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It’s been thirteen hours since I last felt his touch, but my skins still burning.

My mind refuses to loosen its tight hold on the images of him. It’s like there’s a noose around my mind, squeezing like a vise, withholding everything else.

The tightness in my chest, the constant loop of images in my mind, it’s a reminder of his power over me.

Do you see that girl on the couch in the really white room? I can understand if you can’t; the room is so damn bright, isn’t it? You’re probably blinded by the fact that there’s even someone else in the room.

Since you can’t see, I’ll tell you. There’s a girl on the couch, crying, shaking her head in confusion. She doesn’t understand the last twenty-four hours and the endless orgasms she experienced on the floor, the table, in a two-foot shower and eventually, on a bed.

She also doesn’t understand why she’s here alone when her soon-to-be ex-husband said he’d be on time and guess what? She fucking believed his lying ass. Probably because her brain is on hiatus from the orgasms.

Either way, here I sit, crying, wishing Ridge’s tongue was on me.

By the way. . . guess who’s watching my kids at the moment?

Ridge. Never even had to ask him. I told him I had to go to our parent-coaching session today and he took the boys out for ice cream. And the thought he did that, makes me cry even harder.

Parent coaching. It’s dumb if you ask me because I know how to parent. Austin. . . he doesn’t even know how to be married much less parent. Our divorce proceedings started back in August and here we are the middle of September and shit still isn’t finished. The papers have been filed; we agreed on everything presented. I keep the house, we split the savings we had, and he agreed to pay off our credit cards.

You’d think he’s giving me everything I want, right?

One would think that, but one wouldn’t know what the fuck they were thinking. And I’ll tell you why. In California, it’s a 50/50 state meaning you split custody of the children 50 percent of the time, and debts/money is the same.

Austin being the only one who worked during our marriage thinks our hefty savings account should go to him, and he shouldn’t have to pay child support if he’s getting the kids 50 percent of the time.

I don’t care about the money. I don’t want Brie raising my children. Plain and simple. Austin works long hours, and I know who will have my kids when he’s at work. Her.

So that leads us to parent coaching while we await the finality of our divorce—which by the way won’t be final for five months.

All of this—and the fact that I’m sitting here alone with the parent coach—brings me to tears.

Carol hands me a tissue. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to cry.”

I stare at her. “I knowI’mallowed to cry. I’m in the middle of a nasty divorce. My husband cheated on me, with my best friend.” I rip the tissue from her hand. “Oh, and this just in as of two days ago, I had the best sex of my life with my kids’ teacher. Who is also my soon-to-be ex-husbands stepbrother. So yeah, welcome tomy life, Carol.”

Carol’s eyes, well, they widen, and her mouth forms a big O of oh my God.

Again, welcome to my life.

If you’ve never been divorced, or in the process of divorce, parent coaching is probably something you haven’t heard of. And if you have, it was probably nothing like this.

Parent coaching sucks sweaty balls in Florida humidity. And that’s putting it mildly.

I understood the mediation process. That was easy despite it being lengthy, expensive as shit and often having damaging effects of a litigated divorce because of the emotional toll on the wife and children. Fuck the husband in my case. Maybe husbands too, but it seems mine couldn’t give a flying monkey shit about it.

The parent coach assigned to us, Carol Shepard—you know, the one in front of me staring at me like I’ve lost my mind—she’s the best in the interests of the children while acknowledging the couple’s pain associated with the divorce without allowing those emotions to affect the wellbeing of the children. At least that’s what her website says. I’ve yet to experience this.

Mostly because she’s still staring at me since I told her I was fucking my kids’ teacher. I’m certain this can’t be the worst confession Carol’s been handed in her years of parent coaching.

When I said “I do” to Austin, I never thought years later he’d be porking Brie. I do know this. When divorce comes along, the kidsalwayssuffer. The damage can be mitigated, however, when both parents remain focused on the best interests of the children.

That has yet to happen for us.

I read an article not too long ago that said it’s not divorce that affects children, but the ugly legal battles between parents. I’m calling bullshit on that, but still, children feel responsible for their parents’ divorce.

They naturally blame themselves for the acrimony between their parents. And despite us, as parents, or maybe just me, believing I’m not putting the boys in the middle, they hear the arguing and experience the lack of affection between us, thus creating emotional instability. Sure, I sound like a textbook now, but I know the boys are affected by all this.

Austin doesn’t help the situation by talking crap about me and painting an ugly picture of how bad I am for kicking him out. What he really should be saying is that he’s just a dick and couldn’t keep said dick out of another woman’s va jay jay.