip and take him back or tell him I still love him. I haven’t eaten much. My stomach feels weirdly nauseated. I drink water though because I need to be hydrated to keep crying.

  After three days, I arise. My muscles are screaming at the lack of use. I have thought about double-checking a bible to see what God made the third day. I haven’t asked my mother though; she would not appreciate my weird sense of humor.

  So not knowing what God did the third day, I still have a plan for mine. I need to call Mr. Fulson. At this point, I don’t even want my job back, but I want my reputation cleansed and for them to figure out who was actually st
ealing from them. I need to figure out what was going on with my checking account, our checking account. I cringe to myself thinking about it.

  At least the condo is only in Mike’s name. The down payment had been a gift to him from his parents. Nothing there is mine except some clothes and tarnished memories. The checking account is the only thing still linking us, that and our cell phone plan; but it’s in his name too. That is something else I need to do, remove my address book from my cell phone and give it back to him.

  I don’t need a cell phone; and not having one will make the whole not using it in the car goal that much easier. I call the bank first and am informed the happy news that our joint-account had a fraud alert on it. There had been a large debit, originating from overseas; so rather than pay it, they froze our account until they could verify it with one of us.

  That explains why my card wouldn’t work at the tire place. I have her remove my name from the account and open a new one in only my name. I have a small individual savings account. With the help of the girl on the phone, I link my new account to my savings account.

  I have her pull some money from savings so I will have some funds readily available. It isn’t much but it’s all mine. She seems surprised I don’t want to pull anything from the old joint account. Right now, I want nothing that touched anything of his.

  My mother has spoken to a friend who is an attorney about the circumstances of my dismissal. He seems to think I have grounds for a wrongful termination suit. While I’m angry I lost my job, I’m also grateful my needing to leave that day has exposed Mike’s unfaithfulness to me. My annoyance at my former employer is small potatoes in comparison to how I feel about Mike’s infidelity.

  Still, my mother has talked me into letting her friend send a letter on my behalf to them, instead of calling Mr. Fulson myself. Her friend is doing it at no charge, and I’m getting the impression he may have a thing for my mom. I tell him to go ahead with it, curious as to how they will respond. Jen, my college roommate lives twenty minutes from my mom’s house. I have told her about my phone and she has offered to come over at lunch to show me how to transfer the address book. Now, on the third day post my worst day ever, I already have completed my to-do list; and it’s not even lunch yet.

  I’m about to shower when I realize I have nothing clean to change into. When I got to my mom’s house Thursday afternoon, she loaned me some sweats to sleep in. I wore those all day yesterday. I could borrow some more clothes from her; but that would also mean borrowing a bra and underwear. For some reason, this grosses me out. I look like shit, like actual shit, but decide to head to Wal-Mart because, for some reason, even on my worst day at Wal-Mart, someone always looks even worse.

  I don’t have a ton of time or money to shop. I grab two five packs of cotton bikini briefs, four inexpensive bras, and a multi pack of socks. My mom and I are about the same size; so until I decide for sure if I even want my clothes back, I can borrow stuff from her. Everything that I own has been touched by him in some way. We lived together. He has tainted everything.

  I’m showered and changed before Jen comes over. She is smart enough to bring her charger since we have the same kind of phone.

  “You look awful,” she blurts the moment I open the door.

  I nod. “I feel awful.”

  “I’m sorry,” she amends, “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  I wave my hand; maybe I look extra awful because she looks so amazing in comparison. She’s a knockout in general, all tall with flowing long black hair and pale blue eyes. “Whether you said it or not, it doesn’t change the fact it’s true, so get your butt in here and help me figure out my phone.”

  “This will be the blind leading the blind. I should have brought my niece. She knows how to work my phone better than I do.”

  I snort. “It’s because you’re old.”

  Her eyes widen. “Who are you calling old?”

  I point at her, covering my mouth to muffle my laughs with my other hand.

  “I’m only four months older than you,” she grumbles, moving past me.

  I follow her to my mother’s office. Jen has known me long enough to know the layout of my parents’ house. Before my dad passed away, she even lived here with me one summer. She also doesn’t have to stand on ceremony waiting for me to offer her food.

  “I’m starved. What’s for lunch?”

  “I thought you were picking something up for both of us on the way over?” I ask.

  She pouts. “Please tell me you’re toying with my emotions right now.”

  “I am,” I console. “I’ll be right back with food.”

  I don’t make anything special, some BLT’s with chips on the side, but I know they are her favorite. Her eyes light up when she sees them. She already has my phone plugged into the computer.

  “Don’t get overly excited, but I think the computer and the phone do it automatically,” she confesses, picking up her sandwich.

  “You’re joking.” I peer over her shoulder at the screen.

  She attempts to speak around the bite in her mouth but gives up and finishes chewing. “I was as surprised as you are. When I plugged it in, a screen popped up asking if I wanted to back up data. I hit okay and it’s been doing its thing ever since.”

  “That’s so cool,” I smile.

  “You didn’t even need me,” she adds.

  I shake my head. “I will always need you. Besides, I don’t have my charger cord so I wouldn’t have been able to plug it into the computer without you.”

  Her face relaxes as she goes back to being content at being needed.

  Once she’s done eating, she asks how I’m doing. I knew it would come up. To a certain extent, it already had when I called her to let her know I would be staying with my mom for a while. On the phone, I could tell her I was fine; and as long as my voice didn’t shake while I said it, she would have no other choice but to believe me.

  In person, I couldn’t lie to her. “I need to go to the doctor. I’m on the pill, so I know I’m not pregnant, but we haven’t used condoms in years, Jen, years. What if that girl isn’t the first girl? What if I have a disease?”

  She reaches over to rub my arm. “Have you talked to him?”

  I shake my head. “I’ve ignored his calls and texts; and thankfully, he hasn’t come here.”

  “You can always come stay with me, if you want.”

  I rub my forehead. “Nah, besides I’d be crashing on your couch if I did. I’m okay here. My mom has been really cool about it. I think she’s more upset about me leaving Mike than I am.”

  She looks into my eyes, seeing right past my attempt at a joke. “We both know you don’t mean that.”

  My eyes well and I rub my lips between my teeth to keep the sob that threatens from escaping. The quiet sympathy in her eyes is what leads me to fail miserably at not crying in front of her. Nodding, I ignore the torrent of tears streaming down my face. She pulls me to her shoulder and I bury my face in it. I loved him; I loved him so much. Cheating on him didn’t even seem fathomable; and the idea he didn’t feel the same way about me has shaken my belief system to the core.

  If I couldn’t even trust the person that I loved, the person that wanted to marry me, how can I ever trust again? Jen rubs my back, promising me that everything is going to be all right, that I’ll be okay. Problem is I don’t believe her. Sure, I know I will get another job. I won’t live with my mother forever. I don’t see falling in love as an option of something I ever want to do again.

  I pull back from her to grab a tissue from the desk before my nose runs all over her pretty shirt.

  “Your shirt is really pretty,” I mumble around my Kleenex.

  She laughs at me. “It’s old, babe. I think I’ve had it since college.”

  “Don’t they say stuff always comes back in style?”

  She lets my question and subject change stand and I’m grateful for it. “You might be waiting a while for that to come back in style.” She motions towar
d my mother’s kitten t-shirt.

  I snort. “Cats are cool. Besides, maybe I’m being ironic, which is trendy, right?”

  “Nice try,” she giggles. “There is no way you’re talking that shirt into being cool. Speaking of, if you are hell bent on not getting any of your clothes back, we need to go shopping.”

  “I went to Wal-Mart today and got some stuff. In addition, I need to save money.”

  “It’ll be my treat.” She holds her hand up when she sees me start to argue. “Consider it my birthday and Christmas presents for the next couple years if you need to.”

  “I don’t feel comfortable letting you do that,” I admit.

  Her eyebrows furrow. “You aren’t letting me do it. I offered. Besides I need some new stuff and I hate shopping by myself.”

  “Nowhere expensive,” I plead.

  “We can go to Marshalls or Ross,” she agrees, and then adds, “as long as you change your shirt before we leave.”

  I smirk at her and grab our plates. She starts to take them from me and tells me she’ll take care of them while I go change. I set them down and hug her before giving them to her. No matter how shitty everything else is right now, I’m lucky to have a place to stay and a friend to cheer me up.

  I raid my mom’s closet for another shirt, settling on a blue one. Since there is no writing or animals on it, I figure it’s safe. Jen nods in approval when she sees me.

  Walking out to her car, I feel deja vu. She’s had the same Honda since college. “God, it’s been forever since I’ve ridden in your car.”

  She smoothes her hand over the steering wheel with a smile. “It crossed over one hundred thousand miles last month.”

  Jen isn’t much of a spender. She is an editor for a regional magazine and takes pride in repurposing old things. Her place somehow avoids looking cluttered even though she has a hard time throwing things away. Jen has the ability to see the value in things in a way no one else I’ve ever known does.