Hiking In

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. This book, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Chapter One

April’s smartphone showed 12:55 a.m. Forty minutes had passed since she had last checked. She decided that this Saturday night was a bust. Maybe if she got up and made a cup of tea, she’d feel better.

In her kitchen, the idea of turning on the ceiling light felt too bright. She opted for the nightlight cast of the stove light. It helped her pretend that this was a short intermission and not an entire night of lost sleep.

April looked through her tea boxes. What flavor did she want? Impatience had her hands knocking over traditional standby boxes like dominoes. Standing on tiptoes, she dug deeper into the cabinet. Then April saw the old box of spearmint. It was Justin’s.

He missed this box. It had been almost three months.

She withdrew the package and stared at the tea bags as if they would reveal answers. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the dried mint. The smell brought up a memory of her ex-husband sitting at the kitchen table after an afternoon ski. One hand cupped around a mug of tea and the other hand holding his phone while he read sports scores. The beginning of a work-induced stomach ulcer had motivated him to switch from coffee to tea.

His transition month swapped Justin’s affability for a sulky, grump who had headache complaints, sharp responses, and moaning about the absence of his favorite drink. When April pointed out his favorite beverage was beer, he bleated, “You know what I mean.”

To be a good sport, April had switched to tea in the morning. After a week, she began to leave the house thirty minutes earlier so she could purchase a to-go coffee on her way to work.

April dropped the tea box and stomped on it. It felt good. She stomped again and growled, “Things were supposed to be different.”

Then she ground the box into the wood flooring.

She thought about that day and the events that followed. It had been an ordinary spent-at-home mid-summer Sunday afternoon. Justin had been watching the end of a ballgame when April sat down on the other side of the speckled cement-colored couch. He didn’t acknowledge her and kept his attention on the last minutes of the game clock. The time ran out.

Justin leaned back into the deep seats. He tipped the last of the beer bottle back into his mouth. “Man, can’t beat that last play. Seriously, so good.”

“We have to talk,” April said. She gave Justin credit as he hadn’t groaned aloud. He put his empty beer bottle on the coffee table and swiveled to look at her.

“What’s up?” Justin asked.

“Are you happy?”

“Ya.”

April tried again. “Are you happy in our marriage?”

“Happy enough.”

April rubbed her eyes. “Is it enough? Justin, you’re a good man, but I’m not sure we’re right for each other.”

“What do you mean? I asked you to marry me. We got married. Is this about having a kid? Do you want to have a baby?”

“This isn’t about having a baby.”

Justin rubbed his eyes. “What do you want?”

April had been asking herself that question since last winter. The desire for answers rolled around her heart. She was attempting to discover them. “I want to be happy.”

“I thought we were.” His bewildered expression reflected April’s heart.

“Are we?” April asked.

“Yes. We’re not the happiest couple, but marriages have their dips.”

“I think this is more than a dip. It’s like were two friends living together.” They had met their senior year in college, fallen in love, and together had matriculated into tax-paying and lawn-mowing adults who shared each other’s lives and a house.

“April, we’re just going through a phase.”

“I don’t think it’s a phase.”

“What do you want?” Justin repeated. April said nothing. “If you’re going the direction I think you are, then you have to say the words out loud. I’m not doing it for you.”

“We don’t act like a couple in love. When was the last time we went on a real date? Not just grabbing dinner so we could sit on the couch and watch TV while we eat. You don’t hold my hand anymore,” April said.

“We had sex a couple of days ago.”

“That’s it. You said having sex. It wasn’t making love.”

“Fine. I’ll call it whatever you want,” Justin said.

“I don’t want you to call it what I want. I want you to name it for what it is.”

“I don’t get you. We have a good life together. It’s not perfect, but what relationship is? You’re willing to walk away from our marriage because you’re upset I don’t hold your hand? Grow up, April.”

“We’ve grown apart.”

“Cut the crap. You’ve got some idealistic fantasy in your head. Marriage takes work.”

“You think I haven’t been working at our marriage?” April asked.

“You’re ready to walk because you’re in a rough patch. I’m happy. Why can’t you be happy? Why aren’t you satisfied?”

She wanted to be. “I want a divorce,” April said.

Justin’s chin drew back, and his eyes narrowed. Squeezing the bridge of his nose, he then said, “If this is what you want, I’ll get my stuff out of the master bedroom and move into the spare. You set this into motion.”

Her soon-to-be-ex-husband left the room, the TV on, and the empty amber bottle on the coffee table. They continued living together. To April, Justin moving into the spare bedroom felt of little difference to the rhythm they had lived together before the divorce talk. The worst of their tussles involved sharp words of painful dismay and detachment. They began to separate their lives and the food in the fridge.

Two weeks later, on a Saturday afternoon minus any explosive outbursts or harangues, they divided their joint assets and debts with efficiency and quickness. April bought Justin out of the house, and they each kept their individual retirements. There had been no war with Justin, yet they surrendered their marriage vows.

April mentally reversed out of her recent past. Several of the tea bags had burst open. Mint flakes stuck to her foot. She didn’t bother dusting them off and tracked the scent to her bed.

Next, when April awoke on her high-thread-count marriage sheets, the time was 7:55 a.m. She stared at her blank white ceiling as the fall morning’s sun rays slipped into the room. Divorcing Justin was supposed to have moved her life forward in a happier direction. Rejuvenate her. Why did she feel so bad he was gone? This was the change she wanted, she asked for, and was given. He didn’t even fight for the house. Had she wanted him to fight for the house? Was she upset because Justin didn’t put up a fight for her? The last question made April’s breath stall.

Why should he fight for her? She gave him his walking papers. It was insane ego to want a divorce and have Justin pine for her. April rolled over and pressed her cheek into her pillow.

What did she think would happen? That exiting her relationship with Justin would be like turning off a faucet of dissatisfaction? Maybe April should have stayed in the marriage longer? Maybe their relationship would have improved?

April kept second-guessing. Maybe she should have tried harder. Justin should have tried harder. They could have tried harder. She did try, and her marriage still failed. Was that the saddest part or her absolution? More ‘maybes’ spooled around her head and heart, wrapping tighter. Her shoulder-length brown hair soaked up her tears.

She had known there would be sadness with her divorce, but April was surprised by the sorrow she was caught in. Her new freedom was supposed to bring in more happiness and contentment. Was she in a cage of her own making?

April laid in the memories of her past, the rubble of her present, and wondered what to do next.

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