I stared at the ceiling, naked and tangled in a sheet, sleep a faraway concept.
Alan slept curled up next to me. Looking at him, I felt an odd mixture of love and remorse. The sex had been good, like putting on an old pair of blue jeans you haven’t worn in ages. Alan and I knew each other’s buttons.
I’d called Mom earlier, explaining I wouldn’t be home, without giving her details.
She figured them out anyway.
“I’ll let Nathan know where you are if he calls.”
“His name is Latham, Mom. And no, you won’t. If he calls or drops by, have him call my cell.”
Latham never did call, and I felt another odd mixture, of guilt and relief. I fleetingly wished I could feel just one emotion at a time, but that added confusion to my melting pot of conflicting feelings.
The ceiling had no answers for me.
I didn’t have any sleeping pills, and my insomnia knew it; shifting, restless leg syndrome, unable to get comfortable in any position.
At two in the morning, heart palpitations and shallow breathing hopped on the symptom train, and I knew enough modern psychology to recognize I was having a panic attack.
It was horrible.
I’d had a physical, four months back, and been given a clean bill of health, so I knew this wasn’t a heart attack. But still, I was enveloped by an overwhelming sense that I was going to die.
I got out of bed, paced, did some push-ups, tried yoga, drank two glasses of water, flipped through fifteen channels with the mute button on, and finally just sat in a corner, clutching my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth.
At five in the morning, in a near hysterical effort to simplify my life, I went into the bathroom and called Latham.
“Jack? That you?”
“I need to take a break, Latham. From us. Too much is happening too fast.”
“You sound terrible. Are you okay?”
“No. I think I’m having a nervous breakdown. It’s probably just a panic attack. I don’t have my damn sleeping pills and I’m bouncing off the walls.”
“Why don’t you have your pills?”
Moment of truth time.
“I’m in Alan’s hotel room.”
I waited for Latham to scream at me, call me names. Hell, I wanted him to.
“You still love him.”
“Yes.”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
I heard him take a quick breath. A sob?
“You need some time apart, to figure things out?”
“Yes.” I was crying now.
“A week? A month?”
“I don’t know, Latham.”
“I understand.”
Dammit, why did he have to be so freaking nice?
“I might never come back, Latham.”
“You have to choose what’s right for you, Jack.”
“Aren’t you mad at me?”
“I love you. I want you to be happy.”
I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles lost color.
“There’s no goddamn way you can be that mature about this! Call me a cheating bitch! Tell me I ruined your life!”
“Call me when you’ve made a decision, Jack.”
He hung up.
I raised the cell over my head, wanting to smash it against the tiled floor.
I settled for placing it on the sink and blubbering like a baby.
Alan knocked on the door.
“Jack? Are you okay?”
He let himself in, sat down next to me.
“Dammit,” I cursed, rubbing my eyes. “Dammit, dammit, dammit. I’m not this weak.”
Alan laughed.
“Why are you laughing?”
He put his arms around me.
“You’re not weak, Jack. You’re human.”
“And that’s funny to you?”
“I always suspected it. I just never thought I’d see it.”
He held me until the tears stopped and embarrassment set in. I finally pushed him away and jumped in the shower.
If I hoped to get my life in order, I needed to start compartmentalizing. If I dealt with one thing at a time, I wouldn’t get overwhelmed.
Number one on the hierarchy of importance was Fuller. He couldn’t be allowed out.
After the shower, I got dressed, kissed my sleeping ex-husband on the top of his head, and went to the office.
One thing at a time.