Smart Enough to Finally Leave You Chapter 2

I took a step back, cradling my burnt hand to my chest.

"No," I whispered. "I can go by myself."

He froze, a look of genuine shock crossing his face.

I suppose he was used to the old Daisy—the girl who would chase after any scrap of kindness he threw her way, keeping herself happy for days on a single smile.

But today, I didn't want his kindness.

I was slow, and I knew I would probably forget which bus to take, but I didn't want to call my mother either. I didn't want anyone to see me like this.

Gathering what little courage I had, I tapped the shoulder of a kind-looking woman on the street.

"Excuse me," I said, my voice shaking. "Could you tell me how to get to Cherry Creek?"

The woman gave me a sympathetic look and patiently wrote down the directions.

I took three wrong buses, getting lost twice in the sprawling transit system. By the time I finally reached my mother's front door, I collapsed into her arms, sobbing.

"Mom," I wept, "how do I get a divorce?"

My mother’s face drained of color. She gripped my shoulders.

"Daisy, sweetie, look at me. Did Wesley hurt you? What did he do?"

I thought about it carefully, trying to find the words to explain the ache in my chest.

"Mom... he lets other people eat chips on his sofa. But he threw me out in the rain for eating a bagel."

My mother’s eyes brimmed with tears. She brushed a stray curl from my forehead.

"My sweet girl," she whispered. "Do you know what divorce means?"

"Yes," I said softly. "It means we don't live together anymore. And... it means I don't have to wear the gloves."

I pulled the blue latex gloves from my pockets and placed them on the kitchen table.

"Mom, I don't want to wear them anymore."

My mother turned her face away, her shoulders shaking as she tried to hide her tears.

By the time I returned to the apartment I shared with Wesley, my phone screen lit up.

If you're coming to Boston, Elliot's message read, how are you going to get that bastard to let you go?

I checked my call history. There wasn't a single missed call or text from Wesley.

With clumsy fingers, I typed my reply:

My mom said she will help me with the divorce. In a month, I'll be free to come to Boston for the surgery.

I told my mother I wanted to pack my things myself.

A few sweaters, a favorite blanket... I folded them slowly, placing them one by one into a duffel bag.

I was only halfway through when the front door clicked open. Mallory was supporting Wesley, who was heavily intoxicated, his face flushed a deep, sluggish red.

The moment Mallory saw me, she called out sharply, "Go make him some hangover broth. You're simple, but surely you can manage a basic soup."

She paused, lowering her voice. "And don't tell him I told you to do it. He’ll throw it up if he knows. If it weren't for you embarrassing him at the office today, he wouldn't have drunk himself into this state!"

She walked past me toward the hallway bathroom to grab a damp towel.

She moved with an easy, practiced familiarity, as if this were her home, not mine.

I found myself following her to the doorway.

"How do you know where our bathroom is?" I asked quietly.

She turned, a smug, pitying smile playing on her lips.

"Oh, Daisy. Where do you think Wesley brings me when you're away at your therapy sessions three days a week?"

I stood frozen in the hallway.

Three days a week, I spent my afternoons at the rehabilitation center. Wesley had never accompanied me. He always said he was drowning in meetings.

I watched her return to the living room and gently wipe Wesley's face.

Wesley reached up, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. He pressed her hand against his cheek, nuzzling into her palm with the soft, vulnerable sigh of a cat greeting its owner.

They always called me simple. But I wasn't blind.

I had watched enough movies to know what a loving husband looked like. It looked like this.

It had never looked like us.

I remembered a night last winter when Wesley had come down with a sudden, raging fever. He was shivering, drenched in cold sweat.

I had tried to place a cool washcloth on his forehead to help him.

But the moment he opened his eyes and saw my face, his expression twisted. With a burst of frantic, feverish strength, he shoved me away.

"Don't touch me!" he had screamed.

I had stumbled backward, my head cracking violently against the sharp edge of the coffee table. The gash was deep; it took twelve stitches to close.

Yet here he was, perfectly calm, letting Mallory touch him, a soft smile gracing his lips.

A dull, heavy ache settled deep in my chest.

I walked back to the bedroom and continued packing.

Reaching into the back of the closet, my fingers brushed against two small, hand-painted ceramic figurines.

When I first became simple after the accident, the nightmares were relentless. I would scream in my sleep, dreaming of massive black tires rolling over my chest.

To soothe me, Wesley had taken a pottery class. He had molded two little figures—one of him, one of me—and painted them himself.

He had told me that as long as I kept them close, he would always protect me.

I had kept them on my nightstand for fifteen years.

I stared at the little clay faces, my heart torn.

Just then, Wesley groaned and sat up on the sofa. I walked out, hesitating, and held the figurines out to him.

"Do you want these?" I asked.