So Long, and Thanks for the Golf Lessons

“Oh!” he screamed. “This is all my fault! Right? It’s always my fault, isn’t it?” He was screaming so close to my face I could smell onions and garlic he had for lunch. But there was something else on his breath, too. Something both smoky and sweet. I knew I needed to tread carefully when he came home smelling like that.

I had to placate him. “No, honey,” I soothed. “Remember, I’ve asked you just to shoot me a text if you’re going to be late, so I know if I need to pick Max up from doggy daycare and when to start dinner.” It didn’t work.

He edged closer. “You expect me to remember to text you every little flipping thing about my schedule?” He was still screaming, and little bits of spittle flew from his mouth and showered my face. I know if I wiped them away, it would only make him more enraged, so I just let the saliva run down my cheek. “I work my ass off all day to support this lifestyle you demand we keep, and you expect me to remember some stupid little thing like sending you a text?” His face was contorted with rage.

“You wouldn’t have to do it if you’d just share your location with me—”

“Dammit, Jessica, location sharing is for couples who don’t trust each other. When have I ever- ever- given you any reason to not trust me? What do you think? I’m cheating or something?” He stormed away and punched the wall over the console table. I flinched and squeezed my eyes shut. A framed photo from our wedding day that was sitting on the table fell over with a clatter. His fist left a divot in the wall matching several others decorating our townhouse.

In this moment, I was having a hard time remembering what made me fall in love with Mike in the first place. And what lifestyle was I demanding? He was the one who drove the new Range Rover. I still drove the same Mazda I had when we met. Most of my salary as a professor went to cover his golf club membership and Orange Theory classes.

“Mike,” I began. “I don’t think you’re cheating.” Could he be cheating? “If I could just see on my phone if you’re at work or not, I could get Max on my way home and start dinner when I see you leaving the office.”

He stalked back across the room. That was a mistake, I thought. I braced myself.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” His voice was scary calm after his prior screaming. He leaned in. Onions and garlic, smoky and sweet smacked me in the face. “Oh, I got it. You think just because you’re the one with the PhD, you’re so much smarter than me.”

Than I, I thought but didn’t say it.

“No, that’s not—”

“Well, I’ve got news for you. You’re just as dumb as every other bitch out there.”

I rolled my eyes. I’d had it. I couldn’t take anymore from this narcissistic asshole.

“Well, I wasn’t the one who was on academic probation in college, so—”

Before I could finish the sentence, the back of his hand slammed into the side of my face so hard the whole room went dark. I blinked a few times, and the room eventually came into focus again.

“Oh my God, Jess. I’m so sorry baby.” He knelt on the floor in front of the white sofa I was sitting on.

We’d bought the sofa only a few months before. I’d wanted green. He’d insisted on white. Everything in our townhouse was the institutional white he wanted. I saw a few drops of my blood on the white fabric. I edged my tongue out and tasted the metallic tang from my split lip. It was already swollen.

“Baby,” he said again. “I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry.” Isn’t this what they always said in movies when the abusive husband smacked the girl around? I’d become such a cliché. I realized I was shaking.

We’d only been married for three years, but the screaming and wall punching had started about a year in. This was the first time he’d ever laid a hand on me, though.

He cupped my cheek in his hand. I could feel the callouses from golfing chafe against my skin. It took all my self-control not to jerk my face away, but I knew it would be worse for me if I did.

Max whined and hopped up on the sofa next to me. He nudged his head under my hand and leaned his weight against my body. His warmth was soothing. It was obvious that he knew something was wrong.

“Get off the sofa, Max,” Mike scolded him. “You know you’re not allowed on the furniture.” He gently tugged Max off the sofa by his collar. The irony was not lost on me that he was kinder to the dog than his own wife or that he was worried about the dog ruining the furniture when he’d ruined it with my blood.

Mike rose off the floor, went to the freezer, and grabbed a bag of frozen peas. He wrapped them in a dish towel and gently pressed them to my face. I winced from the pain.

“Can you forgive me?” he implored. I didn’t answer. “Please forgive me. I don’t know what came over me. I promise I’ll never lay a hand on you again.”

“I forgive you,” I replied robotically. I stood up. “I’m just going to go change out of my work clothes. I’ll be right back.”

I climbed the spiral stairs to the loft bedroom. When I unbuttoned my shirt and took it off, I saw blood all down the front. The blood had bled through onto my bra. I stuffed them in the hamper, so I didn’t have to look at it and threw on a hoodie and leggings.

I walked into the bathroom and flipped on the light. My lip was doubled in size and a deep purple bloomed across my face. I splashed water to try and wash away the dried blood.

I could see the light from his laptop glowing on the desk in our bedroom. He was always so careful not to leave his laptop open. It was password protected, but he was still logged in from earlier.

It was in that moment I realized I didn’t have any of the passwords for our accounts. He claimed he just wanted to take care of me, so I didn’t have to worry about financials, and I hadn’t second guessed it. Now I had my doubts. I felt like such an idiot. Somehow, I’d let this man have so much control over every facet of my life.

I glanced from the laptop toward the edge of the loft. I ran to the rail and peered into the kitchen below. He’d poured himself another bourbon and had his AirPods in talking to someone on his phone. He stood in front of the stove. I guess he thought cooking dinner would make it all better.

His distraction was my opportunity. I darted to the computer before it could go to sleep. His email was open. I furtively scrolled through his inbox and my jaw dropped. I saw emails from Ashley Madison, Hinge, Tinder, Match.com, and Hair Club for Men. I would have giggled if I hadn’t been so shocked.

Match.com? People still used that? I thought. That gaslighter. I guess every denial is truly an admission of guilt.

As I continued to scroll, it became clear he never deleted emails. I clicked on one for Hinge and saw messages between him and some woman named Vanessa making plans to meet up at a wine bar. I closed the message and opened another. Plans to meet up with Emma at an absinthe bar. I scrolled back through months of emails. Through years of emails. As I continued to scroll, I found that he’d been on the apps since before our wedding! Definitely making an appointment for an STI test tomorrow, I thought.

I clicked on another tab. He was logged into a bank account, but it wasn’t our joint account. It wasn’t even our bank. But there were charges. I looked at the top line. There was a charge for $227 at some place called the Honey Trap for today at 3:47 p.m. I picked up my phone and searched it up. Strip club. That idiot left work to go to a strip club, I thought.

I looked at the balance and gasped. He had $145,000 in the account! While my salary had been paying for his 18 holes, new muscles, and fancy wheels, he’d been hiding money for strip clubs, girlfriends, and lord knows what else.

I heard a clatter below, so I ran back to the raiIing and peeked over. He was still talking as he dumped a bag of dried pasta in a pot of boiling water and dumped a jar of sauce into a pot.

I tiptoed back to the computer. I set up an ACH transfer of $140K to a personal bank account I used for my student loans from before we were married. I’d still leave him a little something. I set the transfer to hit my account at midnight while Mike was hopefully sound asleep.

Thank God my dad gave me the advice to keep my old account as an “oh shit” account. I think today solidly put me in “oh shit” territory. I’d only had a few thousand in it for bills, but I’d soon be flush with cash to get the hell away from this monster.

After setting up the transfer, I clicked the gear symbol on the top righthand corner of the screen and went to “change password.” Before I could change it, I had to type in the original password. I tried JessicaLove1394. Bam. First Try. That asshole was using my name and birthdate for his secret bank account password. I switched it to baldingmicrodick3” and confirmed the switch.

“Hon! Dinner’s ready!” Mike called from below.

I leaned over the edge. He couldn’t hide his shock when he saw the deep purple bruise on my face. “I think I’m going to lie down for a bit. I’m not hungry. You go ahead without me.”

“Okay. I’ll save some in the fridge for you if you get hungry later.”

“Thanks.” I smiled. My swollen face throbbed with the movement. Asshole.

I lay down on the bed and took inventory of how my life got to this point. I met Mike my senior year of college. I’d been on a bar crawl for one of sorority sister’s birthday. When we walked in bar, I saw Mike standing at a table full of frat bros. I remember thinking he was the hottest guy I’d ever seen. He had dark hair and was six foot plus. I’d always had a thing for tall guys. No short kings for me.

I told my friend, Hillary, how hot I thought he was, and her drunk ass made a beeline to tell him. Mike and I had spent the rest of the night dancing, taking shots, and making out. We got engaged eight months later at our graduation. In retrospect, that’s not enough time to truly get to know who someone is. You live and you learn, I guess, but this was a tough lesson.

Those months had passed in a drunken haze. We were the party couple. The sorority girl and the fraternity bro. Again, how cliched had my life become?

There had been so many red flags that I hadn’t noticed. Maybe I’d noticed, but I just ignored them because he was so tall and good looking. God, I’d been so shallow. Maybe this was all my fault.

When we were dating, he’d been in at least three bar fights. There’d been so many nights we’d gotten separated at the bar, and his phone had conveniently “died” so he couldn’t call me until the next day. Hell, I’d even had to bail him out of jail one time. But he always had such beautiful excuses to go along with his beautiful face.

Was this all my fault? No, I wouldn’t gaslight myself the same way I’d let him gaslight me for the last few years. A pair of tears leaked from the corners of my eyes briefly mourning—not him—but what I thought my life with him would be like. I’d been so naïve.

I opened my eyes and could see that he’d turned off the lights downstairs, but there was the glow of the TV. I crept down the spiral staircase. He still had his AirPods in talking to someone.

“I know, baby,” he said in a low voice. “Just a few more months, and I’ll be free.”

I stopped and listened. He had no idea I was behind him. Idiot.

“Send me a picture of your tits.” His phone dinged a few seconds later. I could see a naked pair of double Ds appear on the screen. It came from some woman named Tinsley. I think he worked with a Tinsley.

“Ohhhh, it’s killing me that I can’t touch you right now.” A pause. “I know. I know. Don’t worry. I’ve got the money in another account. She’ll never find out about it. No. She’ll get the papers next week, and then you and I will fly to Cabo the next day.” I could hear a girlish giggle come through his AirPods.

That asshole. He’d lied. Cheated. Stolen. He’d beaten the shit out of me. And now this.

I looked around the room. His new Honma clubs sat in the corner in their new white leather bag. I walked over and pulled driver from the bag and removed the custom cover.

“I know, babe. Just a few more weeks. Alright. I love you, too.” Sorry Vanessa and Emma. Apparently, he’s running away with Tinsley. He dropped the phone next to him on the couch and picked up the remote.

I quietly closed the gap between where I’d been standing and the back of the couch. I zeroed in on the golf ball-sized bald spot on the back of his head. Then I swung. At least those golf lessons came in good for something. I fucking hated golf.

I bent over and looked at the little droplets of red that spattered the white sofa. I never like white anyway. It really was all his fault.