Shattered Pieces

Twelve

I'm unsure how much time passed as I foolishly sat in the condo's foyer, my eyes unrelenting on the door, praying Spencer would walk back through. Exhaustion finally kicked in, and morning is here. I'm still on the ground, and my husband is still gone.

I peel myself off the floor, and my legs feel like bricks as I will myself to the shower. I open the door to our bedroom, and my breathing becomes erratic. This room used to hold nothing but happy memories. My eyes slowly drift to the bathroom, where my entire world unfolded. I take cautious steps knowing that I have to find the strength to shower away the night. I can't walk into our house full of people reeking of the destruction Kennedy's actions have caused.

The sound of Spencer's tortured cry as he asked me 'why' is unremitting. Not even the sound of the water hitting the shower walls could drown out the torment that laced my husband's voice.

I attempt to wash away the nightmares of last night as I prepare to face our families. What will I say to them when I return home? Where did my husband sleep last night?

The loofah gently brushes against my skin, and I'm taken right back to last night. I can feel his lips on my shoulder. I can feel his hold on my thigh. It's almost like I can breathe him in. Then it all stops— we stop. All that's left are shattered pieces.

I stumble out of the bathroom, grabbing the clothes out of the bag that my husband packed for me. As I'm digging through for my clothes, I come across a book. I've never seen this one before, so naturally, I open it. Of course, inside is a note from my husband. 'I thought I'd bring back our book exchange. You'll love this one, Little Tiger!'

The Perfect Marriage, another thriller. Until just over 12 hours ago, I thought I had the perfect marriage. My throat constricts as I think about how much thought Spencer put into this date night just for it to turn into the worst night of our lives.

I slide on the clothes my husband packed for me and clutch the book tightly to my chest. Spencer and I got to know one another through the notes we'd pass in our books. That couple still has a chance; I know it. My heart beats entirely too hard for him for it to end like this.

Taking a deep breath in, I reach for my phone, hoping that, by some miracle, my husband has reached out to me. Reality comes crashing in as the phone shows no missed calls and no new texts from the only person I care to hear from at this moment.

I head downstairs only to realize I rode here with my husband. I have no way home. This situation get worse and worse by the second. I decide to head downstairs anyway while looking through my phone for the Lyft app.

To my surprise, Spencer's Masserati is parked in his normal space. I head toward the car and tug on the handle, only to be even more shocked to find the vehicle unlocked. Sure enough, beneath a napkin, in the cupholder, are the keys. He left the car for me. So how did he leave? Where is he?

I quickly cancel my Lyft and start up the sports car my husband has such an attachment to. Although I already know what the result will be, I decide to call him. I hold my breath with each ring until I finally hear his voice.

Voicemail.

I feel more isolated than I ever have on the drive home. Just hours ago, he held my hand in this very car, and we laughed together. We were happy.

It's almost an out-of-body experience as the car pulls into the driveway. Every ounce of strength I spent this morning fighting for dissipates, and I have no idea how I'm supposed to face my house full of people. I have no idea how I'm supposed to face my son.

I try Spencer once more, but again my efforts are futile. Checking my face in the mirror, I decide I don't look like what I'm experiencing. One breath at a time. One step at a time.