I walk inside, carefully tiptoeing. The sun is slowing falling in the sky, and I know that at any moment, my now nocturnal husband will be awake and ready to write for the night. Sneaking in the bedroom, I find that it is empty. He must have gone out somewhere. I walk in the bathroom and kick my shoes off.
After I’ve changed into comfortable clothes, I scrub my makeup off and stare into the mirror. Sometimes I do this to see if I feel anything; most of the time I feel like I am staring into a hollow shell.
The door opens and closes, and I drop my sight from the mirror, pretending I wasn’t just staring at myself. Collin shuffles behind me, and that’s when the smell hits me. Spinning around, I rest my hands on the counter and lean back to look at him.
“You are drunk,” I say.
“And you’re talking to me,” he says as he turns on the shower. I watch him peel his clothes off and step inside without saying anything else.
This is how our time is when we actually run into each other. He writes all night and sleeps all day, and I do the complete opposite. We used to be the complete opposite. We would write in the same room, talking to each other and asking for advice when we were stuck. We used to be best friends, and now, he hates me.
After the miscarriage, he was supportive. He helped me through everything; he even convinced me to go to a doctor when I didn’t get better after a month. His sympathy and compassion have dripped down to nothing at all. Two months later, here we are. I’ve pulled away further, and he apparently can’t stand the sight of me. Most of the time, I am counting down the days until he decides to leave.
I watch him get out of the shower and towel off. He pulls on another pair of pants and shuffles through the door. I follow him.
“Are we too lazy to find someone else, is that it?” I ask. That stops him in his tracks. Maybe I am immature, but sometimes I initiate fights for dialogue. That’s how miserable I am.
“If I wanted someone else, I would leave.” He turns and looks at me.
“You sure as hell don’t want me,” I say as I cross my arms.
“You are ignorant if you believe that,” he says, turning his back to me.
I watch as he collapses into the bed, fighting with the covers around him. Even though he’s turned into a total dick, I don’t want him to freeze. I throw a blanket on him.
“You used to be nice when you were drunk,” I say.
“I used to drink for different reasons,” he says. His voice sounds so distant; so far away.
“If you are implying that you drink because of me, let me stop you right there!”
“I am not saying anything else.”
“Fine! Then listen! You have been drunk every day this week! You don’t even talk to me…you are like having a roommate that doesn’t clean up after himself.”
“Married life isn’t what you thought it would be?” He jokes.
I throw my hands up and walk down the hall to my office, but I stop when I come to the closed door across from it.
“Natalie!” I ignore him. I know better than to have a conversation with him when he’s drinking. He’s never serious, or when he is, he is a complete dick.
I open the door, finding everything has been cleaned out. I slide down the wall, stopping when my backside hits the floor. Just like that, he gave up. I won’t cry. I allow myself a few deep breaths before I walk back in our room. Collin is getting out of bed, but he stops moving when he sees me.
“What did you do to that room?” I am mad crying. Tears fall from my eyes, but I push them away.
“I couldn’t look at it anymore…” He says, holding his hands out. He does this when he tries to calm me down. He has a success rate of zero when he does this.
“So, you are just giving up?” I ask.
“No! But if we ever decide to…I don’t know it just felt wrong to keep everything.”
“When did you do this?” I am shocked. I am still wrapping my head around everything. The fact that he’s drunk is making me furious.
He scratched the back of his head, thinking. “I don’t know…maybe a week after.”
“The week after?” I somehow manage to get the words out.
“I didn’t want to upset you,” he says, and I want to laugh. He upsets me daily, and I do the same to him.
“Get out.”
“I’ll just grab some water…I’ll come back in a few,” he says. He walks past me and disappears into the hall.
I rack my brain, wondering if I want to do this. It is probably what we need. Walking after him, I am broken and torn, but I don’t know what else to do.
“I mean the house, Collin. Get out of this house.”
He stops and turns. “I am not leaving. I’ll sleep in another room tonight. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
I storm off, heading to our closet. Screw this. I almost rip the door off the hinges as I sling it open. Grabbing the first bag I can find, I began stuffing it full of clothes. I’ll take what I need now and come back for the rest. I just need to be away from him. I can’t think with him near.
“What are you doing?” Collin appears at the door. He is leaning on the frame with his arms crossed. His expression tells me he has sobered up a lot. He palms a bottle of water. Bringing it up to his mouth, he takes a sip.
“Leaving,” I say. My tone is clipped.
“Don’t go,” he says. He pulls the bag from my hand, determined. I grab at the bag, but I miss. He holds it behind him with the other hand holding me back. I feel like a child being told no. I see red.
“Give it back to me now!” I demand.
“Not if you are leaving!” He’s yelling, but the look in his eyes is panicked.
“One of is going…” I say, determined.
“Why?” He throws the bag down, and it slides across the floor.
“Because I am not happy…neither are you.”
“Yes, I am,” he demands. I shake my head. I can feel tears, but I won’t allow them to spill over. He needs to know that I am strong and I am set in this decision. We’re not happy. This isn’t how it is supposed to be.
“Okay, well, I am happy…maybe it is you that’s making me feel this way,” I say. I know it is a horrible thing to say, but a part of me thinks that I need to hurt him so that he will want to leave me.
He looks hurt, and for a moment I think about taking it back. But I don’t. Maybe one day, hopefully in the future, things will be different. For now, I can’t keep living this cycle. It is tearing us both down. We both need space, and we both need help.
“I’ll go…you stay.” That’s all he says. Neither of us has any fight left.
I nod. I watch him grab his things while sitting in the same spot. Bringing my knees to my chest, I rest my head on them. I can’t keep watching this.
I hear the bag zip, and I look up. He stops short of the door, without turning around. “No matter what you think, I’ll always love you.”
I didn’t respond. I cried for three days straight.
One week later, Collin asks if he can come over for more of his things. I am sitting in the kitchen, in my favorite bar stool. It gets extra lighting. I am weird. I type twenty words and delete forty. That’s how my writing career is going this year. I toy around with the idea of writing about our life, but I can’t make myself do it.
The doorbell brings me out of my writer's block. I hop down from my stool, wondering who it could be. I open the large, wooden door to find Collin behind it. I frown, he has a key. Is this where we are? It has only been a week since he left.
He’s still beautiful, but he has dark circles under his eyes. He’s wearing a gray t-shirt and light jeans. He looks fantastic in everything, but I always like to see him casually dressed.
This is awkward. Do I hug him? Shake his hand? Yell?
“My clothes,” he says, breaking the weird tension.
I nod. “You don’t have to ring the doorbell.”
“I honestly don’t know what I am supposed to do.” He looks at my eyes.
> “Me neither,” I say. This is probably the most we’ve talked in months, and without a doubt, the most honest we’ve been.
I step aside, letting him pass. “You don’t have to take everything. You can come back whenever you need to.”
Grinning, he nods. “This is the nicest anyone has ever been to me after kicking me out.”
We both laughed. God, it is beautiful to hear that sound from him. My stomach drops when I realize maybe being friends is better for us. Maybe for better or worse doesn’t count when worse is happening every day; He got his clothes and left without telling me bye. I watched him go from the couch, but I didn’t say anything.
He came over once a week and texted me every day. We never fought, and we never brought up working things out. We just became friends, and I grew frustrated. I wanted more, but he never asked to come back.
The doorbell rings once, twice, three times. There is a pause before it starts up again. Annoyed, I stalk to the door, ready to let loose on the source of this. I open the door, finding Collin. He’s on the ground with his back against the brick, and his legs stretched out in front of him. A smell hits me, and I am not sure if it is from him or the whiskey bottle in his hands.
“What are you doing?” I squeak. I look around, searching for anyone that could have dropped him off.
He brings his finger to his lips. I am positive his attempt of telling me to shh is louder than my voice.
“I have a headache,” he pouts. His words are so slurred.
“Who dropped you off, Collin?”
“I drove.”
“You what?” I ask, looking down the street. I open the door wider, ready to leave him out here for the night. I am not doing this again.
“Don’t go,” he says as I start closing the door.
“I am not going anywhere…this is my house. You go!”
“I don’t know why I came here. You are such a bitch,” he laughs.
I narrow my eyes and slam the door behind me, stepping outside. He’s not about to get away with coming here to insult me.
“I am positive I didn’t hear you correctly,” I say.
“Yeah, you did.”
If I could slap that smirk off his face, I would. Who is this guy that I married? He takes a drink of the whiskey, spilling it down his face and shirt. His face is scruffy, and it pisses me off that he looks good right now.
“Did you come here to insult me?” I ask.
“I remember them.” He says, dropping the bottle to his side. Fortunately for me, it spills, and he has nothing else to drink. He stares at the opposite wall, almost like he can see something in front of him.
“Who?”
“My parents,” he says.
“Is this a new thing? I thought you were too young,” I say, confused. This is the first time I’ve heard about his past other than his grandmother raising him.
“Only when I am drinking,” he says.
Sighing, I bend down to help him stand. He misinterprets my kindness and presses his lips to mine. I jerk away. Pulling on his arms, he stands and stumbles into the house behind me.
“I quit drinking,” he says.
I perk my brows at him, waiting for him to explain. He sits on a barstool and lets the empty bottle slam into the counter. Cringing, I walk to the opposite side to sit with him.
“Did you forget that you quit drinking?”
“Very funny,” he says as he takes another drink.
“Years ago. I would have wine sometimes with you…but I stopped this shit,” he says, nodding to the bottle in front of him.
“Why did you start back?” I ask.
He makes a funny sound in his mouth then looks at me. “Why the fuck do you think?”
I roll my eyes. In the years I’ve known Collin, he’s nothing but polite and sober. He never cusses, and he never treats me like this. In fact, he’s almost too perfect. This makes him human.
“You are not blaming your problems on me,” I say, firmly. I may have a lot of problems of my own, but I will never let anyone treat me less than I deserve. Not anymore.
“They didn’t die in a crash,” he says. He’s staring at something in front of him as he pushes the bottle back in forth between his hands.
“What happened?”
“He shot her. Then he shot himself. I was at a friend’s…he would’ve shot me if I was there.”
“Oh my god.”
“I am not looking for your sympathy. I don’t even know why I am telling you,” he says. Frustrated, he shakes his head like he’s battling bad memories.
“Because you trust me, and you needed someone to talk to.”
“I don’t trust people that kick me out,” he says, and I seethe.
“Collin, my patience only goes so far.”
“Then tell me to leave!”
“I don’t want to! You know I had no other choice!” I throw my hands up. Not this again. I walk further away from him to lean against the kitchen counter.
“Fuck that! You could’ve helped me!” His eyes almost make me cave. If he only knew I can’t help anyone. I run from my own problems.
“I couldn’t even help myself, Collin. I was dragging us both under,” I say, hoping he will understand where I am coming from.
“Is that what you say to make yourself feel better?” He asks, his brows bump together, causing a deep set from.
“Why are you like this to me?”
“Do you hear yourself when you talk? I come over here and try to talk…” He attempts to manipulate my feelings, but I can’t stand for that to happen.
“You came over here drunk and insulting me! Don’t play innocent now!” He flinches from the tone of my voice.
“I came over here to talk…I want to come back,” he whispers.
“This isn’t something we should talk about now,” I say, annoyed.
“Then when?” He asks, apparently angry that he isn’t getting his way.
“When you aren’t drunk,” I say. I push myself from the counter and begin walking toward my bedroom. I need space to think.
“Fine! I’ll leave,” he says, and I roll my eyes.
Stopping, I turn to face him. “You are drunk…just stay here tonight.”
His mouth carves into a satisfied grin.
“In a guest room,” I add.
“Let’s talk tomorrow, yeah? I don’t want to give up on this,” he says, and I nod.
The next day, he’s gone. He leaves a note on the refrigerator informing me that he has a book signing in another state. I wait all weekend, but he never shows up. Tabatha is coming this weekend, and I am thrilled. I need to get the hell out of here.
Whatever kind of game he’s playing, I am not on board with it. Collin isn’t the same guy I married. I fell in love with him because he was stable and loving, but now he’s neither of those things. Honestly, right now, he’s worse than what I left behind.
I do a final mirror check in my car before getting out. I opted for less makeup tonight, so I pinch my cheeks, making natural color flow to them. My black top is tight and low cut, and I chose a pair of maroon skinnies and brown booties to pair my outfit with. Now that I am checking every angle in the mirror, I am having second doubts. I wanted to be myself, not over the top Natalie. I don’t even look like myself.
My nerves get the best of me, and I chew anxiously on my bottom lip. Getting out of my car, I stand; smooth my clothes and my hair. The restaurant before me is quiet and dimly lit. I walk inside, and past the hostess stand. I can spot him anywhere in the building.
A soft, large hand waves as I walk in. I walk over to the table, and he stands, kisses me on the cheek and seats himself again.
“You look beautiful,” Collin says, smiling at me. His teeth are sparkling white, and his lips span across his face. He really is perfect; on the outside.
“You have to say that.”
“No, I don’t. Besides, everyone else agrees,” he says, motioning around the small restaurant. I look around, finding no on
e is even looking at us. I roll my eyes and take a drink from the water glass in front of me.
“So, what’s this meeting about?” I ask, wanting to get to the point. My anxiety is taking over. When Collin texted me and asked to have dinner, I said yes, but hesitantly.
“I want to come back home, Natalie,” he says, his eyes are pleading with me. I look down, unsure of what to say. I lay my napkin in my lap, studying the pattern of the stitching. Is there a rule for this specific thing? Do you have to date your husband before asking him to move in?
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I say, unsure.
“Just hear me out, yeah?” He says, holding his hands out.
“Okay…” I nod my head.
“This isn’t an ultimatum, believe me, it is not. We either need to figure this out or file for divorce, Natalie.”
“Then what the hell is it?” I ask, immediately annoyed. That is the first time we’ve brought up that word. My stomach is in knots. Is this what we want?
“I want you back, I do. More than anything, but if that isn’t going to happen, I want to move on.”
“Move on?” My brows shoot up. To say that I am shocked would be an understatement.
“I didn’t mean it like that…I just don’t think it is healthy to be separated for months without working anything out.”
I nod. He’s right. I know he’s right. “What do you want to do about it?”
“Move back in,” he says, grinning.
“I guess there isn’t anything wrong with trying,” I say, trying to sound like I think it is a good idea. It will either make or break us. Either way, we will know without a doubt what we want.
“I am so glad to hear you say that,” he says. His eyes are lit with happiness. I can’t help but wonder why now? We’re seated in a table in the back, but we’re still surrounded by people. This restaurant is always packed. I am thankful for the chaos tonight; I don’t know if I want to be alone with him.
I look up, finding him grinning as he looks over the menu. A waitress leaves garlic bread in front of us. The smell is like a slap in the face, and it takes all restraint I have to stay away from the whole basket bread.
The Lies We Tell Page 9
