SYNOPSIS
Everyone says that marriage is hard work, only giving you the details of what happens on the surface. Nobody shares the good, the bad, and the ugly or… the secrets.
Harlyn Hadaway isn’t sure she believes in marriage, but she does desire real love. It has to come under the condition that it doesn’t disrupt her peace. Little does she know; her life is about to be rattled by one decision and someone she never saw coming.
Portia Pardon, a charming Soldier in the U.S. Army, has an agenda that Harlyn fits into perfectly.
Harlyn packs the biggest lesbian U-Haul of her life after locking eyes with Portia. Love at first sight knocks her into a trance causing her to bypass red flags and leave the single life behind. She embarks on an eye-opening journey as a military spouse. Four months turn into years of an emotional roller coaster, leaving Harlyn to wonder where to draw the line between love, marriage, and toxicity. How far is too far after you’ve said, “I do?”
Harlyn Hadaway isn’t sure she believes in marriage, but she does desire real love. It has to come under the condition that it doesn’t disrupt her peace. Little does she know; her life is about to be rattled by one decision and someone she never saw coming.
Portia Pardon, a charming Soldier in the U.S. Army, has an agenda that Harlyn fits into perfectly.
Harlyn packs the biggest lesbian U-Haul of her life after locking eyes with Portia. Love at first sight knocks her into a trance causing her to bypass red flags and leave the single life behind. She embarks on an eye-opening journey as a military spouse. Four months turn into years of an emotional roller coaster, leaving Harlyn to wonder where to draw the line between love, marriage, and toxicity. How far is too far after you’ve said, “I do?”
Why did I agree to this dumb shit? I pulled down my sun visor to check my lipstick in the mirror. I wasn’t even sure why I cared how I looked. The only reason I dressed up today was to remind Portia, my soon-to-be ex-wife, what she was losing. Correction already lost. If I were at home I would say, “Alexa, play Gone Already by Faith Evans.” I embraced the petty in me.
I had a few minutes to sit with my thoughts and prolonged anger. There was no nice way to say this, so: fuck marriage. Full offense. Okay fine, not to the people who did and do it right. You know, sticking to the vows they wrote and shared and all that shit. I’m going to confess that I never had any desire to get married.
Like none.
Until she convinced me to have faith in what it represented, particularly for us. It was only a fantasy for a queer couple since it wasn’t legal yet. Proposals for us were exclusively heartfelt gestures we could walk away from at any moment. A whimsical idea of lawful love. I bought into the fantasy, even with a slanted view of love and happiness.
I watched my mother marry multiple times. She seemed to do it out of boredom because she despised being alone. My father married twice. From my perspective, it seemed like making do with hopelessness intentionally. The silver lining for my mother was when she no longer felt fulfilled in her arrangements, she would pack and leave. I admired her for that, mimicking the same behavior for a long time before realizing parts of it were toxic.
I surmise the silver lining for my father was longevity. No matter how dysfunctional his second marriage, he and his wife stayed together for over thirty years. There was nothing admirable about their love, with his constant cheating and her willingness to be walked over, but their affinity to remain together could make for a good argument about unconditional love.
In any case, I didn’t have a positive view of marriage, so I never wanted it for myself. The most honest part of me would say I was afraid of becoming my parents—the worst parts of both. A small part of me could dream and believe I could find my love and be the exception.
My wounded inner child set up marriage ceremonies with my Barbie hoping she and Ken would be together forever. Of course, it didn’t take long to realize those fairytales were for fictional characters, children, and weak minds. That didn’t mean I didn't want it for that little girl inside of me. I could be jaded, she could not. So, like the cliché I promised to never be, I became a wife. I remember the downward spiral like it was yesterday. Most would say we were both juvenile and not prepared for that type of responsibility. That was a partial truth. There was an unnamed illness most women were contaminated with under the guise of what it takes to find and keep love. The red flags were always right there. They show up in the first messages, on the first date, in the breath of every word and gesture. Yet, we ignore it because… love.
It’s the goal.
Outside of love, Portia and I both saw an opportunity for a different life, but I could only speak for myself in terms of intention. I thought she was the change I needed after seven years at the same company with the same routine. I exceeded my growth cap as a Safety Writer at work. In my personal life, adversity for development was non-existent. I wanted true love to come with the changes I sought, not drudged-up manipulation disguised as matrimony.
In hindsight, there was nothing wrong with my life even if it was routine, but I had become restless inside of the insanity. I lived in a little corner of New Orleans, ten minutes from my job downtown making business and pleasure a streetcar ride away. I had my family and my friends, my bills were paid, and my two dogs were fed. When I got lonely, I had that one ex. We all have one whether we admit it aloud or not. I know, I know... exes were a bad idea. But it was that or spend time with a stranger, and my hoe-behavior had limits. The “ex” triumphed every time, even if the limit was kissing and dry humping.
I was flawed.
That was me. I’d always thought I’d get better with time and age, but it seemed I got worse. It’s true what they said about having to repeat a lesson until you've learned it. Marriage was my broken record. Today, I was lifting the needle.
She came in uniform. Glasses on her face, binder in her hand, looking like the non-commissioned officer, NCO, whom I used to love. I spoke military fluently because of her. She knew all things authoritative and uniformed were my weakness. Flashbacks of the times she’d bend me over our bed and recite the NCO’s creed still sent chills through my body. My toes curled and my eyes closed involuntarily as I remembered the sternness in her voice and begged her to repeat it until I climaxed. Her authority was the thing that I both loved and hated most. It once attracted me to her but now it was one of the many reasons I wanted a divorce. Thinking about it now, I wondered if I was partly to blame for fueling her controlling ways. She had not always been so aggressive with me. After all, I slammed her against a wall first, snatched her clothes from her body, and then insulted her by calling her a private knowing she was a Sergeant with a promotable status. I wanted her to stroke my pussy longer and harder. I’d only wanted her to be a barbarian in the bedroom, but somehow, her behavior seeped over into our entire marriage.
Portia walked over to my driver’s side door, opening it. I was annoyed by her presence within seconds. She wouldn’t accept the fact that I hated her. My skin warmed and tightened as a natural reaction when she came around. I could feel the blood rushing to my face.
It was one of the few sunny days on Ft. Lewis’ Army Base in Washington. It was too bad my mood didn’t match. I widened the open door, hitting Portia hard enough to get her to move. “I don’t need you to do that,” I said, standing to smooth out my dress.
Stepping back, she said, “I was—”
“Was what?” I snapped. “Don’t forget I’m the one who taught you to open doors. Stop pretending to be someone you never were.”
My verbal jabs were swift. Some I knew cut deep, some not so much. She should have been used to it by now. The only problem was the sword was double-edged. With each insult, it reminded her she was a trash ass wife while I was forced to relive the memories. Portia was always more occupied with whatever was happening on her phone, so I always opened my own door to follow her into malls, restaurants, and grocery stores. She always left me behind. It didn’t bother me at first, because I figured she was nervous or shy. The reality was she was an inconsiderate prick. It took me staying in the car in the parking lot of a Best Buy, for her to turn and notice I wasn’t there.
She tapped on the window, “Why didn’t you get out of the car?”
“For what? You walk around like you're alone anyway. I can wait here until you're done.”
She didn’t have the energy to fight me. It started a week-long war of me staying in the car and her pretending not to be bothered by it. It wouldn’t be the last of our stubborn Taurus stand-offs. Finally, she’d cave after seeing another lesbian couple happily hand-in-hand as they headed toward the entrance. She wanted that picture to be us.
Presently, Portia sighed as I slammed my door and moved past her. She stood in place for a moment, then did a light jog to catch up to my side. “You look beautiful. A-a-and I’m happy you came. So, thank you,” she stuttered.
Rolling my eyes, I replied, “Don’t thank me. I’m only here to prove to you this is a waste of time.”
Portia played nice. “It doesn’t have to be a waste, Harlyn.”
“Let’s get this over with,” I said, swinging the entry door open before she could get to it. “I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to.”
Dr. Sheila stood up, greeting us with a smile. She was of average height, chubby, white with a potty-mouth. She always looked overworked and overwhelmed. I assumed it was from listening to other people’s dysfunctions for hours at a time. Nonetheless, she was the best—blunt and neutral. It was the reason I loved her.
My stomach twisted into knots as I walked into the familiar setting, remembering the final time I was there. My awakening. I stated loud and clear I was done. After countless discretions and atrocities, Portia finally did the one thing I needed to return to my senses.
Dr. Sheila was in a new building, but the ambiance remained the same: small and cozy. It was quintessential for arguments and avoidance. The space was lit by a single lamp sitting atop her desk. Plants, anxiety reduction activities, and spiritual figurines kept it company.
“Third time’s the charm?” she said, shaking Portia’s hand, then mine. “Good to see you again,” she said, speaking to me in particular. “Hopefully, we’ll have a better ending this time.” Dr. Sheila said, still looking at me.
“You mean without me yelling and storming out, leaving my wife stranded in the rain?” I replied, looking in Portia’s direction.
Dr. Sheila laughed. “Exactly.”
Dr. Sheila took a seat and motioned for us to get comfortable on her tan loveseat. Portia and I both sat down, leaving as much tension and space between us as possible. Portia always sat closest to the door. She removed her hat and placed it on the table beside her. I sat my purse on a stool and crossed my legs to move them further away from her. Neither of us said a word. Dr. Sheila looked left and then right and she, too, had nothing to say. With us, she often breathed thick air.
Finally, after a few minutes of silence that felt like hours, Dr. Sheila spoke, adjusting in her seat and pulling her blazer across her stomach. “You know what I’m going to ask,” she said.
Portia nodded.
I stared and blinked.
“Are you two both feet in?” Dr. Sheila asked.
I shifted my body. “Hold on. This is not supposed to be marriage counseling. She wanted to talk through our issues, so I’m here. She wants this marriage. I want us to split amicably. Maybe you can get that through her thick, delusional skull. The papers are already filed and not being rescinded, at least not by me.” I wanted to make it clear this was Portia’s attempt at one last hoorah. Georgia was calling her name thanks to a new position she was taking in the Army. Had she not gotten the job, she would have been stuck in Oklahoma. She could have pointed at a map blindfolded, because no matter the destination, she would be there without me.
Dr. Sheila shook her head, her fingers locked across her belly. “Harlyn, you know that’s not what I do. I counsel separately or I mend the marriage. You know I believe couples can get through anything that doesn't involve domestic violence.”
“The marriage is done. It was done before it started,” I said.
Portia interrupted. “Do you see how negative she is?”
Snapping my head in Portia’s direction I replied, “Yeah, because you made me this way.”
Dr. Sheila chimed in, “You’re still fighting. That’s good. That’s one foot.”
Portia and I looked at one another. I rolled my eyes and looked away.
“Let’s thin out the air in here a little bit, shall we? I want to talk about how you guys met. Let’s try revisiting the beginning for a while to figure out when you first hit these bumps in the road. Would that be okay?” Dr. Sheila inquired. “I remember bits and pieces, but it’s been a while. Refresh my memory,” she said.
“It’s fine with me,” Portia said.
I called bullshit. Dr. Sheila was a lot of things, but forgetful she was not. I knew what she was doing, and it wasn’t going to work. “Sure. Whatever,” I said.
I’d play along.
I had a few minutes to sit with my thoughts and prolonged anger. There was no nice way to say this, so: fuck marriage. Full offense. Okay fine, not to the people who did and do it right. You know, sticking to the vows they wrote and shared and all that shit. I’m going to confess that I never had any desire to get married.
Like none.
Until she convinced me to have faith in what it represented, particularly for us. It was only a fantasy for a queer couple since it wasn’t legal yet. Proposals for us were exclusively heartfelt gestures we could walk away from at any moment. A whimsical idea of lawful love. I bought into the fantasy, even with a slanted view of love and happiness.
I watched my mother marry multiple times. She seemed to do it out of boredom because she despised being alone. My father married twice. From my perspective, it seemed like making do with hopelessness intentionally. The silver lining for my mother was when she no longer felt fulfilled in her arrangements, she would pack and leave. I admired her for that, mimicking the same behavior for a long time before realizing parts of it were toxic.
I surmise the silver lining for my father was longevity. No matter how dysfunctional his second marriage, he and his wife stayed together for over thirty years. There was nothing admirable about their love, with his constant cheating and her willingness to be walked over, but their affinity to remain together could make for a good argument about unconditional love.
In any case, I didn’t have a positive view of marriage, so I never wanted it for myself. The most honest part of me would say I was afraid of becoming my parents—the worst parts of both. A small part of me could dream and believe I could find my love and be the exception.
My wounded inner child set up marriage ceremonies with my Barbie hoping she and Ken would be together forever. Of course, it didn’t take long to realize those fairytales were for fictional characters, children, and weak minds. That didn’t mean I didn't want it for that little girl inside of me. I could be jaded, she could not. So, like the cliché I promised to never be, I became a wife. I remember the downward spiral like it was yesterday. Most would say we were both juvenile and not prepared for that type of responsibility. That was a partial truth. There was an unnamed illness most women were contaminated with under the guise of what it takes to find and keep love. The red flags were always right there. They show up in the first messages, on the first date, in the breath of every word and gesture. Yet, we ignore it because… love.
It’s the goal.
Outside of love, Portia and I both saw an opportunity for a different life, but I could only speak for myself in terms of intention. I thought she was the change I needed after seven years at the same company with the same routine. I exceeded my growth cap as a Safety Writer at work. In my personal life, adversity for development was non-existent. I wanted true love to come with the changes I sought, not drudged-up manipulation disguised as matrimony.
In hindsight, there was nothing wrong with my life even if it was routine, but I had become restless inside of the insanity. I lived in a little corner of New Orleans, ten minutes from my job downtown making business and pleasure a streetcar ride away. I had my family and my friends, my bills were paid, and my two dogs were fed. When I got lonely, I had that one ex. We all have one whether we admit it aloud or not. I know, I know... exes were a bad idea. But it was that or spend time with a stranger, and my hoe-behavior had limits. The “ex” triumphed every time, even if the limit was kissing and dry humping.
I was flawed.
That was me. I’d always thought I’d get better with time and age, but it seemed I got worse. It’s true what they said about having to repeat a lesson until you've learned it. Marriage was my broken record. Today, I was lifting the needle.
She came in uniform. Glasses on her face, binder in her hand, looking like the non-commissioned officer, NCO, whom I used to love. I spoke military fluently because of her. She knew all things authoritative and uniformed were my weakness. Flashbacks of the times she’d bend me over our bed and recite the NCO’s creed still sent chills through my body. My toes curled and my eyes closed involuntarily as I remembered the sternness in her voice and begged her to repeat it until I climaxed. Her authority was the thing that I both loved and hated most. It once attracted me to her but now it was one of the many reasons I wanted a divorce. Thinking about it now, I wondered if I was partly to blame for fueling her controlling ways. She had not always been so aggressive with me. After all, I slammed her against a wall first, snatched her clothes from her body, and then insulted her by calling her a private knowing she was a Sergeant with a promotable status. I wanted her to stroke my pussy longer and harder. I’d only wanted her to be a barbarian in the bedroom, but somehow, her behavior seeped over into our entire marriage.
Portia walked over to my driver’s side door, opening it. I was annoyed by her presence within seconds. She wouldn’t accept the fact that I hated her. My skin warmed and tightened as a natural reaction when she came around. I could feel the blood rushing to my face.
It was one of the few sunny days on Ft. Lewis’ Army Base in Washington. It was too bad my mood didn’t match. I widened the open door, hitting Portia hard enough to get her to move. “I don’t need you to do that,” I said, standing to smooth out my dress.
Stepping back, she said, “I was—”
“Was what?” I snapped. “Don’t forget I’m the one who taught you to open doors. Stop pretending to be someone you never were.”
My verbal jabs were swift. Some I knew cut deep, some not so much. She should have been used to it by now. The only problem was the sword was double-edged. With each insult, it reminded her she was a trash ass wife while I was forced to relive the memories. Portia was always more occupied with whatever was happening on her phone, so I always opened my own door to follow her into malls, restaurants, and grocery stores. She always left me behind. It didn’t bother me at first, because I figured she was nervous or shy. The reality was she was an inconsiderate prick. It took me staying in the car in the parking lot of a Best Buy, for her to turn and notice I wasn’t there.
She tapped on the window, “Why didn’t you get out of the car?”
“For what? You walk around like you're alone anyway. I can wait here until you're done.”
She didn’t have the energy to fight me. It started a week-long war of me staying in the car and her pretending not to be bothered by it. It wouldn’t be the last of our stubborn Taurus stand-offs. Finally, she’d cave after seeing another lesbian couple happily hand-in-hand as they headed toward the entrance. She wanted that picture to be us.
Presently, Portia sighed as I slammed my door and moved past her. She stood in place for a moment, then did a light jog to catch up to my side. “You look beautiful. A-a-and I’m happy you came. So, thank you,” she stuttered.
Rolling my eyes, I replied, “Don’t thank me. I’m only here to prove to you this is a waste of time.”
Portia played nice. “It doesn’t have to be a waste, Harlyn.”
“Let’s get this over with,” I said, swinging the entry door open before she could get to it. “I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to.”
Dr. Sheila stood up, greeting us with a smile. She was of average height, chubby, white with a potty-mouth. She always looked overworked and overwhelmed. I assumed it was from listening to other people’s dysfunctions for hours at a time. Nonetheless, she was the best—blunt and neutral. It was the reason I loved her.
My stomach twisted into knots as I walked into the familiar setting, remembering the final time I was there. My awakening. I stated loud and clear I was done. After countless discretions and atrocities, Portia finally did the one thing I needed to return to my senses.
Dr. Sheila was in a new building, but the ambiance remained the same: small and cozy. It was quintessential for arguments and avoidance. The space was lit by a single lamp sitting atop her desk. Plants, anxiety reduction activities, and spiritual figurines kept it company.
“Third time’s the charm?” she said, shaking Portia’s hand, then mine. “Good to see you again,” she said, speaking to me in particular. “Hopefully, we’ll have a better ending this time.” Dr. Sheila said, still looking at me.
“You mean without me yelling and storming out, leaving my wife stranded in the rain?” I replied, looking in Portia’s direction.
Dr. Sheila laughed. “Exactly.”
Dr. Sheila took a seat and motioned for us to get comfortable on her tan loveseat. Portia and I both sat down, leaving as much tension and space between us as possible. Portia always sat closest to the door. She removed her hat and placed it on the table beside her. I sat my purse on a stool and crossed my legs to move them further away from her. Neither of us said a word. Dr. Sheila looked left and then right and she, too, had nothing to say. With us, she often breathed thick air.
Finally, after a few minutes of silence that felt like hours, Dr. Sheila spoke, adjusting in her seat and pulling her blazer across her stomach. “You know what I’m going to ask,” she said.
Portia nodded.
I stared and blinked.
“Are you two both feet in?” Dr. Sheila asked.
I shifted my body. “Hold on. This is not supposed to be marriage counseling. She wanted to talk through our issues, so I’m here. She wants this marriage. I want us to split amicably. Maybe you can get that through her thick, delusional skull. The papers are already filed and not being rescinded, at least not by me.” I wanted to make it clear this was Portia’s attempt at one last hoorah. Georgia was calling her name thanks to a new position she was taking in the Army. Had she not gotten the job, she would have been stuck in Oklahoma. She could have pointed at a map blindfolded, because no matter the destination, she would be there without me.
Dr. Sheila shook her head, her fingers locked across her belly. “Harlyn, you know that’s not what I do. I counsel separately or I mend the marriage. You know I believe couples can get through anything that doesn't involve domestic violence.”
“The marriage is done. It was done before it started,” I said.
Portia interrupted. “Do you see how negative she is?”
Snapping my head in Portia’s direction I replied, “Yeah, because you made me this way.”
Dr. Sheila chimed in, “You’re still fighting. That’s good. That’s one foot.”
Portia and I looked at one another. I rolled my eyes and looked away.
“Let’s thin out the air in here a little bit, shall we? I want to talk about how you guys met. Let’s try revisiting the beginning for a while to figure out when you first hit these bumps in the road. Would that be okay?” Dr. Sheila inquired. “I remember bits and pieces, but it’s been a while. Refresh my memory,” she said.
“It’s fine with me,” Portia said.
I called bullshit. Dr. Sheila was a lot of things, but forgetful she was not. I knew what she was doing, and it wasn’t going to work. “Sure. Whatever,” I said.
I’d play along.