by R. S. Medina
"Good morning," Finn says, without looking up from his game. "How did you sleep?" he asks.
"Not bad," I say. "Remember when we could sleep in past seven because we didn't have kids?" Sleep is and was seriously my favorite thing in the world. I miss sleeping all the time.
"Yep, those were the days," he says laughing.
I tickle Olivia. "But I wouldn't change it for anything," I tell her. "One day, when you're a teenager, I'm going to wake you up at seven a.m. on a weekend just because I can, and you're going to hate it! I can't wait."
Olivia just smiles back at me, even though she has no clue what I'm saying to her. Oh, she's in for it one day. I put her on the ground, and she instantly starts fussing and trying to climb my leg back into my arms. I pull away from her and get one of her toy boxes that have some of her blocks in them.
I set the box down and sit on the floor with Olivia. Olivia instantly tips the box over and dumps out everything onto the hardwood floor. I pick up a few of the blocks and start trying to build a tower, so Olivia sees that she's supposed to play with them, but she's only interested in taking the blocks I'm trying to play with.
She destroys my tower several times before I give up. I start searching for the blocks with the letters to spell her name, but she makes that task impossible as well. Finally, she starts playing with her own blocks, and I start searching for letters again.
"I need a Y," I say out loud, to no one in particular as I sift through blocks, looking for the last letter I need.
Finn doesn't even look up from his video game. "To spell fuck you?" he asks. I'm surprised he was listening.
"How did you know?" I ask, shocked.
"You're a vulgar asshole." Finn teases. I throw a block lightly at him and laugh. Finn smiles and tosses the block back to me, and I catch it.
This is what my life should be like. Maybe we can be happy again. Maybe we are going to be ok. This is the life we should have—one where we are both happy and getting along.
Present
Olivia is on my lap, her eyes glued to the television screen. I put it on for her so she would leave Blair alone so she could take a quick nap on the couch and try to finish sleeping off her hangover.
Olivia is in love with Elsa from Frozen. I can quote this damn movie in my sleep, thanks to Livy. I know all about the Queen of Ice and Snow and that little snowman dude.
The song "Let It Go" comes on, and Olivia starts bouncing in my lap, excited. I start humming along. Olivia finds that funny. The longer the song goes on, the more ridiculous and outrageous I make my performance for Livy.
By the end of the song, I'm up on my feet, Livy in my arms, dancing around the living room and singing obnoxiously. Olivia is giggling so hard her little cheeks are flushed.
I definitely see myself in her. She is her father's daughter. She has my blonde hair from childhood and my eyes. Blair gets mad that Livy looks so much like me. But I see Blair in her, too. Blair is there in Olivia's attitude or the way she smiles. Livy has me wrapped around her little fingers, and even though she's a baby, I know that she knows it. She's a manipulative little shit, but I love her more than she will ever know. And I love that she's a part of Blair. I'd sell my fucking soul for my girls.
When the song is over, I bow with Olivia still in my arms, and she dangles, blonde curls going everywhere. Her smiles and giggles are infectious. I'm breathing heavily from all the singing and dancing.
When I look up, Blair is peeking at us through half-closed eyelids, with a cute, amused grin playing on her lips.
Oops, I got a little carried away.
"Oh, my ovaries are going to explode," she says, teasing me. "You guys are just too cute for words!" Olivia struggles out of my arms when she hears her mommy's voice. I set her down.
"I'm sorry," I say. "We didn't mean to wake you."
Olivia crawls over to Blair, and Blair puts her arms out. Olivia crawls onto Blair, and she pulls her under the covers with her. I sit down, pulling Blair's legs on top of mine so she can still lie down, but I can sit with them. And we watch the rest of the Disney movie as a family on the couch.
Present
"Guess who finally got laid last night," I brag, as I count out dinner plates and hand them to Chazz so we can set the dinner table.
"Ew, don't tell me about your sex life, pervert," Chazz says, jokingly. "I knew you seemed less bitchy," she observed. I hand her the plates.
"Oh, shut up," I roll my eyes at her. She readjusts the plates as I count out silverware for everybody and put them on top of the plates she's holding.
"Well, it's about time," Chazz laughs. I nod in agreement. We walk to the dining room together and start setting out the plates and silverware. I hear Finn and Olivia playing in the next room. She's laughing and banging on her toys. Finn is trying to get her to play with blocks, but she'd rather make as much noise as possible.
"So is that where you got that bruise on your neck?" Chazz teases with a wink. "A little bit of rough sex?"
My hand flies up to my throat, and I look away. "Oh, no," I say, forcing a laugh. "It's nothing. I don't know how that happened," I lie. "You know me, I bruise so easily," I say, hoping she believes me.
Chazz laughs. "You don't have to lie to me, I know you and Finn are kinky little weirdoes!"
I don't say anything. I just go along with it, not wanting to worry anyone about Finn's behavior. I'm hoping, though, that I can revisit the counseling conversation with him, and that this time he will listen.
Finn's stepmom enters the dining room with her famous lasagna dinner, successfully distracting Chazz from the rough sex talk, and I holler to Finn that dinner is ready. My father-in-law follows with the salad, and we start serving dinner. Finn places Olivia in her high chair, and I give her a plate with stuff small enough for her to chew.
Ever since Finn got discharged from the Marines, we have been having family dinner once a week, usually on Sunday nights. I enjoy it, and I think it helps Finn as well. He's very close with his family, especially his dad and older sister, Chastity. We get together, eat dinner, and then drink and play board games or just hang out.
Tonight, we eat and joke and talk about work, and after dinner we take our wine glasses outside and sit on the porch. I swing with Olivia on the porch swing, and it is such a nice night. Cicadas are chirping, which happens to be one of my favorite sounds in the world, even though they're fucking creepy bugs, and the weather is perfect.
"Thank you for watching Olivia last night," I tell Chazz as I hold Olivia on my lap on the porch swing. She loves the swing, and she's sitting still for once. I bet she will fall asleep soon.
"No problem. She was awesome. How was the dinner?" Chazz asks, taking a sip of her wine.
"Great. I drank way too much wine last night. I was so drunk," I admit. I readjust Olivia as she starts trying to get more comfortable in my lap.
"That's the quickest way to be on the outs with coworkers," Finn's dad warns me, lovingly. He's been on his phone a lot this evening with work phone calls, but I don't blame him. I know he's busy. It's the first chance he's had to sit and relax.
"Don't worry, Dad. I wasn't a sloppy drunk," I promise thinking back on the night just to make sure I'm not lying. I don't think I was a sloppy drunk. I mean I was obviously having a little too much fun, but I don't think I said or did anything to offend coworkers or put them off.
In my pocket, my phone goes off. I pull it out and check it. It's a text from Tristan.
Tristan: Hey pretty girl.
Me: What's up?
Tristan: How about that drink? My treat.
Me: I've never had someone pay for my drink before. Like actually buy me a drink in a bar.
Tristan: Pretty girls should never have to buy their drinks.
Me: then I must not be that pretty.
Tristan: Because you're fucking gorgeous.
"Who are you texting?" Chazz asks. I don't know if I'm paranoid, but I think she's a little suspicious after seeing the text the othe
r day. She never asks who I am texting. But to be fair, we are all right here, so who would I be texting?
"A coworker," I lie. I hope it sounded convincing because I don't feel like I'm a very good liar, especially when it comes to lying to Chazz. Chazz and I don't lie to each other. We just don't. We've always been honest with each other. I would rather not be asked so I don't have to lie. It's just not telling.
"Oh, tell Amber I said hi!" Finn says, assuming it's Amber that I'm texting. She's the only one from work I see outside of work hours.
"Okay, I will," I lie again. I don't look any of them in the eye. I fidget with my phone. Maybe I should lie and tell Finn that I'm meeting Amber for a drink next week? That could work. I mean, a drink is harmless. It means nothing.
I text Tristan.
Me: You're a liar, but I'll forgive you. Let's do it. I'll meet you for a drink. Just give me a time and date.
Tristan: Sounds good. How about Monday or Tuesday?
Me: Let's do it.
Tristan: It's a date, pretty girl.
Present
Blair put Olivia to bed after dinner tonight and is reading a book with her legs thrown over my lap like she used to when we first got married. I squeeze her calf, just to feel her. We used to spend hours like this on a rainy afternoon. She would read her books, and I would play my video games, and we would enjoy each other's company. I wanted to buy her a Kindle, but she's adamant that she doesn't want one. She insists that she loves the feel of real books and the way they smell. I think it's fucking weird. I'm sure paper doesn't smell good, but whatever.
It's nice to just spend time together like the old days. She's not nagging me about the video games, I get to play, and she's getting to do what she loves. Everyone wins.
I pick up her legs and move them off me so I can stand up, and she's so into her book that she doesn't even notice or look up. She's chewing on the inside of her cheek like she sometimes does when she's thinking hard about something, and it makes her face contort, and I think she's super cute when she does it.
I walk into the kitchen and open the fridge and grab a beer. My stash is running a little bit low. I add beer to the grocery list on the counter. I pop the top off and throw the bottle cap into the trash. It bounces off the side and doesn't quite make it in, but I'm feeling too lazy to walk over and pick it up and put it in the waste basket.
When I walk back into the living room, I see Blair peek up and eyeball the beer in my hand. I stop in my tracks. I see her hesitate and bite her lip.
"Are you really going to drink that?" she asks, hesitantly. Yep, she went there.
"Yes," I snarl. "I'm really going to drink this. I opened it, didn't I?"
"I'm just saying, maybe you should slow down," she says, raising her voice, and sitting up a little straighter on the couch.
"I'm fine," I growl. How dare she? She can't tell me how much I can and can't drink in my own house. I'm not a child.
"Finn," she says, closing her book, "I know it's Sunday night, but you've been drinking a lot. There's no reason to get wasted."
"I'm a fucking adult, Blair," I say, "And I can drink when I want, as much as I want." And on that note, I raise the bottle to my lips and take a long sip, staring her down the whole time I do it.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" she asks incredulously. She widens her eyes at me, and her face is getting a little red. I just stare at her. This pisses her off even more. I can see her snapping. I take another long gulp. The bottle is almost empty now. She's sitting up straight now, glaring at me.
"You're such a jackass sometimes," she says, pointing her little finger at me. That sets me off.
"Don't call me names," I growl. For such a tiny thing, Blair sure can glare with the best of them. She flips me the bird.
"You're the one being a dick," she says through clenched teeth. I see her fists balling. "All I was saying is that you might want to slow it down. We are at home, and you've been pounding beers. There is no reason for that," she says.
"Who are you to judge how much I drink in my own home. It's not like I'm going anywhere," I say, shaking my head at her like she's ridiculous.
"Ever since you got home from your last deployment and got kicked out, your drinking has gotten worse," she says. "And you need to get it under control." I inhale a breath when she brings it up. I see her mouth still moving, but I don't hear any of the words coming out of her mouth.
My mind instantly brings up one of the many memories of deployment I try so hard to forget. I feel my heart start racing in my chest, and I swear I can hear it pound. It's deafening. Blair's lips are still moving, and I know she's probably scolding me, but I can't hear her. My palms are clammy, and I'm starting to feel sweaty and sticky.
My chest feels tight, and I feel like I can't pull in enough breath. I squeeze my eyes shut. But even with my eyes closed, all I see is myself picking up my gun. I don't want to aim it, but I'm terrified. I have to aim it. I'm yelling at them not to move a muscle. But they can't or don't understand or hear me.
I'm screaming at them not to move, to stop and put their hands up. My finger twitches on the trigger. I want to be able to go home to my wife. I want to go home to my life.
And I pull the trigger.
My eyes pop open, and I'm shaking. I'm not proud of what I have done over there. I've been in more shit over there than anyone will ever know. And I can't talk about things like this with Blair. She wouldn't get it. She wouldn't forgive me.
Unless you've lived it and had to experience the fear, the terror, the adrenaline, you don't get it. You don't understand. Until you've had to make choices and experience life or death decisions head on and had seconds or fractions of an inch be all that kept you from being nothing more than a body in a casket and a flag returning home, you don't get it.
"Shut the fuck up, Blair!" I scream, spittle flying out of my mouth. My back feels sticky, and my head is throbbing. Blair snaps her mouth shut in surprise. Being told to shut up has always been one of Blair's big pet peeves. Nothing gets under her skin more.
"I fucking hate you," she whispers harshly. Anger is radiating from her temper riddled body, and it's a quiet anger. She has no fucking idea what I've been through. She'll never know. She wouldn't ever understand. And I don't want her to fucking get it. I just want her to leave me the fuck alone about it.
Present
"I don't want to do this anymore," Finn says, shoving socks and underwear into his black gym bag. He finally stopped shaking in anger, and he regained his composure. His back is to me, and I'm watching him pack his suitcase—he's leaving to stay at his Dad's house. He's only packing for a few days, but this might be it for us.
We had one of those snowball fights. It started with something minuscule and ended up blowing up into something way worse than it had to be because we are both stubborn and hard headed. Honestly, I can't even remember what started it because I'm so furious, I just know that every pent-up aggression and anger came out, and it got ugly fast. Finn was shaking, and I told him I hated him, which has never happened. I don't know what triggered it, but I'm sick of this shit. He's angry all the time, and we are always fighting. He lashes out at me for the simplest things, and I am not his punching bag, no matter how badly he hates life right now or how depressed he is. I'm fucking over it.
Thank god Olivia was in bed and didn't see us going at it, because neither of us had self-control. I hate when we fight or argue in front of her. It makes me feel like the worst mom ever. It's not healthy for us to fight that way in front of her. Olivia doesn't need to see or hear that.
"I think we both need some time to think," he adds, carefully folding his clothes into neat little piles. Even when he's angry, the military mentality on how clothes should be folded is still there. It's frustrating. Pack your shit and get out already, I want to scream. I have half a mind to go over and fuck up all his nice folding just to spite him because I know it would drive him crazy, but instead, I'm watching him pack, with my arms crossed, leaning
up against our dresser. I'm shooting daggers into his back with my eyes, and I hope he feels as shitty as I feel. I want him to hurt. Is it so much to ask that he feels something?
He walks to the bathroom without looking at me, and it's pissing me the fuck off that he won't even make eye contact with me. He's avoiding me. He comes back with his toothbrush and deodorant in hand.
"So you're really leaving?" I ask with venom in my voice. Part of me believes this is all an act. He's not going to leave. This is a joke. He's trying to scare me, but I'm not backing down. I'm not going to be the one to beg and plead and cry. No way. I'm always the one who loves more. I've always loved Finn more. I have to stop loving Finn more. I have to love me more.
"Yeah, we both need some perspective," he says, determined. "We need some time to figure out what we want and what is best for Olivia."
I seriously thought things were going so much better after Friday night when we had sex, but the joke is on me because here we are, and he's leaving to stay at his father's house. Now his family is going to know we are having problems, and I'm embarrassed that it has come to this.
I leave the bedroom and slam the door behind me to leave him to pack. I instantly regret it, though, and hold my breath to see if it woke Olivia up. The last thing she needs is to wake up by my pettiness and see her daddy leave. When I don't hear her cry, I sigh, thankful she didn't wake up. I walk out to the living room and sit down on the couch and wait for Finn to finish packing.
A few minutes later, Finn comes out with his bag in hand. He puts it on the ground next to the front door and grabs his car keys off the key hook.
"I'm leaving," Finn says to me, looking at the ground. He's hesitating and drawing this out. He's expecting me to react—to beg or cry or yell. But I am not begging him to stay. I'm past begging and crying. I'm past being the only one that cares. If he wants to leave, he's free to leave.
