Enjoy my latest, inspired by a story a friend shared with me, that I wrote while tea-drunk on matcha after an all-you-can-drink matcha event in Chinatown on O’ahu.

It was glorious.

I knew something was wrong.

​I’ve known for quite some time, but just didn’t want to face it.

​Not until now.

​Not until the eyelash.

​One single fake eyelash and my whole world has turned completely upside down.

​What. The. Fuck.

​I sat down on the boring beige carpet and leaned against Jackson’s wall. I say Jackson’s wall because he insisted we have our own bedrooms. His sleep issues are so severe that he can’t sleep with anyone in his bed, so we needed separate bedrooms. I always thought it was a little bit weird, but I compared him to Jason from Gilmore Girls and decided it was chic, maybe a little eccentric.

​Fucking chic? More like fucking stupid.

​I pinched the fake eyelash between my thumb and forefinger, holding it so I could examine the thing. It was one of those little clusters, the kind you add to the corner of your eyes for a little something extra. The kind I definitely don’t use because the only time I ever had fake eyelashes was for my sister’s wedding two years ago. Before we ever lived here.

​I took a deep breath and looked around Jackson’s room. I rarely come in here. When we have sex, he usually comes to my room. He’s always acted like his room is his sacred space, so I never felt all that comfortable coming in here.

​For the most part, he’s pretty neat. Bed made, and nothing but a clock, a David Foster Wallace novel, and a glass of water on his nightstand. I take a few slow breaths as I keep looking around. He has a picture of his parents on his dresser and a photo of him and some buddies at a Dodgers game a few years back. On the wall is a caricature of his old dog that someone gifted him two Christmases ago.

​I’m struck by the realization that I am nowhere to be found in here. If a person walked into his room, they would not guess he has a girlfriend. They’d probably assume he is single, considering there is zero evidence whatsoever of a woman in his life.

​Well, except for this eyelash. A single eyelash cluster on the floor next to the side of the bed that I know he does not sleep on, because he must sleep on the right side, anywhere we go.

​I’m full of questions:

​When was this left here?

​Who left it?

​How often has she been here?

​Is she pretty?

​Is it a regular thing or a one-time thing?

​How did they meet?

​Does she know about me?

​Does he like her more?

​How long has this been going on?

​Is she better in bed than me?

​Why does he want separate rooms so badly?

​How did I not know?

​Do his friends know?

​Where the fuck is he now?

​I feel panic rising in my chest as I try to keep it together. I’m at that delicate state where if I don’t stay angry, I’ll fall apart.

​Jackson loves a minimal space. I always felt that our living room and kitchen looked like they belonged in the staged apartment that the building shows potential renters. There’s no personality at all. He always says that a minimalist space creates a peaceful mind, and that sounded enticing considering how chaotic my life has always felt. Whenever he said that, though, I felt a kernel of shame. He knows my life is chaotic, and that was something I was self-conscious about. I told myself he said this because he wanted better for me, but was it that he wanted better for me, or did he want to feel better than me?

​I dropped my head back against the wall and closed my eyes, envisioning our apartment beyond his door. There’s one picture of us on the table in the entryway, we’re at some birthday party for a friend of his. There’s another photo of us from my sister’s wedding on the TV stand. In both pictures, we’re in a group. Not one photo is just us, and not one photo is obviously the two of us together; we’re clustered with other people, easily passing as a giant group of friends.

​Fuck.

​Other than that, I have some artwork on the walls, but no one would know it belongs to his girlfriend. We usually keep our bedroom doors closed so that our “personal messes” don’t disrupt the common areas. No one can see the pictures of us that I have in my room.

Fuck.​

My stomach oscillates between feeling hollow and nauseous.

Fuck.

I feel the tears threaten to drop, and I open my eyes instead.

On some level, I wish I never found this. I wish my head were still in the sand, that everything were fine, and that I could continue with my Tuesday, my one day off from work. I think of my one single day and how it’s now ruined.

I’m grateful I can’t see my reflection right now because if I could, I know these tears would fall.

I work three jobs to cover most of our rent. He’s working with one of his buddies who is getting a business off the ground, and I’m the girlfriend who somehow slipped into supporting him. Jackson can’t have a full-time job because he has to “devote time to his start-up.”

I still don’t understand what he’s starting up, but it’s something “really big, man.”

A million thoughts run through my mind, and I feel a heat of rage simmer over my whole body.

Fuck.

He turned my life upside down. I feel like I’m in one of those hamster balls, but instead of using it to run around, it’s out of control, and I’m rolling inside of it as it moves.

I feel a frenzy bubbling up as I take controlled breaths.

I picture tearing his neat room apart, cutting his face out of every picture of us I have, and leaving them scattered throughout the apartment. I could destroy something. I could shatter that stupid whiskey decanter set he insists on displaying in the kitchen. The one thing that can stay out in the kitchen.

He loves that fucking thing.

One eyelash.

Fuck this eyelash. I wish I could properly throw it against the wall and feel the satisfaction of a slam or a shatter, but instead, I lay it on the ground for now. I wipe my face, take one final breath, and stand up. I feel an eerily calm sensation as I exit his room and head for mine.

The fact that I’m walking to my room separate from my boyfriend’s in our apartment is wild, and I feel fueled by this thought. I pull my auburn hair back into a high ponytail as I grab my luggage from under my bed, and I start throwing things in - all of the clothes from my closet, my toiletries in the bathroom, the few books I have, and my shoes. Everything I can fit into two suitcases and a large LL Bean duffel, I have had since I was a teenager. It even has my initials monogrammed on it - KNK.

When I finish with my room, I scan the kitchen and living room before taking it all out to my car. As I walk back into the apartment, I realize it doesn’t look much different. A couple of things are missing, but nothing significant. As if I weren’t a significant presence here, as if I didn’t leave an imprint on the space, like I was never actually here. I didn’t have much to begin with, I guess.

I walk back into his room and pick up that eyelash, staring at it for a moment before getting a brilliant idea. I’m so jazzed by the thought of it that I practically run into the kitchen for a Post-it note.

I grab a black marker and smirk as I look at the yellow square. Once I’m done, I stick it to the kitchen counter with the eyelash and leave the apartment.

My emotions are a metaphorical bag of Chex Mix right now, and I drive in a daze. I don’t remember making any turns or changing any lanes, but somehow I end up exactly where I was supposed to. I pull into the parking lot and get out of my car before I lose any nerve. I grab my duffel bag first and make my way into the building’s courtyard after using the key fob I claimed to have lost.

The fountain in the center bubbles, and the lush greenery planted everywhere still makes me smile. I always loved this apartment building. It’s an open-air type of building, so you’re not completely enclosed. In Southern California, rain and bad weather aren’t much of an issue, and it’s nice to have the option of sitting in the courtyard to feel like you’re outside. It gives the illusion of nature smack in the middle of the city.

I know the way by heart, I could find the door with my eyes closed if I had to.

Number 314, “House of Pi,” we always called it. I take a deep breath and knock on the dark red door. After a moment, it opens, and part of me wants to bolt.

“Kelsey,” she says with surprise.

“Hi, Kat.” I nod to my duffel bag slung over my shoulder. “You were right.”

Kat takes a deep breath, nods her head slowly, and opens the door wider for me to go in. I can’t move. I try to speak, but nothing comes out. Instead, I start sobbing. I drop my bag and feel Kat’s arms wrap around me as I ugly cry into her shoulder.

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I can't take the moping around anymore. If I could dive right into the ocean and touch the bottom of it, I'd never come back to the surface. I'd join the wildlife down there and cover the whole world, swimming through our oceans.

Why can't Jeremy and Mom try to make the most of this? Dad sucked, and we all know it. Obviously, we're better off with him gone, so why is nobody acting like it?

We drop our bags on the beach, and I sprint for the water, leaving Jeremy miserable on the sand while Mom tries to put up the broken umbrella. I don't understand why she keeps trying to get that one to work. It broke last summer, but she's too stubborn to give up on anything. I think that's why Dad leaving is hitting her so hard; she didn't want to give up on him either, but at the same time, she didn’t have a choice.

She's going to keep pretending like she's fine but not actually be fine. I can't deal with it today. Today is supposed to be a kickass day - the sun is shining, the water is cold, and since my mom is so miserable right now, she didn't pack us lunch, which means we stopped at Wawa for sandwiches on the way here. Wawa is way better than what she would have made, even though it's not Jeremy's usual lunch. I picked up some baby carrots for him while we were there, but he didn't seem to care.

Once I hit the water, I feel like I can breathe again, like the battle is on land and I'm safe out here in the waves. I spot some guys my own age throwing a football. Once the ball gets close enough to me, I pick it up and throw a perfect spiral to the guy farthest away to show them I can keep up. Football was the one thing Dad and I got along with because he loved how great I was. I could feel myself turning into that typical football jock, and slowly, people around me stopped caring about who I was and started caring about how far I could throw.

If I threw well, then I was king of the team. If I threw badly then I was enemy number one. The toughest part was that this was how my dad acted too.

I always felt bad for Jeremy because he and Dad had absolutely nothing in common, and Dad often looked down on him. Or overlooked him altogether. Dad was tough on me, and if I didn't do well in a game, it was like it was the end of the world. I wonder though, what would it have been like for him not to care all that much about me, like he did with Jeremy? Sometimes, I think it would have been nice to be ignored instead of hearing how angry he was about how I played or feeling the pressure to make him happy. I wish Jeremy could see that he got the better end of the stick instead of trying so hard to make Dad happy. There is no making him happy.

Dad always focused on my throwing. The only thing he cared about was me becoming a quarterback, and everything else was a waste to him. He hated when I would help out other guys with their game. He said it was a waste of time playing with people who couldn’t keep up with me.

Last year, I decided that I won't be like him when I grow up. I won't be so miserable and grouchy and an all-around dick to everyone. I'm going to be better than him. He was the dark cloud in every room at home, and I refuse to be like that. I know Mom and Jeremy seem miserable now, but I can already see it - they look lighter than they did before. They just don’t know it yet.

The other guys and I kept throwing the ball around and catching it midair before crashing into a wave. My mom finally gave up on yelling at me to not go out too far and started reading her book. Jeremy is still face down in the sand. I know he hates the beach, but he makes it worse by lying in the sand like that. He's so smart but sometimes does dumb stuff that even I know better than to do.

When I finish up here, I'll see if I can get Jeremy to do something he wants to do. We're going to have fun today, I don't care how much my mom and brother resist, because if we don't, then Dad wins.

And that’s not going to happen.

The drive here was a real bitch.

I hate shore traffic, and I knew this was going to be a mistake the minute Jason said he wanted to go to the beach for his birthday. Smack in the middle of summer, and everything about the Jersey Shore feels like you're fighting for your life. There's traffic coming in, and it's brutal finding a parking spot. You have to walk the most miserable mile you can imagine all to snag a too small clearing between a screaming family, rowdy college kids, and some big guy with a cigarette who looks like all he does is lie in the sun every day, all day.

It requires so much damn work.

Jeremy was not having it; he hates the shore. He always looks so miserable here, but to be fair, he's been looking miserable lately, even at home. It's been 3 months since their dad left. Part of me says thank god, too bad he didn't leave sooner, and the other part of me wants to hunt him down like a deer for doing this to us. I feel like I'm constantly battling two opposite feelings toward the man - gratitude and fury.

As soon as we arrived, Jason sprinted into the water, and Jeremy threw himself onto his towel. I tried to set him up with an umbrella, but it kept falling over. After a few minutes, he told me to forget about it as he lay face down on his towel, so I turned back to my oldest to see how far out in the ocean he was.

Jason turned 13 years old today. He has a wild spirit and lives life "loud." I never know how else to describe it. He is often the center of attention, taking risks and living boldly. Jeremy is 11 years old and a quiet soul who loves his alone time. He's sensitive and observant, catching everything that happens around him, and is intentional with everything he does. I have two children who couldn't be more different, and I feel like when I make one happy, I am disappointing the other.

I stepped back from the water and trudged towards Jeremy. Jason isn't going to listen to me, and somehow he's made friends already. I look at the umbrella on the sand. I can't wait to throw that damn thing into the trash as soon as we get home. Right now, it's mocking me in its classic red and white striped pattern, symbolizing another thing that I failed at. I finally drop into my beach chair and try to distract myself with a novel, but focusing on anything right now requires gladiator strength. I replay the last few months in my head and, if I'm honest, the last two decades.

We had two years of dating, a year and a half engaged, 14 years and 8 months married, and all it took was 19 hours for it to fall apart. Less than a single day. James and I did not have one of those relationships that was ever filled with that much spark, but I thought spark was made up; hardly anyone I knew was madly in love with their husbands anymore. I guess the question for me, though, was whether I ever was madly in love with mine?

I wish I could say that I sacrificed the excitement and settled for a safe choice, but I always knew there was a lot of him I couldn't count on; I could feel it in the small ways. In the beginning, he had a hard time remembering my birthday. He once forgot to book our hotel in Cape May for a "romantic weekend" he wanted us to have. At the time, I didn't think it was a big deal. I was able to find another one for us after I walked into three others. He didn't show up to the celebration when I was promoted to partner at the law firm; he said he didn't feel like he fit in with everybody there, they were all "hoity-toity."

When I think back on it, I knew early on it was a mistake. Almost a year into the marriage, I began to think about who I would use for my divorce attorney. I made the call to Angela Freeman, an old friend and divorce lawyer, to schedule a meeting for the next day. When we finished the initial call, I promptly threw up in the trash can under my desk. I thought getting sick stemmed from our conversation, but there was a deeper knowing within me. On the way home, I stopped at CVS for a pregnancy test and out of panic, I left with 7 of them.

About 9 months later, Jason made his debut, and I never attended my meeting with Angela. When I think back on my life, I know where I went wrong. Marrying James was never my mistake, and no-showing that first meeting with Angela wasn't my mistake either.

When Jeremy was 6 months old, screaming nonstop, and Jason was going through his terrible twos, somehow they both ended up with ear infections. The poor things were suffering. It was the middle of the night, we ran out of Motrin, and James was nowhere to be found. Two am, and my boys were wailing in pain, and my husband wasn't home or answering his phone. At that point, I had to put the kids in my car and went back to the same CVS where I had bought the seven tests three years before, so I could buy more Motrin. I was so delusional that I bought every bottle they had because I'd be damned if I found myself in that situation again. I found out the next morning that he was still playing poker with his friends and didn't come home until 3:30.

Not calling Angela that day was where I went wrong.

Check back next week, 10/21, for the final installment, Part Three 👀

I wish I could go home. I wish I could be anywhere but here.

I’m exhausted from the walk. We lugged everything we could manage to carry with us today, and I immediately collapsed once we made it to “our spot.” As I lie here, I close my eyes even tighter, wishing away the harsh sand. I can feel the sun’s heat pummeling me and my skin drying out. I hear the birds soaring through the air, trying to scoop up whatever food they can find. Trying to survive, just like us.

I hate that this happened. I hate that we’re here.

The waves crash in the distance, and my body is so worn down and tired. The battle of the past few months finally catches up with me. I try to close my eyes even tighter. I can hear my mother yelling for my brother in the water. She’s panicked, watching him. I just want to go back home. It’s only been fifteen minutes since we arrived, and I can’t imagine how I will survive this. I can’t imagine how anyone survives this.

I open my left eye to take in the scene around me- kids begging their parents for food, parents trying desperately to act like everything is fine, and everyone fighting off the birds, picking up what little scraps they can get. I close my left eye. Somehow, the sun gets stronger than it already is. I’m pretty sure it’s laughing at us and our misery. We can’t live without it, and yet it has the power to ruin us all.

Nearby, I hear a kid crying to his mom as she tries to soothe him. I can smell trash and who knows what else. The water is cloudy and has a strange gray-greenish color. Isn’t water supposed to be blue? Who knows the last time this ever was?

My mom still can’t wrangle my brother, and now others have joined him. They all see him as the leader- brave, confident, daring - all the things I’m not and don’t wish to be. I don’t get how two people can come from the same family and yet turn out to be complete opposites. You would never know we’re related. He’s going to make it through this just fine, but I won’t. I know it already.

I envision what I would be doing right about now if it were a normal day and we were back at home. I would sit down for lunch and eat my bologna and cheese sandwich with my 10 carrot sticks. Always paired with a glass of milk. Like I do every day. I miss my routine, and I want it back. I wish I could be at my kitchen table right now and not out here. Instead of my lunch, I can taste salt and grit on my dried-out lips.

I open my eyes again. I see an old man lying perfectly still, and I am not entirely sure he’s breathing. He’s red from lying in one spot for too long; I wonder why nobody has the sense to at least move him. I shake my head a bit and feel some sand fall into my eyes. My mom looks back at me, concerned. I have no clue where my dad is; we haven’t known for a while now. Although I suspect my mom has an idea, but she doesn’t want to upset us by sharing the truth. She looks overwhelmed and like she can’t handle this.

Adults are supposed to have it all together, and I can tell she doesn’t. She looks scared, too. My brother still won’t listen to her, and I close my eyes again, praying this will all be over soon.

Check back next week, 10/17, for Part Two 👀