The Divorcee Murder Club

Cincuenta Y Cinco ~ 55

            When I asked Mindy to meet me, I didn’t anticipate her to accept, but when she did, an immense relief exhaled from my lungs, and my entire body relaxed right along with it. I even slept soundly. The last time she and I spoke, things were left unsettled, so I have no idea how things will go or if my deal with Richie is a fool's errand. 

But at least she said yes. 

There’s fog on the mirror when I step out of the shower and wipe it off with my palm. Angie stares at me from the doorway. However, it’s nothing like how she used to gaze at me. There’s no hunger in it to devour my body. Instead, it’s relaxed, and I think we’ve reached a place of mutual understanding and respect. I’m no longer a human dildo to her, and she’s no longer a manipulative thorn in my ass cheek.

“Here. Let me help you,” she pushes off the door frame and steps into the bathroom. “You need a haircut.”

“Or maybe I’ll let it grow down my shoulders like Antonio Banderas in Desperado.”

“Would that make me Salma Hayek?”

“I wish. She’s a baddie,” I laugh.

Rolling her eyes, Angie slaps my chest with her hand, then grabs a gob of gel from the tub on the counter. She stands on tip-toes, her uninjured arm stretching to reach my head and twisting the gel through my hair. 

“Here…” I sink onto the toilet seat to make it easier. There’s a serene smile on her face as she smooths the sides of my head with her fingers, and of course, I have to ruin the moment by poking her belly. "Boop.” 

She slaps my hand, getting gel on the knuckles, but returns to styling my hair. This is nice. It’s like having a girlfriend without her being my girlfriend, and it’s been a while since I’ve received genuine tenderness from someone I’m attracted to. Then, I remember how weeks ago, I yelled in Angie’s face and used her scars against her.

Resting my hands on her abdomen, I murmur, “I’m sorry.” 

“For what?” she asks, her fingers twisting through waves.

“For what I said about the scars on your stomach.” I swipe my thumbs across her lower belly. “How only someone who is crazy and hates themselves would do that.” 

“Oh.” Her fingers pause, and she retracts her arm.

“It was a shitty thing for me to say. You’re not crazy. Only wounded. Like me.” 

Angie’s gaze has gone to our feet, but her hand goes to the hem of her shirt, pushing it up toward her chest. This is the first time I’m seeing the scars this close-up. We’ve always had sex in the dark or early morning dimness. I could ignore them—even forget they were there, but now I’m digesting how bad they are in the bright bathroom light. The chaotic lines stare back at me as if a cat used her flesh for a scratching post. A rogue tear rolls down her cheek, so she captures it with the back of her finger, and her voice is quiet when she speaks.

“I was a little crazy when I did this to myself. I lost baby after baby and felt damaged. I hated my womb for being broken. I hated how it changed Jeremiah’s love for me. So one day, I grabbed one of his razors, and…” 

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I want to.” She closes her eyes, causing more tears to spill. “Doing this temporarily removed the pain I was feeling internally, and I hated myself anyway for losing my babies, so I punished myself for being broken.”

“You’re not broken.”

“But I can’t have kids.” She shakes her head.

“It means you can’t carry them, but you could try a surrogate or adoption.”