Halfway There, page 1
Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Copyright © 2019/2020, Eve Langlais
Cover Art Dreams2Media © 2019
Produced in Canada
Published by Eve Langlais ~ www.EveLanglais.com
eBook ISBN: 978 177 384 136 6
Print ISBN: 978 177 384 137 3
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This is a work of fiction and the characters, events and dialogue found within the story are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, either living or deceased, is completely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to digital copying, file sharing, audio recording, email, photocopying, and printing without permission in writing from the author.
Introduction
I never expected I’d be one of those people who had a midlife crisis. Sure, I’m over forty, and married, but my kids are grown and moved out. Life is steady, if predictably boring.
That all changes when my husband asks for a divorce and my whole world crashes. Everything I thought I knew, everything I am, gone in an instant.
But I am not about to give up. After all, at my age, technically, I’m only halfway there.
I am ready to tackle my do-over; my chance to become the me I’ve always dreamed of. Starting with moving into my late grandma’s cottage and adopting a new kitten.
However, my new life is a little odder than expected. Old books suddenly appearing in my house. Neighbors going missing. A supposed lake monster, and a strange man who likes to skulk around with an axe.
I’m going to need to lean on my friends, new and old, to help me navigate my midlife crisis. Together maybe we will find a way to beat the family curse ruining my second chance at life.
#PWF
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1
“I don’t want to be with you anymore.”
The declaration hit me, a hammered fist to the heart. I stopped breathing as I stared at my husband of more than twenty years. Married straight out of college, we were supposed to grow old together.
“I don’t understand.”
I really didn’t. Where had this come from? I’d been the best of wives. Having seen my parents going at it from a young age, I’d decided early on in my relationship that I would be the peacemaker, meaning I tended to agree with anything Martin said—even if I didn’t agree. It wasn’t worth the fight, especially since he didn’t like to lose.
“What’s not to understand, Naomi? It’s quite simple. I want a divorce. You know, that thing you file for when a person doesn’t want to be in a marriage anymore.” He spoke tersely. Not for the first time.
Usually, I let it slide right over me. A long time ago I’d made sure his insults couldn’t touch anywhere important. It wasn’t working this time. He’d said the one word I couldn’t ignore.
“Did you say a divorce?”
When had he decided this? Because I’d had no inkling when I woke up that morning—at the same time as him because he didn’t like it if I slept longer than he did. As per our routine, he said not a word as he rolled out of bed and went to the bathroom. While he did his business, I slipped on some slippers and headed downstairs to make his coffee with freshly ground beans. Once it started percolating, I tackled the toast. Not too dark, slightly buttered with the real stuff, not margarine—which he held in low regard. By the time he came downstairs, his routine precise down to almost the minute, I’d plated it along with his sausage and sunny side up eggs. Martin was particular about his meals, and I’d had more than two decades to perfect them.
I stared at this man who let me make him a freaking breakfast, knowing he was going to tell me he wanted out of our marriage. A spark of anger lit inside, but I ignored it.
For now.
“Yes, I said a divorce.” His voice held a hint of impatience. “You can’t tell me you didn’t see this coming.”
Actually, I hadn’t. Martin was always unhappy. About everything. It might have gotten worse in the last few years, but I’d attributed it to him turning fifty. He had a few years on me, which might seem odd since we met in college, but he didn’t go to school right after he graduated.
“I never thought about us ever separating.” A lie, actually. I had, more than once, imagined a life without his miserable comments and attitude. On many occasions, I’d cursed his existence in my head. I’d wondered what it would be like if he didn’t come home from work one day. He wasn’t in the best shape. Men his age died of heart attacks all the time.
The moment the thought even crossed my mind, I’d feel guilty. How dare I wish for his death! So what if he didn’t make me happy like the heroes in my romance books? This was my marriage, my reality, and unlike so many other couples, I would make our relationship work. ‘Til death do us part.
I kept my gaze from straying to the wooden block of knives.
“Well, I have thought of leaving for a while now,” Martin declared, and I was offended.
What did he have to complain about? The spark of annoyance flared brighter. “I’ve always done everything you asked of me.” Ironed his clothes. Made his meals. Cleaned his house. Had sex once a week. Blew him if I was on my period. I took care of everything but wiping his ass and doing his job as a real estate agent.
For a moment the words of my best friend, whom I’d not talked to in over ten years, played inside my head, ”You’re a doormat. A slap in the face to feminists everywhere.”
My cruel reply at the time? ”You’re just jealous I’m married and got out of small-town hell and you didn’t.” A horrible thing to say, and I’d burned with shame after. I couldn’t have said why I didn’t apologize.
Most likely because she’d told the truth and I didn’t want to admit I was wrong. How long since I’d last spoken to Tricia? Too long. Because of the man currently expounding on the reasons why he didn’t want me.
“Even you can’t be so stupid as to realize we have nothing in common.”
I simmered, and words I rarely dared speak aloud spilled forth. “And whose fault is that?” I’d tried everything they told me to do in the books, setting up date nights with dinner followed by an activity. Except it didn’t quite work as planned.
Bowling was a failure. Martin refused to wear the shoes that other people had worn. Just like he’d outright said no to painting because it was dumb, pottery was messy, escape rooms were juvenile. He had a reason to hate everything, meaning date night most often failed, if he even bothered to come home. Since his promotion a few years ago, he’d been working longer hours. When I dared to say something, he pointed out he was the breadwinner in the family.
Not entirely true. I had a part-time job that brought in some extra money, but mine didn’t pay the larger bills, and I hadn’t always worked.
Martin put in the long hours so I could stay home with our children. I appreciated it when the kids were growing up. Felt the guilt that because he worked so hard, he missed the pivotal moments in their lives. But because of his sacrifice, I’d been there for them with every milestone and every hurt. The one thing I could never fix was their obvious pain at their father’s indifference.
When they were young, Daddy came home, ate dinner, and sat in his chair. It didn’t change much as they got older, except the yelling got louder and more frequent.
I consoled myself with the reminder that at least they had two parents living together and a home. According to many books, I did the right thing.
Yet the moment Geoffrey and Wendy graduated high school, they moved out. Not just out of the house but out of the state. Some days I lied to myself and blamed it on the fact they wanted to go to college somewhere cooler than a small town in Vermont. The truth was they left because they couldn’t stand being part of our family.
Being near Martin more specifically. With me, as they entered their teen years, they became indifferent. As adults, we were almost strangers.
I heard from them occasionally, but those conversations where short and stilted, painful beyond belief, so I was almost relieved it didn’t happen more often. The guilt would hit me that I didn’t reach out. Then the pity party would start because my own children hated me.
Could I blame them? I also hated myself.
I hated Martin, too. However, panic at the thought of him leaving made me say, “If you’re unhappy, we can get some counseling. Fix things.” Because as much as I disliked him, now that he’d offered me an out, I suddenly didn’t want it.
The thought of being alone…
I tried vainly to think of something, anything, to cancel out the roaring in my ears. The heavy sensation pressing on me from al
It was always about what he wanted.
For a half-second, a rebellious thought overcame my anxiety. Why is everything always about him? What about me?
The ember of rage flared brighter than ever, yet I remained cold.
“I don’t want to fix things.” His short, clipped words brimmed with anger. “Get this through your thick skull. I don’t want to be with you anymore. You’re boring. Fat. Stupid. I mean look at you.” He waved a hand, and his face twisted in disgust. “You don’t even try to look nice anymore.”
Another verbal slap and a part of me wanted to argue, and then I glanced down at my outfit. An oversized shirt to hide the bulging middle and stretchy leggings in a soft faded cotton. I’d stopped wearing denim a long time ago due to chafing. I’d gained a lot of weight during my pregnancies. Even more in the past few years as boredom put me on the couch.
While I’d gotten a job once the kids hit high school, Martin had refused my request to go back to work full-time. He said it would make him look bad. I was secretly glad, given the idea of working more than twenty hours a week for minimum wage meant I’d have a hard time keeping up with the housework. Perhaps had I gotten a better paying job I might have splurged and hired some help. Except, as Martin liked to remind me, I wasn’t qualified to do anything. I was a wife. A mom. A homemaker.
“—a slob. Why do you think we don’t have sex anymore?”
I bit my tongue before I said what first came to mind. I wasn’t allowed to speak about his problems below the belt. “I’ve offered.”
I had, out of some sense of obligation and because sometimes my books had some steamy parts that reminded me of how I used to like sex when I was younger.
“And I said no to those offers because you disgust me. The sight of your body turns me off.”
The cruelty of his statement stole my breath. Martin had always possessed an acerbic manner, and it only got stronger as we got older. But this level of meanness… When did the hating begin?
The cold in me intensified as my rage overflowed. How dare he speak to me like this? Something in me rebelled. “I thought we stopped having sex because you couldn’t get it up anymore.”
It was mean. Horrible of me. Making fun of a condition that came with age and a relief that I no longer had to pretend.
The smirk on his lips should have warned me. “A limp dick only with you. Turns out I just needed the right woman. A real woman.”
Okay, that sucker-punched me even more than the body insults. I barely had any breath to speak. “You’re cheating on me?”
“I’ve moved on, and so should you.”
“To do what?” I practically yelled. I’d revolved my whole world around him. As miserable as it was, I had nothing else.
“Do whatever you want, but do it somewhere else. I want you out of my house. Take your stuff and go.”
“Where?” This was my home. This couldn’t be happening.
“I don’t really care so long as you’re gone by the time I come back.”
Hold on a second. “Where are you going?
“None of your business.”
My lips trembled. “You can’t just leave me.”
“I can. And don’t you dare start your crying. This is your fault.” With those final words, he slammed out of the house.
And I broke.
I sat down on my immaculate kitchen floor and sobbed. It wasn’t pretty. Or quiet. Or even dry.
Snot ran down and dripped from my chin, mixing with my salty tears. I took great, hiccupping gulps as my body shook and I cried. Cried hard.
If asked, I’m not even sure I could have said why I was so sad. In many respects, Martin was right. Our marriage hadn’t had any kind of true intimacy or love in a long time. Yet, it existed. It gave me purpose and meaning. A reason to get up early every morning.
Did it matter if I was happy? I wasn’t even sure what happiness looked like. How did one define happiness? I had a roof over my head, clothes, food, my own car. But those things came at a cost. My dignity. My self-worth.
When was the last time I’d truly smiled? Laughed? I didn’t even have my children anymore. Martin had chased them away, and I, too meek to confront him over it, allowed it.
Allowed that man to guide my every move and thought. He was right about one thing. I was dumb. In one fell swoop, he took my life and my future away from me.
I am nothing.
I was a nobody. No one needed me. Not a single person I could turn to or count on because I’d driven them all away.
Would anyone really care if I were gone?
My children would mourn me, but not for long. They’d escaped, and I knew they blamed me for allowing Martin to be Martin. As a father, he was the hockey dad on the sidelines, screaming obscenities at referees and other parents. Every year he was escorted from an arena and I got pitying looks. I wasn’t surprised when Geoffrey stopped playing.
As for Wendy, his little girl, she wasn’t so little. A chubby girl growing up, she’d retained some of the weight as a teen, and her father mocked her. “You’d need a dozen of those fairies with magic dust to make you fly.”
It was one of the few times I stood against him. Where I tried to protect my daughter.
“Don’t call her fat.”
“Don’t tell me what to do in my house with my kid,” he’d sneered. “Do you want her to end up looking like you?”
Rather than fight, I’d buried myself in a room with a book and a pint of ice cream. I did that a lot. Hiding from the ugliness in the hopes it would go away.
It never actually worked, and yet I couldn’t break the cycle. I still recalled how I’d hated it when my parents split up. I couldn’t do that to my kids. Then, once they were gone, I stayed. Why?
I actually knew the answer to that. Fear.
I was a fat, middle-aged woman with no job skills, nothing. Where would I go? What would I do? I couldn’t start over.
Except now Martin had left me no choice.
He’d told me I had to pack up and go. The very idea had me hyperventilating. Where would I go?
My first thought was to call the kids, and I immediately dismissed it. I couldn’t ask Wendy or Geoff. They didn’t deserve to have their lives disrupted, not to mention I didn’t think I could handle the “I told you so” from my daughter.
But if not them, then who? My family had died a long time ago.
I’m all alone. There was no worse feeling in the world.
I fixed my gaze on the gas stove. I’d heard it didn’t hurt. What would it be like to go to sleep and never wake? At least then I’d stop being a disappointment to everyone, most of all myself.
Without even realizing I’d moved, I found myself standing in front of the stove, my hand on the knob. The scent of gas filled my nostrils.
Dring. Dring.
My phone, with its old-fashioned ring tone, broke me free from the depressed mood that gripped me. I smelled the rotten egg of the gas and snapped the valve shut.
Never would I kill myself. In that I was certain.
I stepped away from the stove—and my moment of insanity—and rubbed at the hair straggling across my face, stuck to damp, snotty cheeks. Gross.
Dring. Dring.
I chose to rinse my face with cool water rather than run for the phone. It would hit voicemail before I reached it. Besides, I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
They might hear the shame.
And if they asked if I was all right—
Well, that was a question I’d rather not deal with right now. Only once I’d patted my face dry did I peek at my phone. Unknown. Damned telemarketers.
I shuffled from the kitchen into the living room, catching sight of myself in the mirror. Halting, I stared long and hard. Stared at myself in a critical manner that I’d not dared for a long time. I hated the woman looking back at me.
