by Noelle Adams
I don’t let him touch me. “No.” The one word is ice-cold.
His face twists, and a little while ago I would have thought this proof of his being genuinely upset, genuinely afraid.
But I don’t know him nearly as well as I believed.
Pop is walking toward me now. He’s smiling just a little. He says, “I guess I don’t have to tell you that I was right about him.” He moves past me and leaves the room.
He doesn’t have to tell me.
No one has to tell me.
I know with every cell in my body how stupidly wrong I’ve been.
Trevor is still standing right in front of me. He starts to reach out for me again but stops himself, dropping his hands. “Melissa, it’s not like it sounded. I swear it’s not like it sounded. Just let me—”
“I said no.” I have to interrupt him. I can’t hear whatever he’s going to say.
I might actually believe him.
“Is everything all right?” It’s Chelsea’s voice, and she’s approaching us from the hallway. “Pop seemed strange. Did something—”
“Everything’s fine,” I tell her, surprised that my voice is so composed. It sounds like I’m in control of myself. “We’re just leaving.”
Chelsea looks at my face and then at Trevor’s, and her mouth turns down in concern. “Oh God, what happened?”
“Nothing important. We’re leaving.” I start walking toward the front door, picking up my purse on the way.
Trevor comes with me, his face and body painfully tense. Neither one of us say goodbye.
In the car, I buckle my seat belt and turn to look out the passenger window, away from Trevor. I might be trapped in this car with him, but I don’t have to look at him.
He rasps, “Melissa, you have to let me explain—”
“I don’t have to let you do anything. Take me home.”
Home.
It’s his apartment.
It’s not mine.
I’m only living there for one year.
I don’t know when it started feeling like my home too.
It seems like he starts to object, but then he changes his mind. It’s a relief. If he insisted on talking at me the whole drive back, I’d have to just jump out of this car.
The drive back to the apartment takes forever. I sit perfectly still, my arms wrapped around my middle and my head turned away from him. I try not to shake.
I feel him looking at me occasionally, but I ignore it.
We finally get home and ride the elevator up to the top floor.
As soon as we walk in and he closes the door behind us, Trevor says in a softer, more controlled voice but one that’s still unnervingly thick, “Baby, we have to talk about this.”
I don’t know why he keeps calling me baby. He’s only ever called me that in bed.
It’s one of those things guys do when they’re turned on.
I can’t stand that he’s using it now.
“We don’t have to talk about anything.”
“Yes, we do. I hurt you, and you have to let me explain why—”
“You didn’t hurt me that much.”
“Yes, I did. I know I did. I only said what I did because I was so—”
“I don’t care, Trevor. What you said was disgusting. Obviously it upsets me for someone to think I’m some spineless object who’s yours to control. But it’s not—”
He’s losing that soft composure he had a few moments ago. “Damn it, I don’t think you’re a spineless object, and I—”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”
“And I don’t care if you want to talk about it or not. It’s important, and we’re going to talk about it anyway. I’m not going to let you brush us aside like we’re one of your nonessentials. This is important.”
“It is not important to me.” His expression is making my chest hurt. I have no idea how he’s capable of doing this to me. Even now.
I can’t let him.
I can’t ever let him do this to me again.
“Yes, it is.” He steps over and takes my face in his hands. “It’s important to you too. Baby, I know I hurt you, and I’m so sorry for doing it. But if you’ll just let me explain—”
I yank my head out of his grasp and take a few steps away from him, turning my back to his familiar, handsome face and his urgent brown eyes.
I take a few breaths and suddenly remember that I was planning to tell him the truth today.
I was going to tell him how I feel.
I was going to open up.
I was going to make myself completely vulnerable.
I came so close.
My shoulders shake with the bitterest kind of silent laughter.
Imagine if I’d actually done it. Imagine how under his thumb I would have been then.
“Oh, baby,” he says roughly, moving over and pulling me into his arms. “Please don’t cry.”
I jerk away from violently. “Cry? You think I would ever actually cry about you?”
Trevor blinks and doesn’t reach for me again.
“I don’t even cry over the things that are most important to me, and that’s never going to be you.”
I barely recognize my own voice. It’s completely controlled and as cold and hard as steel. The words are so mean. Maybe the meanest thing I’ve ever said.
I say them anyway.
I can’t be the only one bleeding here. He’s hurt me so badly, and I have to hurt him too.
“I don’t know what you think I feel for you, but it’s not nearly as much as you believe. I am offended by what you said. And I’m disappointed in you. I guess I really thought you were a decent guy beneath everything and that we could have a reasonably enjoyable year together. But I was wrong. I was wrong. It happens. It turns out everyone else has been right about you all along. You’re fake and manipulative, and you’ll do anything to get what you want. Sometimes the conclusion the rest of the world comes to about someone is the right one. You’re really just an asshole at heart.”
Trevor stares at me mutely, looking like he just suffered a blow.
Good. That’s what I want. He deserves it.
I try to feel vindicated, but I’m afraid I might throw up.
I walk away, and I don’t hurry until I’m out of sight of the entry hall where he’s still standing.
Then I almost run to my bathroom and close the door behind me. I stand there shaking helplessly, hit by wave after wave of heat and cold.
Eventually I can breathe again, and I tell myself the worst is over.
This is bad.
It’s been really bad.
It’s hurt me more than I thought I was capable of being hurt again.
But I know better now.
And I’m not going to trust Trevor again.
I TAKE A BATH LIKE normal that night and get into bed to read.
It’s important to me that Trevor not believe he’s hurt me enough that I need to change my routine.
He’s a long time coming into the bedroom and a long time in the shower. When he does finally get into bed, he turns onto his side to look at me.
After a minute, I lower my e-reader. “What is it?” I’m pleasantly surprised that I sound crisp and casual.
He gazes at me for a minute. Then murmurs, “We’re really going to do this?”
“Do what?”
He doesn’t answer. He just turns on the TV.
THE NEXT MORNING, I wake up early. It’s Monday, and I have to go to work.
I walk to the kitchen for a cup of coffee as I always do, and then I sit down at the island and reach for my planner.
Tucked into today’s date is a piece of paper.
Frowning, I pull it out and read.
It’s in Trevor’s handwriting. At the top of the page is today’s date and the words “Top Three.”
Beneath that, he’s written a list.
Tell Melissa how sorry I am.
Tell Melissa how sorry I am.
Tell Melis
sa how sorry I am.
I stare at the scrawled words on the page for a really long time. The aching ball of pain in my heart shudders dangerously but doesn’t break.
Finally I take a deep breath.
I stand up.
I snatch the piece of paper Trevor left me.
I wad it up into a crinkled ball with both my hands.
I throw it away.
Nine
FOR THE NEXT WEEK, every morning Trevor leaves a top-three list in my planner.
Every morning, I have to find it.
Every morning, I’m forced to read it.
And every morning that tight ball of pain in my heart grows, deepens, shakes a little bit more.
His top three is always three of the same thing. Tell me he’s sorry. Ask me to forgive him. Explain what he meant when he lost control with Pop that night. Think of some way to get me to talk to him about it.
My morning begins with a list from Trevor, reminding me of how broken I feel, how much it feels like I lost.
But I know now I never really had it.
The funny thing is our daily routine is very similar to what it always was before. Every morning, we see each other over coffee. Sometimes he’ll ask me about my plans for the day, and I’ll tell him. We go to work. Both of us have always worked hard and often worked late, and nothing about that has changed.
The truth is in the past few months I’ve been coming home earlier than I used to—because I enjoyed spending evenings with Trevor. I don’t make a point of coming home early this week, so I’m usually not home until eight or nine.
Trevor comes home around the same time, and we’ll still eat dinner together. It’s not the same, but it feels petty and immature to take my food and go eat in another room. So I sit beside him at the island as we eat—usually takeout or something quick to fix—and we talk about unimportant things, anything that doesn’t feel too private or close to my heart.
Then I take a bath and I read or watch TV in bed. When Trevor comes to bed, it’s the hardest part of the whole day for me.
He’ll sometimes look at me from his side of the bed, and my heart will shudder.
He never makes demands on me, and he never tries to force conversations he knows I don’t want to have.
Obviously, we don’t have sex anymore.
I go to sleep, and every morning another top-three list is waiting in my planner.
On Wednesday, I woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, and I went to pull the list out and throw it away so I wouldn’t have to see it first thing the next morning.
Our routine isn’t all that different, aside from not having sex. But everything feels different to me.
On the fifth day after my whole world blew apart, I wake up at five thirty in the morning. It’s a Friday, and I have six straight hours of tedious meetings today. I’m tired and sad and angry with Trevor and even more angry with myself.
I get out of bed to face the day.
I know a note is going to be waiting for me, so I head for my planner first thing to get it over with.
I open to today’s date and pull out the sheet of paper.
Try not to spend all day thinking about Melissa.
Try not to spend all day thinking about Melissa.
Try not to spend all day thinking about Melissa.
My eyes burn as I stare down at the note, and my hand visibly shakes.
It’s almost been a week of this. It’s supposed to be getting better.
It’s not getting better.
It’s getting worse.
It’s getting harder not to believe him.
It’s getting harder to live without him.
I hold the note for a couple of minutes, trying to pull myself together. Then finally I’m able to ball up the paper and throw it away.
I get my coffee and sit down to work on my planner for the day, but I don’t end up writing anything down.
After five minutes, I give up, dump my last swallow of coffee, and go to change into my workout clothes and shoes so I can run on the treadmill.
I run until I can’t feel anything except my body. Fifty-seven minutes. I time it.
Trevor is up when I finally get off. He’s still in his pajamas, working on his phone and drinking coffee. He looks up when I limp in, red and sweating, and grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator.
“You okay?” he asks.
It’s a ridiculous question. I’m not anywhere close to okay.
And it makes me so angry because I’ve spent so long taking care of other people, taking care of myself, holding the pieces of my life together.
Then Trevor came along and slammed his way through them, tearing all those pieces apart.
“Melissa?” His voice is soft, slightly concerned.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, taking a swig of water and then straightening my sore body and walking away. I need to take a shower and get dressed. I need to go to work.
I need to get over Trevor for good, and I don’t know if I ever will.
I make it through the day, and my last meeting ends at 6:03. A couple of women who were at the last meeting are going to get some dinner afterward, and they invite me to go with them.
I say yes.
It’s better than going home and waiting for a silent dinner with Trevor.
We go to a Mexican restaurant and have tacos and margaritas. We laugh a lot. They have no idea about any details regarding my relationship with Trevor. They know I’m married to the sexy ad man, and they think that’s exciting, but when I answer their questions briefly, they don’t push.
We talk about all kinds of other things, and it’s the first time all week that I’ve felt almost normal again.
Trevor calls, but I don’t want to talk to him, so I silence my phone.
I have three margaritas, and I stay a long time, mostly because I don’t want to go home.
The restaurant is less than a mile from our apartment, and I don’t think I should drive home with what I’ve drunk, so I walk instead.
I open the apartment door at 9:43.
I step inside, trying to steel my courage to face Trevor, but I’m exhausted from the day and my head is still a little fuzzy from the alcohol.
I put down my bag and slide off the jacket of the suit I’m wearing. It’s a skirt suit today because I wanted to look pretty, feel pretty again.
I take a few deep breaths.
Then suddenly Trevor is there. Right there in front of me. He’s dressed in a pin-striped suit and white shirt, with his tie loosened and his collar open. He’s wearing socks but not shoes.
His voice is thick as he demands, “Where have you been?”
I blink. “What?”
“Where have you been?” He sounds angry. Angry.
At me.
“I was at dinner. Where did you think?”
“I had no idea. Dinner with whom?” He’s standing close. Far too close to me. He smells so good. I feel surrounded by him.
“With some women from work. What does it matter? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“And it never occurred to you to tell me where you were?”
“Why would I?”
“Because when we first got married we discussed keeping each other informed of our schedules. And out of basic courtesy.”
Okay, now I’m angry too. It feels like he’s attacking me, and all I’ve done is step inside the door. I stiffen my spine and glare at him. “Maybe a few things have changed since we first got married.”
“Have they?”
“Yes, they have. And I can have dinner whenever I want, with whomever I want. Are you going to stand there and tell me I can’t?”
His eyes are smoldering, and his skin is damp with perspiration. I can feel heat coming off him, and it’s making me hot too. “No, I’m not going to tell you that you can’t have dinner,” he says roughly. “But I didn’t know you were at dinner. They told me you left work at six, and you never came home.”
�
��Who told you that?”
“Someone in your office who picked up when I called.”
“You called my work?”
“Yes, I called your work. You didn’t answer your cell, and I didn’t know where you were.” There’s a fire in him, and I don’t know where it’s come from.
But I feel it.
I feel it all over.
It’s making my skin flush, my blood pound.
That’s the problem when you’ve been having sex with someone as regularly and pleasurably as we have for the past couple of months.
Your body keeps wanting it. It keeps expecting it.
And it reacts even when your mind doesn’t want it to.
My body is definitely reacting now. Pressure is building between my legs, even though it’s the last thing in the world I want to happen.
Ignoring the inappropriate arousal, I say, “It’s none of your business where I was.”
He steps even closer. Now he’s only inches away from me. “It is my business. I don’t care if you hate me right now. I’m still your husband.”
I don’t hate him. I’ve never been able to hate him. And desire has gotten hold of me so strongly at the moment that I’m having trouble thinking of anything except how much I want to touch Trevor, how much I want him to touch me. “You’ve only ever been a part-time husband, so don’t act like you’re anything more.”
He reaches down and grabs my left hand, pulling it up and touching the rings there. The wedding ring I bought and the engagement ring he gave me. He holds up my hand so I can’t help but look at them. “You can tell yourself that if it makes you feel safer, but it’s never been true. You’re my wife all the time.” He drops my hand and raises his, making me look at the ring on his finger. “And I’m your husband all the time. You can try to compartmentalize your life all you want so things don’t hurt you, but you can’t compartmentalize me away. I’m your husband, and I’m standing right here.”
He’s breathing fast and hard. His cheeks are slightly flushed. And, oh God, there’s that fire in his eyes that’s blazing hot now.
I’m panting too, and it’s taking every hint of discipline I possess to keep myself from reaching out for him, pulling him toward me.
Nothing has changed.
