I snore and it’s not quiet. If I’m roused from slumber and told to roll over, my inner bear usually hibernates. Originally, Ike would put his warm lips to my forehead and let his breath graze my skin in an attempt to free me from my sleep. I’d roll over onto my side where he’d hold me until I fell back asleep. This almost always caused my snoring to stop.
On a cold, drizzly day in March (only two months after we’d started talking) Ike, myself, and his father boxed his belongings and moved them into my home. His lease was expiring and my house was a block away from work. He’d been staying with me every night for a while, so it seemed like a good decision. Ike offered to pay half of my mortgage payment (because he had the kids half time) so this also seemed financially wise.
We’d been saying “I love you” for a month already. I’d met his son, sister, parents, and friends. Nothing seemed to scare me away from moving too fast. My friends and family were apprehensive. They relentlessly questioned his motives and my thoughts. The hopeless romantic in me continued down my own path, without considering their questions. Was that stupid? Yes. Did I care? No.
I’m guilty of overlooking the advice of others. Ike made me feel so good. My brain had taken the back seat and my heart was driving every decision. It felt so right.
Two weeks after Ike moved in, the weather gods smiled down on us. On a beautiful Saturday afternoon, with no plans and a faux-Spring day, we decided to take a trip to the winery.
Ike had been encouraging me to start writing again so I grabbed my journal and pen. I packed my over-sized sunglasses, threw my long blond hair into a messy bun, and jumped in his whip.
The winery was crowded. A three-piece acoustic band was set up near the entrance. Our small table was in direct sun-light, so I was a little warm in my Northface jacket. I took it off to avoid overheating and exposed my pale, freckled shoulders to the sun for the first time that year.
Ike brought back two glasses, a bottle of Pinot Noir, and a cheese plate. With good company, music, food and drinks, we enjoyed our time together tremendously. He liked watching me write. I spent most of that day eavesdropping on other conversations (they provided interesting talking points for future blogs).
The warm sun started to hide behind the trees and my Northface fleece enveloped my body once again. Closing time was upon us. Neither of us should have driven, but with the winery closing, we stupidly left. Three bottles of wine deep, we were driving the windy roads.
“Why did you take your jacket off in the middle of the patio?”
I snickered. “Oh, well I didn’t really want to sweat. After all, you know what wine does to my sex drive. I thought maybe you’d bend me over once we got home.” I could make a sailor blush with my drunk talk (this is nothing). Boys get a kick out of it. Ike, however, just sort of looked at me with a suspicious glance.
My purse started singing. It was his phone. I grabbed it out of my purse and started to hand it to him, but instead of taking it from me, he asked me to answer (after all, he was driving).
“Who is this?”
“This is Sarafina. Ike’s driving and he asked me to pick up.”
“Can you please tell him that I’d rather have this conversation with him than with his newest fling?”
Amanda. It was his bitch of an ex-wife Amanda. Ike took the phone from me.
Immediately, the car became tense. Although I couldn’t make out what she was saying, her voice was echoing through the car. Her tone was now less pleasant than it was when I answered.
After ten minutes on the phone, Ike almost missed our turn. I tapped his arm, in order to give him a signal, but instead of looking at me he said, “Hang on Amanda, Sara is trying to tell me something.”
That didn’t go over well. Blaring from the receiver, I heard Amanda yell, “Tell that bitch that she shouldn’t speak unless she’s spoken to!”
Really? Not good. What did I do to deserve this treatment? Ike would let her know her comments were inappropriate. I knew he’d defend my honor.
Three seconds later, Ike hung up the phone. He didn’t tell her to grow up. He didn’t apologize to me for her rude comments. No empathy was shown.
Instead, he began yelling at me.