Packaged Husband

by Noelle Adams

  It’s full of my sleepwear. My clothes in Owen’s dresser.

  “You don’t have to move your stuff right now, Chelsea.” Owen has stood up from the bed too.

  “Why not? It’s just a couple of drawers.” I’m piling my pajamas into a wad in my arms.

  “Chelsea, I’m really sorry. I wish I didn’t have to do this. I just can’t figure out any other way for us to get through the rest of this marriage.”

  I glance back at him, but my vision is so blurry I can’t see any details on his face. “It’s fine. I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  I hate the way he’s asking me that—as if he really means it, as if he’s really concerned with how I’m feeling right now.

  He’s always been a good guy. He’s always trying to do right by me.

  And I suppose—in a bitter way—that’s what he’s doing now too.

  “Yes,” I tell him with a forced smile. “It... it kind of hurts my feelings, but I understand. And you’re probably right. If we’re going to make it through the rest of the year without making this mess any bigger, then we need to get some space. I’ll move upstairs. We can be like we were at the beginning. And I promise not to work more than twenty hours a week, so you won’t have to worry about that anymore.” I hug my pile of clothes to my chest as I walk to the door of the room.

  “Chelsea.”

  If he says my name one more time, I’m going to burst into tears. I smile blindly over my shoulder in his general direction. “Don’t worry about me, Owen. I’m a big girl. I’ll be fine.”

  It’s not true.

  None of it is true.

  I thought I was building a relationship with Owen, building a marriage, building a life.

  But all I’ve been doing is playing house. Like a child going through the motions of a life that doesn’t exist at all.

  I know better now.

  I’m not going to do it again.

  THAT EVENING, I’M CHOPPING vegetables for a salad and trying not to cry again as I talk to Eva on the phone.

  I went into work for exactly four hours today, amazed that I was able to get any work done at all. I cried for an hour or so when I got home, but ever since then I’ve been in a numb daze.

  I stopped at the store to buy some chicken salad from the deli and a loaf of sourdough bread to eat with a tossed salad tonight. Once I finish making the salad, I’ll be done with my tasks for the day. Then I’ll just have to eat dinner with Owen—since I’m not about to make any changes from our normal routine—and then I’ll be able to go up to my bedroom and escape for the day.

  “This is terrible, Chelsea,” Eva says on the phone. She’s at work right now, but her appointment is running late. “I don’t get how you’re being so nice about Owen. I’d be mad as hell at him.”

  “I have no reason to be mad at him. He’s being as nice as he can, considering the circumstances.”

  “But the circumstances are stupid. You don’t send your wife to sleep in another room just because you’re getting spooked over getting too close to—”

  “That’s not it. That’s not what’s happening.”

  “I thought he said he needed space.”

  “He did. But it’s just because our situation has gotten so tangled up—with the fake marriage and my working for his company and—”

  “I get that it’s complicated. It’s still a shitty thing to do.”

  “He’s not being shitty. He’s trying his best.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m your best friend. You can defend him all you want since you’re obviously a way better person than me. But I’m still going to call him shitty when that’s how he’s acting. Asshole.”

  Eva’s indignant tone is making me feel a little better despite myself. “He’s not an asshole. I’m the one who...”

  “What? What did you do wrong? You didn’t do anything.”

  “I deluded myself the way I’ve always done with men. I was just... playing house or something. Pretending to be married. Pretending to be a wife. When I knew very well the whole time that our relationship wasn’t like that.”

  “That’s stupid. You are a wife. You weren’t pretending anything.”

  “I know. I mean a real wife. A regular wife. Not a temporary trophy wife.”

  “Oh please. You’re just saying that because you’re hurt right now. There’s way more than that between you.”

  “But there’s not. You only think that because you’ve gotten the whole thing filtered through me, and I’ve been deluding myself.” My throat aches as I try to be honest with both Eva and myself. “I thought... I wanted... I thought for the first time in my life I could actually be a grown-up. I could have a job and a real relationship and... and do something real with my life. And all this time...” I trail off because my voice isn’t working anymore.

  Eva sounds a little wobbly too. “All this time that’s what you were doing.”

  “I thought so. But it wasn’t real. I’m just a little girl playing dress-up.”

  “Stop it! Stop saying that, Chelsea. It’s not true. You didn’t do anything wrong. Owen did.”

  “No, he didn’t. You should have seen him. He was trying so hard not to hurt me. He felt so bad.”

  “Well, he should feel bad. He should feel like shit, and I hope he feels that way for a really long time.”

  I’ve finished chopping the toppings for the salad, and I leave them in little piles on the cutting board as I lean against the counter. “Don’t be that way.”

  “I will be that way. Chelsea, listen to me. You didn’t do anything wrong. Yes, the marriage began in a way that’s a little strange, and maybe both of you went into it without the best motivations. But you got to know him. You got to like him. You got closer to him. You opened yourself up to possibilities. You’ve been honest the whole time. You haven’t run away or tried to hide. Think about how your sisters acted in the same situation. Both of them ran like rabbits. You didn’t. You were being a real wife to him.”

  I’m sniffing and shaking but trying desperately not to cry again. “But he didn’t want me to be a real wife.”

  “Well, he sure acted like he did before. If that’s not what he wanted, he should have put a stop to it a long time ago. He shouldn’t have led you on the way he did. He’s the one to blame here.”

  “He didn’t really lead me on. I think he just didn’t realize what was happening. I mean, what man would turn down sex when it was offered.”

  “He’s been taking way more than sex from you.”

  “Maybe. But I’m the one who messed up the work thing. I shouldn’t have gotten so caught up—”

  “Stop it! You found something you love doing. You weren’t wrong to get excited about it. You poured yourself into your job, and you poured yourself into your relationship, and you were honest and open about both things. You were the grown-up. He’s the one acting like a child.”

  “Eva—”

  “Don’t Eva me. I’m not making things up because you’re my friend.”

  “I know. But he’s doing the best he can. He’s really kind and really mature and—”

  “And emotionally stunted!”

  “He is n—”

  “Didn’t you tell me he could barely get a word out when you first met him because he thought you were so pretty?”

  “Uh, that’s not exact—”

  “Yes, it is. He was terrified of talking to you because he was so attracted to you. I believe you that he’s a really good guy, but he’s got issues just like everyone else. This is his, and he’s hurting you because of it.”

  “It’s not that big an issue for him. He hasn’t acted that way since the first few weeks. It’s not something that would make him... that would cause him to...”

  “Obviously it is. He’s running away, Chelsea, and it’s not because you messed things up. He’s messing things up. You’re not being the child here. You’re being the grown-up. He’s the one who needs to grow the hell up and rediscover his balls.”
>
  I can’t answer because I’m silently sobbing. I grab a paper towel and mop at my face with it.

  “Chelsea?” Eva prompts after a minute.

  “Yeah?”

  “You okay?”

  “Not really. But you helped. So thanks.”

  OWEN COMES HOME ABOUT a half hour later. He greets me soberly and then goes to change clothes and work out like he always does.

  I’ve pulled myself together by then, and I’m on the couch reading a book when he comes out of his bedroom after his shower, wearing sweats and a gray T-shirt.

  I smile and put down my book when I see him. “I’ve got something for dinner, if you’re hungry.”

  His eyes are on my face, and they’re very disturbing, unsettling. I don’t know what he thinks he’s going to see. “Yeah. I am. Thanks.”

  My expression is stiff. I know it is. But I’m composed and polite, and that’s as much as anyone in the universe can expect in this situation. I go to the kitchen and pull out the bowl of chicken salad, the tossed salad, and the bread I prepared earlier.

  Owen has followed me into the kitchen. He’s standing about a foot away from me, and he looks just as stiff as I feel. I see him looking over at the dining room table, where we normally eat.

  I usually set it prettily, but the table is empty today.

  “I thought we could just eat in front of the TV, if that’s okay.” I try to sound casual, but the idea of sitting across the table from Owen in silence as we eat is more than I can tolerate. No matter what he says, I’m going to eat on the couch in the living room where the television can save us a little.

  “That’s fine.” He sounds subdued, slightly hoarse. There are shadows under his eyes that aren’t normally there.

  He obviously hasn’t had a good day either.

  Despite the weight in my chest, I remember Eva’s words, and I’m glad that Owen isn’t happy either.

  If I’m going to be miserable because of his decision, then he better be miserable too.

  I really thought he was different.

  I really thought he cared about me.

  I really thought he took me seriously, when no other man ever has.

  This train of thought is making my eyes burn, so I push it from my mind as I fill my plate and grab a bottle of sparkling water from the refrigerator. As Owen gets his food, I go to sit down on the couch, propping my plate in my lap and turning on the TV.

  I can’t take the news right now, so I find a block of repeats of a ten-year-old sitcom and leave it there.

  If Owen wants to change the channel, he can. Otherwise, we can just watch this.

  Owen comes over and, instead of sitting beside me on the couch, sits in his recliner.

  It’s better that way. Distance between us. I don’t have to feel the heat of his body or feel every time he moves.

  I stare at the TV for a while but then can’t resist sneaking a quick glance at him.

  I catch him looking at me with that same sober expression.

  Damn the man anyway. Does he really have to stare at me like that? Like I’m the one who hurt him.

  I manage a fake, blithe smile. “Everything okay at work?”

  He blinks. “What? Oh. Yeah. It’s fine.”

  “Good.”

  I turn back to the TV. Evidently the conversational part of the evening is over.

  By the time we’ve finished eating, the next episode of the sitcom has begun, so we sit and watch the rest of it.

  He gets up during a commercial break and rinses out our dishes and puts the leftover food away, but otherwise he stares at the TV the way I do.

  We watch two additional episodes, and neither of us moves.

  At nine, when the channel switches to a dumb movie, I finally make myself move. “I’m kind of tired. I’m going to go to bed early.”

  Owen gets up too. He winces as he does, as if he’s sore. “Yeah. Me too.”

  Nine o’clock is ridiculously early for us to go to bed, but I’m not going to stay down here like this any longer. I pick up my book, figuring I can keep reading in bed, and when I straighten up, I discover that Owen is right there.

  His eyes are still deep and heavy and utterly serious.

  “Okay,” I say, hating how my voice breaks on the word. “Good night then.”

  “Good night.” He’s still not moving.

  I have to walk around him. I’m almost to the stairs when he says, “Chelsea.”

  I stop but don’t turn around.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I know you are. Good night.”

  Ten

  THE NEXT WEEK PASSES in much the same way.

  I stay in bed until he leaves in the mornings. We both work, and I’m careful to stay no longer than my allotted time even if it means I have to stop in the middle of writing an email. We have dinner in front of the television in the evenings, and I go upstairs by nine, mostly just to get away from him. We talk about work, about food, about schedules. Nothing any deeper.

  And it’s misery.

  It’s not like it was at the beginning of our marriage. It’s way worse than that. Every conversation with him hurts me, and I have to try to act casual and nonchalant so he won’t suspect how miserable I am.

  I’ve never had any problems putting on a show for people before. Pretending I like people I don’t. Pretending I’m happy when I’m sad. Pretending I don’t want to scratch someone’s eyes out when I do.

  It’s never been hard for me, putting on a show for the world.

  This is different.

  I’m not sure how long I can do it.

  The Saturday after my heart was broken, Melissa calls me unexpectedly and tells me Pop wants to take us all out for dinner tonight.

  It’s so strange I’m not even sure she’s serious at first.

  “I know it’s weird,” Melissa says. “He said he’s got reservations at Tempo, that new restaurant downtown. It’s supposed to be really upscale and trendy, which isn’t Pop’s thing at all. But he was making a really big deal about it, so I think he’s taking it seriously. I think we should do it if we can.”

  “When he says us all, he means...”

  “All of us. Us. Husbands. Everyone.”

  “You know Owen and I aren’t really doing all that well right now.”

  “I know that. But he’ll go out to dinner with your family, won’t he? I mean, he’s not going to be that much of an asshole about it.”

  “He’s not an asshole at all.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Don’t sound like that. He’s not.”

  “You know I agree with Eva on this issue. Whatever his reasons, he didn’t treat you right.”

  I can’t go into this whole conversation again—I feel like I’ve had versions of it every day this week. It will make me cry, and I’ve been doing well about staying composed today. “He’s trying his best.”

  “Okay. If he’s trying, then he’s not going to put up a fight about doing something simple like going out to dinner. Is he?”

  I know he won’t say no if I ask him. I just don’t want to ask him.

  If he needs space from me, he’s not going to want to sit through an uncomfortable dinner with my family. He’s already forced into Sunday supper.

  But I have no good excuse, so I tell Melissa we’ll make it if at all possible.

  Owen says he can go. He doesn’t smile—he never smiles at me anymore—but he doesn’t argue or try to get out of it.

  So several hours later, we’re in his fancy car on our way to the restaurant.

  He hasn’t said a word.

  “I have no idea what Pop wants with this dinner,” I say, trying to make conversation, trying to act natural when I feel anything but.

  Owen turns his head and rests his eyes on my face for a few moments, so I know he’s listening. But he doesn’t say anything.

  “He normally doesn’t like to go out to eat, which might sound odd because he owns a chain of restaurants. But he’s only really like
d his own food and the café next door to his office building where he always eats lunch.”

  Again, Owen is clearly listening, but doesn’t reply.

  A normal person would reply.

  It seems a basically polite thing to do.

  Why the hell can’t Owen say something, try to help me out? He’s got to know I’m trying here.

  The twisting of grief and anxiety that’s been sitting in my gut all week suddenly tightens into something else.

  Something akin to indignation.

  Hit with the spark of contrariness I haven’t felt for a while, I keep a bland smile on my face and continue, “This new restaurant is supposed to be good. The chef is coming from a place in New York.”

  No answer. Just a slight inclination of his head.

  I press on, not willing to give up now. “They’re supposed to be booked for weeks out, which is very unusual in Charleston. I’m not sure how Pop got reservations at the last minute like this.”

  Nothing.

  I grit my teeth as I smile. “He’s always been able to get things he wants though. He’s got connections everywhere. Your family is probably similar.”

  I wait, still vaguely hoping he’ll jump in and be something other than mute. His hair is slightly mussed, but he shaved before we left the house. I can tell because he doesn’t have any bristles. His hazel eyes are perfectly sober as they move from my face to the road.

  This isn’t him.

  I know it’s not him.

  He’s quiet, but even at his worst when we first met, he didn’t respond to conversation with nothing.

  Nothing.

  I haven’t done anything to deserve this.

  I wasn’t the one who pushed him away.

  I’m suddenly so angry I’m almost shaking with it.

  I want to challenge him. Force the issue with him. I shape another smile. “Before they moved to Florida, did your family get treated like royalty in town? Like Pop does?”

  There. A direct question.

  He either needs to answer it or treat me like I’m nothing.

  “Yes,” he says, his voice rough like he hasn’t used it for a long time.