I decided to be a little vulnerable today and post a short story I haven't even read through after I finished the first draft. It's raw. It's real. I do plan to edit it later, but uploading it now means I can refer to the first draft version in a later post.
The point of this is to remind myself that all stories start out messy. There are typos and unclear sentences. Not all the dots connect—and this is okay. For any of you out there who look at a first draft and see only junk, remember that with enough work, beauty can emerge from anywhere.
So, here we go. This is the first draft of Tricky Script (working title).
I squeezed the thin letter between my thumb and index finger, the tiny rectangle that could contain all the evidence I needed. This time, I was sure. I stood in the living room entryway, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. The hallway behind me, the covered patio beyond the living room glass doors, all the rooms in our estate that held echoes of our previous arguments—soon it would be all mine.
And my adorable, snoozing husband had no idea.
In my sock feet, I tiptoed over to the sofa where he had fallen asleep after lunch. After he drank the tea I made. My poor Bo could never stay awake after a dose of melatonin.
Yes, I resorted to sneaky tactics to beat him to the mailbox. Most days, he had stood at the street before the mail truck drove by, throwing glances over his shoulder in case I had followed. I often watched him from the kitchen window while he wandered slowly down our cobblestone driveway, flipping through the mail with sweat on his brow. Once or twice, I caught him slipping a letter in his pocket. He denied it when I asked.
But now, I smiled as his chest rose and fell in ignorant serenity. It was infuriating how he could block out the world. How he never tossed and turned while he thought of the “other woman” who had pulled us apart. Or maybe he dreamed of her now?
My hand shook. I almost dropped the letter onto his arm—those strong arms he used to throw around me. I used to stare into those light brown eyes and see only trust and love. We laughed back then. So many years ago. Then “she” pulled him away from me. I didn’t know who “she” was, but I was about to find out.
Pressure built in my head near my eyes, but Patrice Phillips didn’t cry when she had fuel. When she was about to prove she was right about the other woman. I whipped my head around and trotted down the long hallway to my beloved conservatory.
Sunlight greeted me, pouring in from the skylights and floor to ceiling windows. My potted lemon tree waved at me, the AC just animating the branches. I set the letter on my reading chair and reached around the rim. Bo and I had set the bulbous, hand-painted pot on wheels so I could manage moving it into the sunlight.
Bo…
With my hands still clutching the pot rim, I stared at the letter. I bounced my eyes around the room my husband built for me out of a dark, windowless study. What the previous owners used as storage, we turned into a paradise of hibiscus and fruit trees that could never survive Montana’s harsh winters. Bo owned a booming contracting business thanks to his skills with his hands—those hands that could pound a nail into a plank or gently caress my aching shoulders.
I pushed the lemon tree a foot to the right and let go. I had to let go of Bo, too. Our marriage couldn’t thrive with a third person in the shadows.
I sat on the chair and placed my hand on the letter. Roiling emotions ran through me, everything from rage to bitterness and a touch of guilt from opening his mail. I studied the letter with no return address. Our address and Bo’s name stood out in messy purple pen—a color no man would use.
It was time to find out the truth. The sooner the better. Forty had been unkind, forming wrinkles beside my eyes. But I still had my gentle curves from years of cardio classes and time to find someone else to share my sanctuary. Someone else who meant “I do” instead of “I do unless something better comes along.”
I snatched the letter off the table and slid my finger under the seal. Broken. I pulled out a piece of notebook paper with writing in the same color and scrawl as the address on the front. The first words locked my eyeballs in place.
“Dear Daddy…”
Daddy. The word tumbled around in my chest like a sack of change in a dryer. Bo not only cheated but had a child? I tucked my feet under me and crushed the letter in my grip. I didn’t need to read anymore. A simple DNA test, the age of the child, and our marriage certificate would prove it all.
I had won. The cobblestone driveway I helped him lay, the conservatory, the immaculate driveway, all of our ten acres of paradise.
But my heart screamed in my chest. I folded up into a fetal position and slumped over.
My Bo, the man I built so many pleasant and painful memories with, would soon be gone forever. The house would no longer absorb our fights and laughter, our doubts and hopes. I thought I was ready to accept the reality of his mistakes, but my watery eyes proved I was wrong. So wrong.
I slapped a tear off my face, latching onto the pain. I straightened. Only weak little girls cry. My step father said so every time he caught me sniveling and red-faced. Thanks to him, Bo never saw me cry.
And he wouldn’t see me today.
I pushed myself back up and uncrumpled the letter. I had to know the rest, who this child was who called him “Daddy.” Bo and I had talked about children, but I couldn’t trust him long enough to try. The “other woman” robbed us of what could have been. Every time I thought he had stopped cheating, he would hang up a call too quickly when I entered a room or slip one of those letters into his pocket. His eyes held such an immense sadness when I asked him about the calls.
I bit down on my tongue to keep any more tears from falling. Focusing on the pain.
“Dear Daddy,
I hope your back feel better.”
God, he had even told this kid about his scoliosis. I latched onto that anger, of another family I never knew Bo had.
“My knee still hurt from Benny push me down the stairs.”
Benny? Bo had more than one child with this woman? I relaxed my jaw before I made my tongue bleed. This child couldn’t be more than eight years old, judging from the shaky letters and mistakes. A divorce would be simple and quick.
“Benny is mean like Midge. I thot little brothers wood be fun but their dad is also mean like them.”
So the boys weren’t Bo’s. I didn’t feel relief like I thought I should.
“He tells me call him dad only outside. Inside he makes me go to my room. He tells me to stop crying…”
I released a breath through my nose. My fingers clutched that crinkled paper as a memory slid through. My own stepfather was mean like that. He did everything for show, and my mom was too weak to stand up to him. I watched as he hit her. One day, he started hitting me, too. I stopped crying in public at the age of twelve.
Bo’s child faced the same, all thanks to his careless behavior. He had to know. It had to hurt him to have helped bring this child into a toxic situation. But he didn’t think. As much as I loved his adventurous, impulsive nature, he couldn’t look into tomorrow’s consequences.
Anger makes its way into my stiffening joints. This kid would be better in a foster home instead of a place where three boys berated her. What would Bo think then? What would he think when I showed him the letter? I continued reading, frowning as my eyes moved.
“He tells me to stop crying or he spanks me. But he spanks me anyway and calls me a mistake baby. Sometimes he hits really hard. I can’t help crying. Can’t I run away and live with you? Patrees sound so sweet and nice. Like a real mom.”
I pressed my trembling lips together. The child misspelled my name, but it was obvious who she meant. Bo talked to her about me. How could he? How could he stand by and tell this illegitimate child about the wife he pretends to love while pulling another away from her husband?
I ran my finger over the word “mom” them kept reading.
“You said she sings to her plants. Would she sing to me? I love to sing but I not very good. Maybe she teach me. Mommy’s too busy with benny and Midge. Even she sent me to my room if I ask for something. So I hold the little caktis you sent me. Did you and Patrees grow it? I water it just a little on sunday like you say. If I came to live with you I could bring it. We could water it together and sing to it.”
A drop of moisture landed on the paper, right next to the word “sing.” I did used to sing to my plants on the days I could push Bo’s infidelity from my mind. But the past year, when he tucked those letters away or couldn’t explain the money missing from our account, I stopped. Bitterness grew inside me like a weed, fertilized with anger every day. Finding him out became an obsession.
I took a deep breath, breathing in the sweet scent of the lemon blossoms.
When I was little, hiding from my step father, I also had a little succulent. It became my source of sunshine and hope when the house was too quiet or when it rang with Mom and my step father’s shouts. I never wanted to be in a marriage like them.
Yet, there I was.
And this poor little girl was set to repeat the lonely childhood I endured. I didn’t even know her name.
I sniffed back my tears.
“If I can’t live with you can I talk to you more than every 20 th before mail time? Just one more time is good. I no you said not to write but I want to show you what i learned in school. It’s scary here a lot. I wish I could see you more than just a picture even tho mommy hates you. I don’t. I love you Daddy. Marlee.”
The note slipped from my fingers and landed on the floor. Bo hadn’t been talking to another woman while he waited at the end of the driveway for the mail. The money missing from our account hadn’t gone to fund some woman’s shoe obsession.
Poor little Marlee could be sitting in her room, wishing her father would come for her. Mine never did. Bo wasn’t like that. He may have committed adultery, but he would never abandon someone he cared about. All the years I pushed him away, held the cheating over his head, he never once suggested we divorce.
I put my head in my hands. My anger slipped out of my reach while lonely memories slid in place. I couldn’t hate Marlee for Bo’s misstep. The rage I thought I would feel turned into longing.
I wanted to sing to my plants again while Bo banged away at a new rolling stand. My heart didn’t want to live in this house without him. I had all the keys to ruin him, to prove I was right.
“I don’t want to be right,” I said through my moistened fingers. Being right felt more like being wrong. Condemning Bo for his mistakes was like losing our future.
“Sweetie?”
I snapped my head up at Bo’s voice. He stood in the doorway with that same forlorn expression he wore when I asked about his cheating. The letter lay on the floor in front of us—both a barrier and a choice.
“What’s happened?” Bo asked. “Are you crying?”
His eyebrows climbed toward his hairline, and he rushed over. Not even breath emerged from my mouth. I didn’t know what emotion to throw his way. I’d known about the betrayal so long, and I finally had solid proof. But my chest didn’t want to hurt anymore. I didn’t want him to hurt anymore.
He sat on the sofa and placed an arm around me. “Is your mom alright?”
“Tell me again,” I said. “One more time. Tell me it was only for a month. During that rough first year of our marriage.”
His hand tightened. He looked away. “I can tell you, sure, but will you believe me?”
A lengthy silence settled over us. If I believed him, I could forgive him. If I could forgive him, maybe I could accept Marlee as an innocent victim, just as I was when my mother married a hateful man. A strong woman could use that pain and turn it around for another. Marlee’s letter could either prove Bo’s infidelity, or it could prove neglect and abuse.
“If Marlee believes in you,” I said, “maybe I can, too.”
He shot me a bewildered expression. “Marlee? How did you…”
“Did you know about her stepfather? About the abuse?”
When his eyes filled with tears, I let my pride drown in them. For the first time, I clung to Bo and cried out a mixture of pain and relief. Of new possibilities. He wrapped his other arm around me and held me.
I knew I not only believed him. I could sing again. Maybe, just maybe, our house could absorb one more voice and create a future I thought we lost.
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