Trying

by Heather MacKinnon

  A few minutes later, it seemed the sickness was done with me. I fell backward on my butt and leaned against the wall, trying to catch my breath. I watched as Bryson stood and pulled a washcloth from the cabinet, wetting it beneath the faucet. He knelt back at my side and gently wiped at my sweaty forehead and face, his brows drawn, and his eyes focused.

  When I felt like I could move again, I shuffled around to my knees and Bryson’s hand was there on my elbow, helping me to stand. I gave him a stiff smile of thanks and moved past him to the sink to brush my teeth and wash my face. I’d hoped he’d leave now that I was done being sick, but I could see him in the reflection of the mirror, leaning against the door jamb with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “It’s about lunchtime. Think you could eat something?”

  I shrugged. “I could probably eat some soup.”

  His lips tilted into a crooked smile. “Good thing I stocked up.” His cautious eyes watched me as I walked past him on the way to the kitchen. “I can take care of it. Why don’t you go back to the living room?”

  I waved him off. “I’ll be fine.”

  He sighed heavily before I heard his heavy steps following me down the hall. When we made it to the kitchen, Bryson swerved around me to the bags of groceries he must have set down when he heard me in the bathroom. I took a seat at the table while he pulled out can after can of soup and finally a big box of crackers.

  “So, I know you’ve eaten a lot of chicken noodle lately, and I thought you might be getting sick of it, so I brought you some other options.”

  I did my best to hide my disdain. It wasn’t that I preferred chicken noodle, it was that that’s all my body would let me ingest. But, maybe he was on to something. Maybe I could get away with a minestrone or something.

  He held up a can of soup and my heart dropped.

  “What do you think about some clam chowder? You used to love this soup.”

  Was he serious?

  I surveyed his face and realized, yes, he was.

  And he had no idea.

  I cleared my throat. “I can’t eat that.”

  He waved away my protest. “You haven’t even tried. Just give it a shot. You’ve got to be sick of chicken noodle by now.”

  I shook my head and climbed to my feet. I needed to go. Needed to leave this room and this man who used to be my husband but was basically a stranger now.

  “No, Bryson. I can’t eat clam chowder because I’m allergic to shellfish.”

  His face fell as my words sunk in. He set the can down and ran a rough hand down his face. “Fuck.” He placed his hands on his hips and paced away from the grocery bags. “How the hell did I forget that.”

  “It’s fine.” It’s not fine. “You forgot. It’s not a big deal.” It’s a huge fucking deal.

  My own husband forgot I have a life-threatening allergy. How could he forget something like that? Like the nine years we spent together meant nothing.

  “No, it’s not fine, Mack. I fucked up.” He spun around to face me. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I forgot.” He sighed deeply, and his eyes dropped to the ground. “I’ll just make you some chicken noodle, okay?”

  I shrugged and stood. “Sounds good.” Nothing sounded good. And the tiny bit of appetite I’d been able to muster had suddenly vanished. “Actually, I think I might take a nap. Could you just come wake me up in a couple hours?”

  His remorseful eyes met mine, his jaw tense beneath the stubble on his face. “Of course. Get some rest and I’ll make you something when you wake up.”

  I smiled, but I could feel that it didn’t reach my eyes.

  Suddenly, our reconciliation felt impossible. Like the void between us had grown too wide for us to cross. It might have been only one thing that he’d forgotten about me, but it was just another example of how far we’d fallen. Of how little I meant to him anymore.

  With a heavy heart, I curled up on the couch in the living room and pulled the throw blanket up to my chin. I was eager to fall asleep, welcoming the oblivion with open arms. Hopefully, my dreams would allow me to forget, even if just for a little while, how unlikely it was that we’d be able to fix all that was broken between us.

  I awoke sometime later to a soft rustling of my hair. It felt nice, and my lips lifted into a half smile as I stretched and opened my eyes.

  Bryson was standing over me with a soft look in his eyes and his hand on the side of my face. My immediate reaction was to recoil, but I repressed it at the last second. I wasn’t used to being touched by him anymore. I wasn’t used to receiving affection like this from my husband and it felt strange to me now. As that realization sunk in, a heavy sadness followed. How was it that my own husband’s touch was foreign to me?

  “I made you some soup,” Bryson’s voice was soft, as his minty breath washed over my face.

  I sat up and his hand fell away from me. “Thanks.”

  On the coffee table next to me was an old wooden serving tray with a bowl of soup, a plate of crackers, and a glass of what looked like juice.

  “Can you drink apple juice? I know it’s what you always like to drink when you’re sick.”

  He was right. I only drank apple juice when I was sick. How was it he remembered something so insignificant, but forgot about something so big? He must have read the question on my face because he took a seat at the end of the couch and turned to face me.

  “I’m sorry, Mack. I know I fucked up, but I’m trying. I promise I am.”

  I wanted to believe him. Wanted to open my arms and welcome him back into them, but I couldn’t. Not yet. I didn’t believe that he’d changed overnight. It wasn’t possible for him to go from a neglectful husband to doting spouse in the blink of an eye. It just wasn’t. And I wasn’t going to be the fool who fell for it and wound up just as hurt as I’d been last time.

  But at the same time, it did seem like he was trying. And hadn’t I done things in my past that I wasn’t proud of? Hadn’t I treated him poorly and eventually come to see the error of my ways? It wasn’t an overnight transformation, sure, but nothing traumatic happened to Bryson to fuel such a change in me.

  The constant tug of war in my head was tearing me in two. I didn’t know if I should open up and trust or keep my shield in place and wait for this Bryson to fade back into the negligent one. There was no clear answer. No easy way to figure out what the right choice was.

  My eyes landed on the tray of food and a smile pulled at my lips despite my efforts to contain it. That was the old tray we’d picked up at a garage sale when we first moved in together. I couldn’t count the amount of times Bryson had surprised me with breakfast in bed on that tray. It brought memories of a happier time, one I wished I could go back to.

  I turned to Bryson and found he was already looking at me. Was he thinking of all the memories attached to that old tray? When he filled it with my lunch, was he thinking of all the breakfasts he’d carried up to our room? Did he wish we could go back as badly as I did? Was all of that gone now?

  I cleared my throat and looked away from him and back to the lunch he’d brought me. “Thanks for the soup, Brys.”

  “You’re welcome.” I could hear the smile in his voice.

  I swung my legs over the edge of the couch and leaned over the bowl of soup for my first bite. The salty noodles hit my tongue and instantly my appetite was back. It only took me a few minutes to finish the whole bowl and every cracker he’d brought me. I was even able to drink the apple juice with no issues.

  “You up for seconds?” he asked.

  I nodded gratefully, and Bryson closed the laptop he’d had balanced on his thighs and left the room with the tray full of dishes.

  I eyed the computer warily. It didn’t surprise me that Bryson was working. It was all he’d done lately. But I was a little curious as to why he was working in here. On a normal Saturday, he’d either be at work or in his office here at the house. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat with me in the living room. Or the last time he�
�d bothered to do his work anywhere but in his office.

  Had he been in here the whole time I’d been sleeping? I leaned forward and found the charging cable for his computer plugged into the wall. He wouldn’t need to charge it if he’d only planned on being in here for a few minutes.

  Was this a part of the changes he’d promised to make? I didn’t know if changing the location of where he worked did a whole lot, but I suppose it was a start. And if I was being reasonable, I could admit it wouldn’t be likely that Bryson could go from a large workload to a smaller one right away. It would take time to finish up with the clients he was working with or transfer them to someone else.

  Maybe he really was trying. Maybe he was taking the first steps in changing how he’d been. Maybe I needed to give him more credit for what he was doing now and try to let go of what he’d already done. Maybe things between us could go back to being what they were before. Or, maybe, we could build a new normal between us.

  Chapter 29

  I was floating.

  Or maybe swaying would be a better description. Like I was lying in a hammock on a warm beach. Only, it didn’t smell like the beach. There was no salt or brine, but the scent was familiar. It reached deep within me and pulled at memories that I’d all but forgotten.

  The swaying continued, and I realized I wasn’t in a swinging hammock, but in someone’s arms.

  “Put me down,” I said groggily.

  Bryson squeezed me a little tighter. “I’m just bringing you to bed.”

  Bed.

  Our bed.

  I wriggled in his grasp, trying to get him to let me go.

  “Quit squirming, Mack.”

  “I wanna’ sleep on the couch.”

  His warm breath washed over my face and I knew, without opening my eyes that he was close to me. Closer than he needed to be. Closer than I could handle right now.

  “No, you don’t. You’ll wake up with a stiff neck if you do.”

  “Please, Bryson, put me down.”

  He sighed heavily before tilting my body until my feet touched the ground and I could stand. His hazel eyes were dark in the dim hallway and I realized he’d already brought me to the second floor of the house, and we were right outside the bedroom.

  I could see our bed through the cracked door. The light gray duvet was still perfectly positioned as were the numerous throw pillows I always piled on top. Just looking into our room made my stomach drop.

  It was the place where I’d spent countless lonely nights, staring up at the ceiling, wishing my husband would come to bed. Where I’d lain, lonely and unfulfilled as my husband crawled beneath the sheets without ever reaching for me. It was also the place where we’d conceived our child. The first night of passion we’d had in months, and the last once since.

  Worst of all, Bryson would expect to sleep with me. Of course, he would, I was still his wife, and this was our bed. But, that felt all wrong. And no scenario that I could think of could make it better.

  What if we walked in there and continued to act like the strangers we’d become? What if he wanted to hold me, but his arms felt all wrong wrapped around my body? What if he expected more from me? What if he wanted to be intimate?

  I eyed him cautiously, trying to read the intentions in his hazel gaze.

  “Why don’t you want to sleep in our bed?” Bryson asked softly.

  There wasn’t an easy answer to that question. Nothing that I could say that wouldn’t hurt his feelings.

  He sighed again and ran a rough hand through his dark blond hair. “Listen, I’m not sleeping in there with you.”

  My head cocked backward at the news. “Why? Where are you sleeping?”

  “I’ve been in the guest room for a while now.”

  I frowned. I knew he hadn’t made our bed that perfectly. But, “Why?”

  He shrugged and looked away from me. “I dunno’, Mack.”

  My eyes continued to scan his face, looking for the answer to my question. I knew there was one, he just didn’t want to tell me. I knew enough about the man to know when he was trying to keep something a secret.

  His shoulders dropped, his eyes still focused on the hardwood beneath our feet. “It hasn’t felt the same since you left. I’ve only been in there to get clothes. Nothing more.”

  The news sat like an anvil on my chest. It pressed against my ribcage, squishing the organs beneath.

  He started talking fast, like these newer words could erase the ones he’d just spoken. “Anyway, you should get some rest. Doctor said you could sleep through the night now.”

  I nodded absentmindedly. “Okay.”

  He nodded once. He turned to go, but then turned back to look at me. His mouth opened, once, twice, but no words came out. Finally, he shook his head and turned around, his heavy steps leading him toward the guest room. “Night, Mack.”

  He closed the door behind him, while I stood there in the hallway outside our bedroom door unable to move, thoughts moving sluggishly through my brain.

  Why wasn’t he sleeping in our room? I wouldn’t have thought my leaving would have mattered that much to him. He certainly didn’t pay me much attention when I was here why would he care so much when I wasn’t?

  Even now, that I was home, he hadn’t expected to sleep with me. He was giving me the space I needed without me having to ask for it. And I knew, without having to ask or see it for myself, what this cost him.

  I nudged the door open and leaned against the door frame. I didn’t want to go in. I didn’t want to sleep in that bed all alone like so many nights before. It would feel like I never left. Like nothing had ever changed, and we were still moving in a silent dance around each other.

  I didn’t want to spend another sleepless night in a cold bed alone. In fact, that was the very last thing I wanted to do. I also didn’t want to sleep with him. It was too soon. I didn’t know what I was feeling or what I was supposed to feel, and I knew crawling in bed with him now would only complicate an already complicated situation.

  Instead, I walked to the hall closet and grabbed a spare pillow. It looked like me and the couch were going to be getting better acquainted, despite the threat of a stiff neck.

  The next morning, I sat in our colorless kitchen, absentmindedly rubbing at the base of my skull. Bryson had been right. Despite the soft pillow, I’d awoken with a stiff neck and a headache.

  I watched as he scrambled a few eggs in a bowl and heated up a frying pan. He set the eggs aside when the kettle started whistling. Placing a bag of tea in a mug first, he poured hot water over it and brought it to me at the table.

  “Thanks,” I muttered sheepishly.

  I wasn’t used to him waiting on me like this. Our breakfasts usually consisted of helping ourselves and ignoring each other.

  “How’d you sleep?” he called over his shoulder.

  The difference in our morning routine was throwing me. I didn’t know how to act, what to do with myself, what to say. It was all so confusing.

  “Um. Okay, I guess.”

  His blond head bobbed while he slid a spatula through the congealing eggs. “How come you slept on the couch?”

  I shrugged, even though I knew he couldn’t see me. I should have known I’d need to answer this question, but I hadn’t figured out a good enough response yet. Knowing that telling the truth was the only way to make things better between us, I opened my mouth and let the words spill from my lips.

  “It didn’t feel right. I’d spent so many lonely nights in that bed, I didn’t want another one.”

  He turned to me with a frown. “I slept in bed with you every night.”

  I shrugged. “Sometimes you wouldn’t come to bed until the early hours of the morning. I’d lay there wondering what you were doing and how much longer you’d be doing it for. Wondering if you bothered to even think of me anymore.”

  “Mack,” he said, his voice strangled.

  I kept talking.

  “And even when you did go to bed with me, it wasn’t
like you were really there. You were quiet, distant, I might as well have been alone.”

  I saw his throat bob with a harsh swallow but kept going. Now that the floodgates were open, there was no closing them until the river had run dry.

  “And somewhere along the way, you stopped holding me. Stopped touching me. It was like there was an invisible wall between us.” I took a deep breath, trying to collect my thoughts before they ran away from me. “I didn’t want to spend another night like that in that bed. I couldn’t.”

  His hazel eyes were hard as they scanned my face. I didn’t know what he was looking for, what he was seeing, but it made his lips thin and his jaw tense. He nodded once and turned back to the eggs.

  We were silent for a long time after that, my words still echoing around the gray room. I didn’t know if I’d said something wrong, or angered him in some way, but I’d told the truth. We’d spent too much time skirting around hard topics and putting conversations off until later, but later never came.

  If we were going to fix what was broken, we needed to really look at all the jagged pieces. Ignoring even one of them would leave us with an incomplete puzzle. One with holes missing and the picture distorted.

  I was still lost in my own thoughts when Bryson walked over with a plate full of scrambled eggs and fruit. He slid it in front of me with a small smile. “You seemed to be able to keep down the eggs in the hospital,” he explained.

  I smiled gratefully at him and dug into my breakfast. The baby seemed to agree with Bryson’s cooking, because I finished my plate with no issues. When I went to stand to bring the plate to the sink, he jumped from his seat mid-bite.

  “You’re on bed rest,” he reminded me.

  I rolled my eyes. “I think I can wash a plate. You did all the cooking.”

  He shook his head and pried the dish from my hand. “And I’ll continue to do all the cooking. And cleaning. And whatever else needs to be done. At least until you’re cleared by your doctor.”