Ripple Effects

by Greene, L. J.

  “It wasn’t a secret.” His voice sounds uncharacteristically quiet and unsure. “It’s still so far off at this point, and I just figured I’d tell people when or if it became something.”

  I lift my face to him once more. It’s as though I’m listening to a stranger, and not comprehending a word of this.

  “People? Is that who I am to you?”

  “No! You know what I mean. It may not happen for a long time, if ever. It’s a lot more complicated than just having money to spend. And I haven’t had any time to organize my thoughts around the kind of organization I’d like to set up.” He runs his hand through his hair over and over again, frustration and despair raining from his tense frame. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I wasn’t thinking of it in that way.”

  “I know.” God, do I know.

  With his uncanny ability to hear the words I don’t speak aloud, he takes my hand hesitantly in his.

  “You’re my heart, Sarah. Isn’t that obvious to you?”

  The last words are spoken as though they are a plea. And I know he means them in his way. But still…

  I pull my hand from his.

  “I love you, Danny. But I can’t stand the fact that you rarely tell me anything. And even when you do, I never know if I’m getting the whole story.”

  He doesn’t respond, but his expression is drowning in remorse. I ache for him, but I need to say this.

  “I felt embarrassed and guilty as hell for having to ask your sister about you and your dad. But at least in that case, I knew what questions to ask. I look at you tonight, and all I can think about is that I have no idea what other things I don’t know. And don’t know to ask. Carolyn says your plan was to get engaged as soon as you finished your Ph.D. Is that true? You made it sound to me like the subject just came up in passing.”

  “No, I…” He closes his eyes, struggling to explain. “It was more like…”

  “Don’t bother,” I say, feeling resigned to his reticence.

  “Sarah…”

  “Let me finish,” I say, holding up my hand to silence him. “I am so sorry that you grew up not feeling valued for who you are. The stories you told me break my heart, and make me angry on your behalf.

  “And, believe me, I know better than anyone how hard it is to truly let yourself be close to another person. I struggle with that every day. I struggle at it with you. And I’m far from perfect. But Danny, I can’t be in a relationship that I believe is one thing, only to find out it’s something else. And I need time to think about whether two people like us, who both have issues with intimacy, can really make this work.”

  “Sarah, please. Don’t do this.”

  I’m crushed by the look of devastation in his eyes, and I’m afraid he can sense my own resolve faltering. Summoning every ounce of strength I possess, I continue.

  “I need some space to process everything you’ve told me. You need to give me that.”

  “Sarah, don’t walk away because of this. I swear there’s nothing else you don’t know. Please give me a chance.”

  All I can see in my head is Carolyn’s smug face. What did you think this was between you?

  “I’m exhausted. Please just go tonight, and we can talk tomorrow. Please.”

  Thankfully, something about my voice or demeanor tells him not to push me further. He wants to stay; he wants to persuade me to forgive him. But it’s not really a question of forgiveness, and I think he knows that, too.

  So, it’s with visible pain that he leans over and kisses me gently on the top of my head, stroking a finger softly down my cheek.

  “I love you,” he whispers, his words choked with emotion.

  I can’t meet his eyes. I need time. Slowly, he withdraws, and I hear the door close behind him.

  A minute or two later, Selene knocks gently. She doesn’t pepper me with questions; she just sits down beside me, and wraps her arm around my shoulder. The tears come easily. And this time, I don’t try to hide them.

  §

  Danny

  Walking out of Sarah’s apartment is unbelievably difficult–so difficult that I find myself sitting in the car outside her building for a very long time.

  What the fuck just happened?

  Many times, I start to go back inside, desperate to make her understand that my not telling her these things is about me, not an indictment of what we have together. It’s largely about my messed up relationship with my dad, and the baggage I guess I still carry from it. And I’m pissed at myself that, even ten years after his death, I’m still doing battle with him. And now the collateral damage is my relationship with Sarah.

  I should have told her myself about the inheritance. I meant to. It just didn’t occur to me that something like this would make her question everything about us. Maybe she didn’t have every detail about my life, but she knows the most important things. She knows how much I love and need her, how much I respect her, and believe in her. It was a naïve assumption, maybe, but when it came to our feelings for each other, I guess I thought we were beyond doubting. Christ, I thought we were exactly on the same page.

  I have no idea how long I sit there in my car, just reeling from the turn of events. But after a long while, I start the car. With a painful last glance at Sarah’s front door, I reluctantly shift into gear.

  The streets are quiet, nearly deserted for a Sunday night. But inside my head is pure chaos. I’m so angry. At everyone. At myself, most of all, for being such an idiot; at Sarah for doubting me; at Carolyn for exploiting the situation to her own advantage. That’s not the Carolyn I knew–or maybe it just isn’t the Carolyn I’d seen before. Our break-up had been tearful and difficult, but I assumed it was more because we’d been together so long. And, maybe also because we both just expected that one day we’d get married, for better or for worse. But the relationship wasn’t healthy; we were different people to begin with, and that became increasingly apparent over the years until we began to just tear each other apart. Yes, it should have ended sooner, but I thought it had ended in time to preserve the long-standing friendship we’d shared. If nothing else, I thought we had that.

  On pure impulse, I dial the number I’ve called countless times. Carolyn answers on the first ring.

  “What the hell did you do?”

  “What are you–?”

  “Don’t. Just don’t.”

  After a long pause, she exhales into the receiver.

  “It’s not my fault you still make yourself an island. God knows, I put up with all of your secrets long enough.”

  She’s right about that. That blame is entirely mine.

  “You were trying to stir up trouble and you know it.”

  “Maybe this is a good thing, Danny. Maybe it should tell you something about your relationship with her. I still don’t understand how you could be satisfied with a child.”

  I laugh spitefully at that. “My relationship with Sarah is not subject to your understanding. I don’t want you to give it a second thought. What I do want is for you to stay the hell away from her. And for the record, this says far more about you than it does about her. Sarah would never do anything so mean-spirited.”

  “One of these days, you’re going to realize what you gave up.”

  “No. You just painfully reminded me that things should have ended between us long ago. We’re not friends, you and I. We’re nothing. Understand?”

  “Danny,” she pleads. But I hang up before she can say another word. I don’t care to hear it.

  I text Sarah one more time.

  I’m so sorry. I love you.

  She doesn’t respond. I didn’t really think she would.

  §

  I spend the next many hours in a kind of a fog. I desperately want to do something, but I have no idea what. She’s asked me for time. And I think it may be the only thing I could offer her that she’d take from me at this point.

  Over and over in my head, I relive the look in her eyes when I entered her bedroom. It’s a searing, punishing
memory of hurt, humiliation, and the absence of trust. I use it to flog myself repeatedly throughout the night.

  Chapter 22

  Danny

  BY 4:00 A.M., I CAN’T LIE in bed any longer. I head to the gym to lift, doing a full circuit until every muscle in my body is fatigued. Driving home, I remember the first fight we had after we ran into her high school classmate. I’d acted like a prick, and she was so goddamned mad, I had no idea if she’d just tell me to go fuck myself. But in the end, we’d worked it out. We talked; we made love. It was okay. What worries me now is that this one doesn’t feel the same. Last night, she wasn’t furious; she was hurt. And, God, that’s so much worse.

  §

  In the hours I spend at work, I’m barely able to concentrate. My lectures feel dispassionate and disjointed. I take great lengths to avoid social interactions, opting for lunch at my desk under the guise of grading papers. For the most part, my colleagues leave me to myself.

  “Hey.”

  At the sound of a familiar voice, I glance up to see Tom Ryan, my friend and a math teacher in my department, poking his head in the door. Tom and I joined Taft the same year, and became close right away. When I was asked to become department head last fall, he accepted me in my new role graciously and sincerely; he never begrudged me the opportunity, and has always supported my authority within the department.

  He’s just a hell of a nice guy–big into basketball–with two young kids, one of whom has Down syndrome. Tom is the kind of person who never says an ill word about anyone, and who never seems to falter in his appreciation for the life he has.

  “Hey, man.” I try to muster a little enthusiasm, but I’m worn out and not really up for the conversation.

  “I thought maybe you were sick today. Everything alright?” His grey eyes are serious and compassionate, and I have the disquieting sensation that I’m as transparent as glass. I start to look away when my attention catches on the glint from his wedding band as he clasps the partially open door. For some reason, it further deflates me.

  “Yeah. Just…not feeling it today, I guess.”

  Tom sizes me up for a time, then walks in, and rests his long torso on one of the lab tables at the front of the room. Stretching his legs out in front of him, he crosses his arms over his chest.

  “What’s up?”

  “You don’t have to mother-hen me, Ryan. I’m fine. Just a little off today.” I try to keep the tone light, but I can tell he’s not buying it.

  “Everything okay with Sarah?”

  Of course, he’s exactly the guy who’d zero in on that. And I’m feeling far too raw to be able to deny it. Resting my elbows on the desk, I run both hands through my hair.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  He just shrugs, still eyeing me closely.

  “We had an argument last night, and she’s not answering my calls at the moment.”

  He studies me, managing to be intense and kind at the same time. “Women have been known to do that when they’re mad.”

  “Yeah.” I nod and bite at a spot on my lower lip, probably betraying my nagging doubt that this is not just one of those things that women do. Sarah’s not most women, first of all. And second, when she’s mad, she fights.

  I don’t know what she does when she’s hurt.

  “You don’t think this one will blow over,” he responds, correctly surmising my thoughts.

  “I don’t know. This wasn’t like other fights we’ve had. I messed things up and I’m not sure how to make it right.”

  He looks at me sympathetically, and rubs the small, dark goatee on his chin. “Well, take it from someone who’s been married long enough, and screwed up on enough occasions to know, sometimes an impasse like this is good for your relationship. Sometimes you have to hit a wall in order to break something loose, you know? In order to force yourselves to address something that’s not working.”

  I take in this bit of advice with a mixture of skepticism and concern. If that’s what’s going on here, it’s unsettling to me because I guess I didn’t realize something wasn’t working. Admittedly, I haven’t always been successful in my relationships before Sarah, but, to me, ours seems almost perfect. In fact, it’s been the very best thing in my life. We laugh; we have so much in common; the sex is incomparable. And, unlike my dynamic with Carolyn, we rarely have occasion to argue. I’ve never been happier. Am I missing something here? Have I been so obtuse as to overlook a larger issue between us?

  “Yeah, maybe,” I finally respond, realizing that he’s been patiently waiting while I process the possibility.

  He gets up to go and pats my shoulder. “You two will figure it out. I know you will. Let me know if you want to grab a beer this week.”

  “Thanks,” I nod, now more distracted than ever by a torrent of conflicting thoughts.

  I pull the phone out of my pocket. Still no word.

  Fuck.

  §

  After a particularly punishing run, I shower, wrap a towel around my waist, and grab my phone off the nightstand. Then, resting back against the headboard of my empty bed, I brush my thumb over the list of Sarah’s recent texts. There are so many of them: xoxo, and can’t wait to see you, and little smiley, winky faces. How in the world did we get here? Not 24 hours ago, I was working on my dissertation, awaiting her text that she was on her way over. But, now, everything is a mess. We’ve gone from happy to estranged; and I’m at a loss to know how to get past this.

  Before I can second-guess myself, I touch her name on my cell, and it begins to ring. I’m readying myself to leave her a message when she picks up.

  “Sarah?” The sound of her voice hits me like a freight train.

  §

  Sarah

  His hopeful relief makes me feel instantly guilty. He sounds tired, and I can almost picture him, pacing the room, rubbing his eyes like he does when he’s feeling stressed.

  “I’m so glad you answered,” he breathes into the phone.

  “I’m up in Auburn. My mom took a fall on some ice last night, so I drove up early this morning.”

  “Auburn.” I can feel his brain spinning with the new implications of my current location.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was leaving.”

  “It’s okay,” he finally murmurs softly. But it isn’t. We both know it. “How is your mom?”

  “She’s in some discomfort right now, but she’ll be alright.”

  “I miss you,” he says finally, and the rough timbre of his voice tells me everything I need to know about his state of mind. I fight to keep my eyes from welling up with tears.

  “I miss you, too.”

  He breathes in deeply, and then lets out a small sound that conveys a world of regret and frustration.

  “I’m so sorry, Sarah. I never wanted to hurt you.”

  Despite all of the vile things Carolyn said, I do know that he loves me. I never really believed I was a mid-life crisis. He’s been far too good to me for that. But it hurts. The whole ugly episode really hurts.

  “I need to ask you something. When Casey was here, I overheard your conversation about whether you had told me yet. Is this what she was referring to?”

  There’s a long, conspicuous pause. “Yes.”

  That’s exactly what I was afraid he would say, and I feel my anger resurfacing again.

  “So, it’s not that all of this just slipped your mind; you made a conscious decision not to tell me.”

  “No,” he groans into the phone. “Sarah, I didn’t tell you that night because bringing up all this shit with my dad is depressing, and that night with you and Casey…I was just…I was happy.”

  My heart squeezes tightly in my chest–torn between feeling like I’d do anything for his happiness, and fearing that I’d be sacrificing part of my own to accept his ongoing reticence.

  “That was four months ago.”

  “I know. It’s no excuse, but time just got away from me. I was waiting for the right moment to bring it up.”

/>   I laugh sardonically. “In seven months, you couldn’t find the right moment?”

  “Sarah…”

  “Because I feel like I somehow found the time to tell you everything, even things I’d rather not have.” The tears begin to flow, and I’m so mad at myself for losing control.

  “I know. Sweetness, I wish I knew the words to tell you how sorry I am.”

  “What do I have to do to earn your trust?”

  “No, Sarah,” he breathes helplessly, the anguish in his voice coming through clear as day.

  The truth is, I love this man dearly, but I’m so hurt and so angry with him. Is this what it will always be like to be with him? That I’ll just have to stumble upon those pieces of him that he keeps from me? Or, worse, that I’ll have my nose rubbed in my obvious exclusion from his confidence by some ex-girlfriend that I run into in a public bathroom?

  Am I really okay with a relationship like that?

  “I have to go,” I say weakly.

  “No. Don’t do this. Be mad at me; yell at me; call me every name in the book. But deal with me. Please, Sarah. Don’t use this as an excuse to push me away.”

  I swallow hard, knowing that I’m weak when it comes to him, but I need some space to think about everything that’s happened. I don’t say anything for a long pause.

  “When are you coming back?” His question has enough force behind it that I know if I want any time to process my feelings, I need to maintain my physical distance from him. Otherwise, he’ll just overwhelm me with his determination.

  “I don’t know,” I hedge, glancing around my mom’s guestroom to a small picture she has in a frame of he and I smiling in front of the Christmas tree. Danny’s enormous presence in this small apartment filled the space to bursting.

  “I want to come to you, then,” he insists.