by B. L. Berry
Simon begged to forego the first dance, but it was important to me. And so it stayed. He chose Edwin McCain’s “I’ll Be” and we stood there in a close embrace swaying back and forth as he whispered the lyrics in my ear. All of those things he’d promised he’d be with those lyrics …
All a lie.
When the song is over, I hastily turn off the TV and busy myself once again. The house is clean, but that doesn’t stop me. I’ve been making an extra effort around here planning his favorite homemade meals, doing my best to keep things tidy. It all feels a bit Stepford wife-ish and utterly ridiculous, but I hope it will help ease some of the tension between us. I can be the woman he wants me to be. The wife he desires. The one he expects.
I can’t right my wrong. But I can try to make it up to him. Help him see how good life can be as three. Maybe put a family in that family room of ours.
When the dryer buzzes, I’m quick to maneuver my five and a half month belly to get the clothes out and folded quickly. I slip into his closet to hang the shirts I just ironed and put the rest of his clothes away.
Just as I’m stuffing the last of his boxer briefs into his drawer, my hand brushes against something hard hidden from view underneath the clothes.
I pull it out to find a box and my heart begins to pick up speed. The only time Simon hides things are when they’re gifts and he’s never been good at keeping them a secret. Our very first Christmas together he had hidden the Tiffany bracelet he bought me in the linen closet — the very same spot I kept the extra stash of toilet paper. I’ve always found it to be endearing and kind of cute.
He remembered.
I smile, knowing I can’t help myself. And because it’s not wrapped, it’s not snooping. Right?
Slowly, I open the black leather box. The sight inside steals my breath away. Resting on a tiny velvet pillow is a necklace that is so exquisite I couldn’t have dreamed up its perfection. And it’s my birthstone, the sapphire. The cut is brilliant and it has to be at least three karats with tiny diamonds encrusted around the large stone casting rainbows in the air when the light hits them just right.
Stunning does not come close to doing this justice.
Maybe this is a tiny peace offering? Forgiveness for my sins? Forgiveness for him being so distant. His way of saying, “We’re going to be okay,” without words.
It will be a while before our marriage starts to feel whole again, but this is certainly progress. But what if he bought it before he learned the truth of what I did? Back when things weren’t nearly as tense?
I push those thoughts from my mind and focus back on the beautiful gesture. Minutes pass as I stare at the stunning necklace, envisioning Simon sweeping my hair to the side so he can personally clasp it around my neck. When I close my eyes, I can practically feel the trail of kisses he’ll leave on my collarbone before pinning my arms above my head against the wall while he explores my mouth with his.
God, I miss those days.
But soon … soon we’ll have them back.
I quickly shut the box and put it back in his drawer where I found it. The last thing I want to do is ruin his surprise.
The baby gently kicks me and I sit down on the bed. I wear a smile, feeling hopeful of everything to come. “Shh … calm down, sweet thing. Everything is gonna be all right.”
And for the first time in a long time, I actually believe those words.
Evening comes faster than I ever anticipated.
And then it slips away into silence.
Simon sent a text message around four thirty letting me know he had to work late tonight.
At first I thought he was trying to surprise me, but then one hour late turned into two and two hours turned into me crawling in between the cool sheets of our large bed … alone.
He never came home.
And then I finally begin to believe that yes, I actually do deserve this.
Twenty-Eight
Tonight
The next week came and went without any recognition of our anniversary at all. We make the standard marital pleasantries when we see each other, but we never really talk.
I miss talking. And frankly being inside my head so much is driving me crazy.
When I walk into the kitchen for something to drink, I’m surprised to see him rummaging in the refrigerator. I didn’t even realize he came back home from running to the office earlier. He’s shirtless, and a pair of track pants hang loosely on his waist. He looks so inviting but I don’t feel like I’m welcome to touch him.
It doesn’t stop me from trying though.
“Hey,” I call out softly from behind as I wrap my arm around his waist. Simon’s shoulders tense.
“Hey.” Simon doesn’t bother to look at me when he responds. He just continues looking through the fridge.
“How was work this morning?”
“Fine.”
The silence is awkward when he doesn’t return the question like any normal human being would. Then again, I’m apparently married to the asshole who doesn’t grasp social protocol.
Okay. So that’s how you’re going to be.
I withdraw my hand and take a deep breath. “Would you mind grabbing me a bottled water while you’re in there?”
There’s an audible sigh and he turns around with two bottles, putting one of them on the counter next to me.
“Thanks,” I say, and reach out to grab it.
He leans against the island and unscrews the cap on his bottle, draining half of it in one swift gulp, his eyes never leaving mine.
“So ...” His tone is off. Simon folds his arms in front of his chest. He doesn’t look pissed or contempt. In fact, he doesn’t look anything at all. He’s blank. Guarded. He’s apparently as uneasy as I am right now. I shouldn’t be nervous to talk to my own husband.
I need to find a way to diffuse this negative energy between us. “So, I was thinking... Do you maybe want to hang out together this afternoon? We could rent a movie or maybe go out for ice cream and review the trip details that Carmie sent you? It’s been a while and we haven’t even talked about finalizing dates.”
“Not today, Sharna. I have to go over a few client portfolios for some meetings tomorrow.”
All he’s done is thrown himself into work and it’s getting old. He tells me he’s taking on more clients, traveling more than he ever has before. I just can’t keep living like this.
“Again with work! Don’t you get it, Simon? I miss you.”
“Don’t you get it, Sharna? This lifestyle doesn’t come for free.” He spreads his arms open wide and gestures to the room around us. “This! All of this! This comes from me working my ass off. This comes from me.”
It’s the first time he’s ever made a comment about me not working, and the guilt is stabbing.
“Work or not, you put everything before me. I’m tired of being second. When this baby comes, everything is going to change whether you like it or not. It will no longer be me needing you. This child needs a dad.”
Simon rakes his hands through his hair.
“I KNOW! Don’t you think I know that, Sharna?”
I blanch at his outburst and force my eyes to look at anything but him. We stand silent for a moment and I half expect him to walk away.
But he doesn’t.
The emotion of the past few days ... weeks ... months ... hell, even years, boils within. When I finally meet his gaze again, traitor tears flood my eyes and I can’t help but ask.
“Do you still love me?”
Simon closes the gap between us and wraps his arms around my body, resting his chin on the top of my head.
“Yes.”
I shut my eyes tightly and grind my teeth.
“Are you still in love with me?”
He squeezes me a little tighter and I feel the slow rise of his chest as he takes a deep breath.
“Yes, Sharna, I’m still in love with you.” His tone is softer now and I press my lips against his chest in a delicate kiss. He freezes at the
touch.
I pull back and stare up into his cerulean eyes. He looks so stoic and I can’t help but wonder if he feels the same storm brewing inside as I do. Desperation clings to my heart.
“I know things between us are rough right now, for lack of a better word. But you’re my husband. I’m your wife. Would it kill you to at least try harder?”
“I’ve been trying, babe.”
I don’t dare call him out on his bullshit because I’m exhausted and emotionally drained. I unwrap my arms from his waist and start to pull away from him. I know that my Simon is somewhere in there. I’ve seen glimpses of the man I married. He’s not all monster.
I just need to be patient and he’ll come back to me.
I know he will.
“Hey ...” he grabs my hand and pulls me toward him again. “Tonight.”
“What about tonight?”
“Tonight we’ll go through the details of the Paris trip.”
“Really?”
“Yes ... really.”
He takes another sip of his water and looks at me with a shy smile, thinking that he’s made me happy.
“Thank you,” I whisper, waiting for a wave of relief that never comes. “I’ll let you get back to work, Simon.”
I turn to walk away, but he grabs me again and before I know what is happening his lips are against mine, kissing me hurriedly and without passion.
It feels forced.
Probably because it is forced.
He doesn’t want to be kissing me right now.
It feels all sorts of wrong and so I pull away.
I’m living with a complete stranger.
And all of the shit between us is about to rear its ugly head.
Later that night we have dinner together. We sit on the couch together. We watch a new release that he rented and eat ice cream straight from the carton together.
But we never once talk about Paris.
Twenty-Nine
Blunt Force Trauma
The bed dips down as Simon shifts his weight to roll over. I’m not sure why he’s so uncomfortable, but I wish he would just stop. At five months pregnant, I should be the uncomfortable one. This kiddo who is roughly the size of a banana is using my bladder as a trampoline, waking me up at all hours to pee.
Consider this prep work for all of those late night feedings and diaper changes.
It’s the same thing every night. I lie in bed trying to put the pieces of our marriage back together. But every night I make the same mistakes, putting the pieces in the wrong spots, making it harder to solve the puzzle we’ve created.
Simon sighs heavily and I hear him put his phone down on the nightstand. He must have been checking the time. I roll over toward the center of the bed, admiring the strong muscles in his back.
“You awake?” I whisper, knowing full well the answer to my question.
Silence.
I inch toward him, allowing the heat off his skin to draw me in.
“Simon?” I say, this time a little louder.
Silence.
I would give anything to feel his nearness again.
Cautiously, I reach out my fingertips and trace down the line of his spine with the slightest of touch. He used to love it when I did this back when we first began dating. Somewhere deep down, I know he still loves it. At least I hope he does. And I’m holding onto any ounce of hope I can find. We have to find our way back to each other. The undeniable emotion we once shared. I won’t give up on him easily. I can’t and I won’t. And not just for me, but for this baby, too. Our baby.
Even though things between us are strained, I still love him with all of my being. It’s so hard to sail when the seas are rough. I just hope that our love is powerful like the wind and will carry us across the ocean to calm waters.
Slowly, I wrap my arm around his waist and spoon with him as close as my swollen belly will allow. Delicately, I finger the elastic of his boxers and wait for any kind of response from my husband.
“Not tonight, Sharna.” Simon’s voice is dead and he rolls over to face me with empty eyes. My stomach turns and the familiar wave of nausea I’ve been living with returns.
I hate this distance between us. I hate no knowing when I lost him. And I hate how it feels like I’m living with a stranger.
“Why not?” My voice cracks in fear or concern, I’m not sure which. He looks at me with pity and shakes his head, like he’s the one sorry for me and my heart breaks. “You haven’t touched me in months. Is it because I’m fat now?” The claim is absurd, but I can’t address the elephant in the room. Plus it’s no secret that I’m insecure about my body. I’m not one of those women who feels beautiful and sexy with child.
Simon throws his head back and laughs manically at my insinuation. “No. And you’re not fat.” His feeble attempt at making me feel better about myself is nothing but a joke.
“Then tell me. I need to know. What is it?”
He smirks. And I fight the urge to slap that obnoxious expression right off of his face. “Nothing, Sharna. You need to stop worrying so damn much. I don’t want to do this tonight.” He pulls the covers back up over his shoulder and rolls over so I’m facing his back again.
The questions I’m too afraid to voice aloud simply shout louder than his booming silence. I want to know what he’s really doing so late at work the past couple of months. And if he really just crashes at his brother’s after a long night of drinking instead of taking a cab back here. How he can be present in body, but his mind a million miles away?
At least I think I want to know all of that.
Because the only logical explanation my brain can comprehend is that he’s seeing Carrie again. Nothing else even makes sense.
And because I’m a fucking masochist, I open my mouth. “There’s someone else.” It’s a statement. Not a question. Because I can practically feel its certainty. “You’re back together with Carrie, aren’t you?”
Simon snaps up off the bed and looks at me outraged, raking his hands down his face in disbelief. “Really, Sharna? Really? You think I’m with Carrie again? You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
I push myself up and rest my weight on my elbows, feeling the anger begin to pool deep in my chest. “But—“
“No! You don’t get to talk right now,” he interjects coldly. “I can’t believe you’re the one who gets deliberately knocked up and then has the audacity to think I’m cheating on you.”
“I don’t know! You never tell me anything anymore. You completely ignored our anniversary. You have zero interest in actually talking with me. And I feel like you put on this front at Dr. Bob’s office so you don’t have to dive into the real issues between us. I just want to know why you’re so distant.” He shuts his eyes tightly and I watch as he clenches his jaw as if he’s deciding the fate of the world at this very moment. “What’s bothering you, goddamn it? And don’t you dare lie to me and pretend everything is okay. I’m far stronger than you give me credit for.”
His eyes snap open and his face turns hard. I’m not sure who this man is. He’s certainly not the man I married eight years ago.
“You. You disgust me.” I’m not sure I hear him correctly at first but I steel myself so he doesn’t see me cry as his words stab me in the back. He looks at me, eyes thick with unhappiness. Contempt. And quite possibly hatred. “And I don’t mean you physically disgust me. You’re a beautiful woman and you don’t need me to remind you of that. But you … as a person … disgust me. So excuse me if I didn’t feel like eight years of marriage with you was worth celebrating.”
I bring my hand into a fist, digging my nails tightly into the skin of my palm to feel physical pain instead of emotional pain. Simon pauses for a moment and stands, but he doesn’t stop the insults from coming out of his mouth.
“Who does that? Who purposely gets pregnant when we agreed all along that we weren’t going to have kids?”
He looks at me, expectant. But what the hell am I supposed to say to that?
“Yeah, you don’t have an answer, but I do. A pathetic excuse of a woman, that’s who.”
My teeth grind together so hard my head hurts and tears begin to sting my eyes. Simon begins to pace and I can practically see the tread of our carpet thinning beneath his feet.
“Did you think you could just change my mind? This isn’t a sweater you can return to the store if you don’t like it. A child is not a puppy! Kids were never in our plans, Sharna. I have always been clear about that. A baby is a joint decision. I’m not ready for that and I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for it. You disrespected me and selfishly stopped taking your birth control pills and got yourself knocked up. So tell me, my dear, why would I want to touch someone who does that? I would rather take a shower by myself in the middle of the night to jerk off than have sex with my own wife.”
Too stunned to speak.
Too crushed to cry.
I open my mouth but I don’t even know what to say. It feels like I’ve been in a head-on collision and I’m no longer in my own body. I watch the scene from above as a man belittles a woman.
And in a flash, the woman fights back.
Her arm pulls back, loading the bullets into the pistol. And with all of her might, she pulls the trigger, arm flying forward with all of her body weight behind her fist. When she finally makes contact, the man careens backward, bringing his hands to his face protectively.
My knuckles sting and I’m standing on my own two feet, unsure of the precise moment I got out of bed.
“Oh my God … I’m so sorry!” I don’t even recognize the sound of my own voice and watch Simon retreat to the bathroom, leaving a trail of expletives in his wake that would get him thrown out of a truck stop.
My knuckles are bright crimson and slowly, the swelling begins to show. I take my right hand in my left and massage it gingerly, trying to make sense of the past few moments.
I’ve snapped.
And apparently I’ve punched my husband.
I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good. Maybe Dr. Bob was right? Anger is a good emotion.
