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It's convenient how men get to sign their names to these little creations without doing much more than having an orgasm and assembling a crib.
My mother is a very resourceful woman. It comes from being married to a controlling manipulator. She had to learn how to get her way, without getting her way.
“Shit, I forgot,” he says. “It’s hard to remember that a cold shrew like you is actually a mother.”
I swear this bitch and I speak the same language … in different accents.
“Well, she’s a bitch like you. Caleb has always been attracted to the Cruella De Ville type.
“They spark,” she says. I jerk back. What the hell did that mean? “When they’re together, it’s like putting a hurricane and a tornado in the same room — you can feel the tension. I didn’t believe in the cliché of soul mates until I saw them together.”
“You want to know why he loves her, Leah?” She overemphasizes the ah in my name. I flinch. What a bitch. I shake my head, but the little blond is smarter than she looks. She stubs out my cigarette. “You won’t find an answer to that from anyone but Caleb. If I were you, I’d let it go. Go enjoy the life you stole for yourself. Olivia won’t be showing up at your doorstep crying, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“It’s not fun to play second choice, is it?” She plucks a piece of tobacco from her tongue and flicks it off her fingertip. “There is a possibility that you feel like you’re worth more than being Caleb’s marriage of pity, and if that’s true then you should jump ship now. It’s only a matter of time before the Caleb/Olivia saga starts up again.”
“Their story will never be over. She’s married, you know? So, technically you have some time to make your husband fall in love with you.”
That was the absolute worst thing about love; no matter how hard you tried, you could never forget the person who had your heart.
“Love is simple,” he’d said. “The more pomp you add to a wedding, the less sincere it becomes.”
“I should have let them throw you in prison, you know that.” She turns away, walking toward her car door. Her statement infuriates me. I follow her, digging my fingernails into my palms, I breathe through my nose. “So you could have him?” I blurt. My blood pounds in my ears. I ask myself that question all the time. I say it again. “You should have lost the case so you could have him?” She freezes, looks at me over her shoulder. “Yeah.” I didn’t expect the truth. It frightens me. I open my mouth — force the words out. “I thought you loved your husband.” She blows air through her nose. The
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“Go back to your husband, before he realizes that he’s still in love with me.”
Human eyes are the sign language of the brain. If you watch them carefully, you can see the truth played out, raw and unguarded.
“I didn’t choose her,” his voice breaks. “Love is illogical. You fall into it like a manhole. Then you’re just stuck. You die in love more than you live in love.”
Caleb once told me that love was a desire and desire was an emptiness.
“You do the best you can, with what you have. You can’t leave us. We are your truth.” I slam my fist into my palm.
