the parlor for a few minutes, pacing from one end to the other, trying to practice all those things the therapist taught me back in Portland. The first step is figuring out if I’m really angry or just using anger to mask other feelings. I know immediately that I’m hurt. So incredibly hurt that Walsh would try to walk away from me—from us—like that. He makes it seem like the last fourteen years of my life were one big mistake, some sort of blight to overcome.
It’s obvious we had problems, but we were happy most of the time. And in all that time, I got an associate’s degree and learned management and promotions. Walsh went from playing in a garage to being in a mega-successful band. He became a millionaire, we traveled the world, and I managed the daily operations of a staff of anywhere from a dozen to fifty or sixty. He won a damn Grammy. There’s no way he can convince me that we were bad together.
So I’m hurt as much as I’m angry. Now I need to deal with that so the stress from it doesn’t just fester. I don’t want to be on these meds the rest of my life, and to get off of them, I need to learn how to deal with my stress better. I can’t just go ninja on everyone around me until I force them to do what I want. At least that’s what my therapist says. And Mel admitted the point as well, so I guess I’ll have to take their word for it.
I do my breathing exercises and count to ten about five times. I focus on feeling my pulse rate slow. My cheeks cool down, and I know I’ve got it under control. I stop pacing and stand, looking out the window across the front porch to the street, where it is silent and still—like I need my mind to be if I’m going to figure out how to deal with Walsh.
"Well, did he get his head out of his cute behind?" I hear Mrs. Stallworth say.
I turn around, my jaw dropping open at her language. "Um, he’s, uh…" I’m speechless, and her gleeful expression tells me that she’s loving it.
"Well, don’t stand there like a guppy out of water. Come to the kitchen and tell me all about it," she says as she turns and shuffles away.
I can’t help but grin. They may not have a Starbucks in Cowtown, Texas, but we didn’t have a Mrs. Stallworth in Portland.
I follow her to the other side of the house and into the large old-fashioned kitchen. She doesn’t even have a dishwasher. I’ve already been told that Wednesdays are my day to do dishes. She points to a chair at the kitchen table and I sit. I’m starting to think that Texas women spend a lot of time with visitors in their kitchens.
"He’s a good-lookin’ one," she grunts at me as she flips the switch on an electric tea kettle.
"I think so," I answer.
"And pretty polite for a boy these days."
"He’s a good guy, but he’s had a hard couple of years." I wipe some crumbs off the table into my hand and stand up to brush them off in the trash can near the back door.
"The damn bottle," she laments. "It’s ruined a lot of fine men."
I struggle to hide my surprise. I told her that I was staying in town because my ex was living nearby and we were working things out, but I never told her about Walsh’s alcoholism.
"What?" she says as she picks up the kettle that’s just clicked off and pours the hot water into cups. She walks over and sets one in front of me before sitting down in a chair across the table. She’s so small that she looks like a tiny child sitting in an adult’s seat. "It was Leanne who called me to get you a room. It wasn’t that hard to figure out your boy must be staying at the Double A. Everyone in town knows Ronny’s got a bunch of lushes out there." She shrugs.
I’m not sure whether to be offended or laugh. I decide that it’s too much work to be offended. Walsh is a lush. He’d say so too.
"So the bottle ruin him or not?" she asks as she gives me the eagle eye.
"No," I say emphatically. "It did not ruin him. He’s stronger than that. He just doesn’t believe we’re stronger yet, so I
It’s obvious we had problems, but we were happy most of the time. And in all that time, I got an associate’s degree and learned management and promotions. Walsh went from playing in a garage to being in a mega-successful band. He became a millionaire, we traveled the world, and I managed the daily operations of a staff of anywhere from a dozen to fifty or sixty. He won a damn Grammy. There’s no way he can convince me that we were bad together.
So I’m hurt as much as I’m angry. Now I need to deal with that so the stress from it doesn’t just fester. I don’t want to be on these meds the rest of my life, and to get off of them, I need to learn how to deal with my stress better. I can’t just go ninja on everyone around me until I force them to do what I want. At least that’s what my therapist says. And Mel admitted the point as well, so I guess I’ll have to take their word for it.
I do my breathing exercises and count to ten about five times. I focus on feeling my pulse rate slow. My cheeks cool down, and I know I’ve got it under control. I stop pacing and stand, looking out the window across the front porch to the street, where it is silent and still—like I need my mind to be if I’m going to figure out how to deal with Walsh.
"Well, did he get his head out of his cute behind?" I hear Mrs. Stallworth say.
I turn around, my jaw dropping open at her language. "Um, he’s, uh…" I’m speechless, and her gleeful expression tells me that she’s loving it.
"Well, don’t stand there like a guppy out of water. Come to the kitchen and tell me all about it," she says as she turns and shuffles away.
I can’t help but grin. They may not have a Starbucks in Cowtown, Texas, but we didn’t have a Mrs. Stallworth in Portland.
I follow her to the other side of the house and into the large old-fashioned kitchen. She doesn’t even have a dishwasher. I’ve already been told that Wednesdays are my day to do dishes. She points to a chair at the kitchen table and I sit. I’m starting to think that Texas women spend a lot of time with visitors in their kitchens.
"He’s a good-lookin’ one," she grunts at me as she flips the switch on an electric tea kettle.
"I think so," I answer.
"And pretty polite for a boy these days."
"He’s a good guy, but he’s had a hard couple of years." I wipe some crumbs off the table into my hand and stand up to brush them off in the trash can near the back door.
"The damn bottle," she laments. "It’s ruined a lot of fine men."
I struggle to hide my surprise. I told her that I was staying in town because my ex was living nearby and we were working things out, but I never told her about Walsh’s alcoholism.
"What?" she says as she picks up the kettle that’s just clicked off and pours the hot water into cups. She walks over and sets one in front of me before sitting down in a chair across the table. She’s so small that she looks like a tiny child sitting in an adult’s seat. "It was Leanne who called me to get you a room. It wasn’t that hard to figure out your boy must be staying at the Double A. Everyone in town knows Ronny’s got a bunch of lushes out there." She shrugs.
I’m not sure whether to be offended or laugh. I decide that it’s too much work to be offended. Walsh is a lush. He’d say so too.
"So the bottle ruin him or not?" she asks as she gives me the eagle eye.
"No," I say emphatically. "It did not ruin him. He’s stronger than that. He just doesn’t believe we’re stronger yet, so I
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