The CEO's Ex-Wife

Chapter 4

Standing at the black front door, I brace myself, take a deep breath, and let myself in.

“I thought you left again.”

I hear my mother’s clipped voice the moment I enter the house. She's sitting on the couch in the living room, scotch in hand.

“You startled me,” I say with a slight jump, clutching my chest. I shut the front door behind me, my breaths a little sharper than usual. Mustering my maturity and forcing my anxiety deep down, I walk toward her. Gently she swirled her glass, her eyes on the liquid not on me. When she pauses I noticed her little finger rapidly tapping the side of the glass. Hhmm… anxiety. Maybe we’re both a bit nervous about having this conversation.

“You didn’t say anything after your… “ she pauses as if searching for the right word.

“…After last night’s dinner. Then you were gone this morning.” She finally glances up at me.

There is some unreadable emotion in her eyes. I guess that she was mad that I’d snapped at Sarah and ruined dinner. I’d not made any effort to resolve the conflict last night or apologize this morning. Years in business had given me a solid handle on interpreting body language. As the co-CEO of my husband's company, I’d mastered understanding people with confidence. Around my family, all that confidence and understanding ebbed away.

“I got a job,” I say. “ I don’t want to burden you any longer than I must. I can’t afford my own place yet. I’ll do my best to earn my keep in the meantime though. I’ll stay out of your way, not interrupt your life, help out where I can. I got you dinner.”

The words tumbled out rapidly. Ashamed by the resentment leaking through my tone, I hold up the bag to show her. Not waiting for her response, I head to the kitchen. I pause on the way out of the room.

“Sorry I embarrassed you,” I say, and leave the room.

I don’t know why the heck I feel the need to apologize. Sarah was egging me on all night, but I’m the outsider. I’m the one intruding in their family. While I’m here I’ll do my damndest to not cause trouble. I’ve had enough of that, thank you very much.

I slip upstairs without another word to Mom. I toe off my shoes, unhooked my bra, and fling it on the chair in the far corner. Sighing deeply, I flop on the bed. Before collapsing in the pillow, I grabbed a trashy supernatural romance from the short book stack on the bedside table. These books might not be award winners or classic literature, but they let me escape into a world of handsome heroes and someone else’s problems. For these books, I don’t have to think too hard. Their fictional problems were out of my control. I’d always been an avid reader. Usually, I read for a purpose. I read to for knowledge or for a class. I devoured books about self-help, leadership, business. Romance books though, had always been a guilty pleasure. One I rarely had time to indulge in.

Eventually, I’d have to deal with the current real-world problem waiting for me downstairs though. I already feel guilty building for blowing her off like that. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t kind. And really, I knew they were right. I did leave and not look back. After a few minutes of lonely sulking, realize I’d reread the same passage three times and still hadn’t absorbed a thing. Sighing, I tossed the book on the bed and padded back downstairs.

Mom is still sitting on the couch, gently rolling the scotch in its glass. It looks like she hasn’t drunk any of it. She hasn’t noticed me come back. I can see her eyes were glistening. My stomach clenches. She looks more vulnerable than I’d ever seen her. Did I do that? Did I make her cry?

“Mom, I really am sorry. It’s your house. I shouldn’t have been rude to you or to Sarah.” I step forward and sit beside her on the couch. My foot begins to tap out its erratic nervous rhythm.

She snorts. “Sarah deserved it, but for what it’s worth she’s right that you don’t know her anymore. She’s sorry too.”

Yeah, whatever.

I suppress an eye roll. There is nothing worth saying to that really. So we sat in uncomfortable silence, avoiding eye contact for a few minutes. If I’m going to stay here I’d have to find some balance between honoring the family bonds they’ve built and protecting my mental and emotional comfort, without erasing my past experiences. Sounds like a migraine in the making.

“You didn’t embarrass me.” She speaks again.

I don’t really know what to say to that either. Being around my mom, in this house, makes me feel like I’ve mentally regressed to a 12-year-old brat. Like all my adult experiences and personal growth were sucked out and replaced with teenage anxiety. The only sounds were the soft hum of the AC and the ticking clock on the wall.

“I was never very good at talking to you, but I do love you.” She adds.

I can’t tell if she’s sincere - either she actually means it, or she’s… no I can’t go there. And I still can’t look her in the eye. Waves of emotion roll through me. Guilt, shame, anger, resentment, and most strangely, love; all swirling in my chest. It occurs to me that she’s trying to converse with me and I still haven’t responded.

Crap.

“I love you too Mom. I tried to be what you wanted.” Suddenly the worn brown couch cushions I’m picking at seem really interesting. How do you open up to people you’re not sure you can trust?

“I just want you to be happy.” She reaches out and grabs my hand, startling me into looking up. The contact was odd and awkward, but it was a start. I squeeze her hand and offer a smile.

“I’m working on it,” I say.

Her eyes are warm and squinting slightly, her lips are turned up at the corners, her cheekbones are a little more visible. It’s a genuine smile. She’s happy I’m here. Or am I reading into it?

Neither of us seems to know what to say next. I’m thankful when her phone rings and disturbs the silence. She looks at me, in her eyes, I can see she’s not sure if she should take the call.

“It’s fine, answer it,” I say. I squeeze her hand gently in reassurance, smile, and leave the room.

Walking back to my room my steps felt lighter. There is still so much that needs to be said, needs resolving. Still, it feels like my mother and I have made a crucial step toward understanding each other. No, she had taken that step. I needed to follow. My grievances and feelings were legitimate and still needed to be addressed one day. I can’t respect all of the choices she made in my youth, yet maybe she did the best she could. Now, I find myself wanting to understand her side too, her thoughts, her feelings.

Back in my room, smiling like an i***t, I pick up my copy of The Emperor’s Chosen Princess and delve into my silly romance novel. I particularly like that the hero in this one is not a garish brute who thinks money and power allow him the right to treat women like toys. I lived with that, it’s not sexy in real life, thank you very much. My fictional emperor is sweet and smart, but still strong and sexy. At some point, the physical and mental exhaustion of the day overcome me and I drift off to sleep.

I wake with a start, my heart thumping. Matthew is here! I can feel it. A shadow of a figure stands in the doorway, silently watching. I can see it. Slowly, my eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness of the room, I realize I must have been dreaming. The irrational panic starts to melt away. My breathing, a minute ago shallow and almost non-existent, slowly returns to normal.

There is no figure. Still, I can’t shake the gnawing fear and lingering doubt. My curtains are still open, it’s full night outside now. I flip on the bedside lamp and scan the room. The air feels heavy and cold. Nothing is out of place. Nothing is here that shouldn’t be. Nothing is missing. My physically exhausted body and mentally drained brain are just playing tricks on me.

Glancing at the clock informs me it's 3:43am. Too early to get up. But I fell asleep early so I’ve no need to sleep longer. I jump out of bed and walk to the window. The street below is dark. Deserted. Quiet. Still. I climb back into bed and snuggle under my fat, warm comforter. I can’t help but think about the dream. I remember bits and pieces but it’s fading fast. Matthew said he would always find me. Matthew said it was time to come home. He doesn’t believe in divorce.

Just a stupid dream, Alya.

Just my subconscious processing information. Working out worries, banging through memories. Dreams don’t have any specific secret or religious meaning. I know that. I’m a practical person. They definitely don’t offer prophecies. To settle my still racing brain, I grab up the book and continued reading about the hot, young emperor who fell for his fiancee’s mysterious sister. Why did Matthew have to invade my dreams? I’d much prefer Emperor Egan as the man of my dreams.

At some point, I must have dozed off. I wake with the sun warming my face and the book loosely clutched in my hand. Last night’s dream not quite forgotten. In the morning light, the whole nightmare thing seems ridiculous. I dress in my usual workwear and head downstairs. Usual, as I have limited options. My hours at the diner have been inconsistent so far, it’s only day three though. Maria says she wants to figure out what times will work best for us so the start and end times will fluctuate for the first week or so. This morning I start at 10. Plenty of time to make breakfast.

I make scrambled eggs, toast, and Canadian bacon for Mom and me. After her walk, she washes her hands and joins me at the old wood table just like the first morning. Only this time we made easy, amicable small talk about the neighborhood, the town, her work, her garden. Nothing too personal. It feels like a placeholder for the real conversations we weren’t having yet, but I know that we need time to build a proper sense of trust. We aren’t there yet.

Work goes smoothly. I’d missed most of the breakfast rush but I was consistently busy. Today I met Charlie, another waitress. She’s in her early forties, bubbling with positivity, and talks constantly. Her ‘tell it like it is’ attitude reminds me of Aunt Jen and of Maria. Charlie keeps me entertained with stories of her life and fills me in on every customer she knew while she trains me. The day flies by. Charlie even drops me home after work. The walk wasn’t too far, I am grateful to be spared it nonetheless. I am sure I imagined someone watching me the other day but I still feel a little uneasy about it.

I bring home dinner for Mom again. She's not home. I put it in the fridge and leave a short note. I take off to my room before I see her. My bruises aren’t as tender today, but my body still aches from standing on my feet all day and from all the walking from the last few days. Sitting in an office or in a board room all day hadn’t built the stamina required for waitressing.

Over the next few days, my Mom and I fall into a routine of cordial roommates. We chat, avoiding the hard stuff. I’ve no intentions of letting my old hurts and impatience drive any deep and meaningful conversations any time soon. I came here looking for a brief safe haven. Mending broken relationships wasn’t and isn't really my plan - a faint hope maybe, but not a priority. Selfish though it sounds, I know after the messy relationship I’d just left, I need to figure out who I am, and what I want before I jump into anything new. I’ve never for a moment considered that reconnecting with my estranged family might actually be possible. Now, I have my fingers crossed that maybe one day, we can forge a bond. A real bond. For now, I’ll accept just getting along.