“So you’re gonna live in the city with a roommate you don’t want because you don’t want to commute to a job you don’t love?”
And that’s where I fuck up.
I should have kept my mouth shut.
“It’s not that simple. I mean—” she starts.
And again, I fuck up.
You see, I might have been raised by a feminist, hippie mom, but I was also raised by Michael Davidson. Michael Davidson, who believes nothing can’t be fixed with a little elbow grease, that nothing is ever as complicated as people try and make it seem, and that his opinion on anything and everything is the version everyone should be using.
So I cut her off and tell her exactly what’s on my mind instead of pausing and thinking about Zoe.
“It’s stupid, don’t you think?” Her body stills, but I’m too fucking stupid to notice.
I’m so lost in the future, so convinced that everything will go my way, that I forget that Zoe isn’t quite there yet.
“Stupid?”
“This interview. This whole thing, really. It’s stupid.”
“I don’t understand,” she says, her voice low, hesitant.
I should know to stop there.
I grew up with a younger sister and a feminist for a mother.
I should know better.
But how many times over the years have I seen my dad walk in the door with a look of shame, holding a bouquet of sunflowers (mom’s favorite), and tell her how damn sorry he is for saying some stupid thing he didn’t think through?
“Why are you even going on this interview? It’s ridiculous. You don’t even want that job. You should just stay in Springbrook Hills and figure out how to do something else.”
Her voice changes the next time she speaks, moving from hesitant to annoyed.
The annoyed is just covering hurt, though.
“Excuse me?” That’s when I get the first hint.
The first clue I fucked up.
But do I back off?
No.
No, I do not.
“It makes no sense that you’re gonna, what? Keep working the job you hate? Live in the city an hour from home because you think it’s what you’re supposed to be doing?
“Zander, that’s not fair.”
“You know what’s not fair, Zoe? That when I look at you, I see a future. I see my daughter's eyes and my son’s smile. I see a fucking lifetime of laughter. I see a woman that I know down to my bones I want to be with for the rest of my life. And you’re sitting there next to me, telling me you need to mentally prepare for some interview for a job that will make you miserable and take you away from me. That’s not fucking fair to either of us.”
Silence fills the car, and when I look over at her, her jaw is tight.
She’s annoyed.
Or at least wants me to think so.
She’s probably more hurt than anything.
Fuck.
I want to apologize.
That’s what common sense is telling me to do.
But I’m still burning up with frustration.
So for the five-minute drive, I’m silent.
I let thoughts swirl in my mind, versions of apologies and compromises, sifting through them, trying to decide what will help this situation.
We park in the lot for the restaurant, and I’ve taken the time to calm myself.
To realize what I said wasn’t fair.
That wasn’t how this should go, how I want a relationship or arguments with Zoe to happen.
When I turn to look at her, her eyes are straight ahead on the brick wall we parked facing.
“Are we ready?” she asks, her voice low and monotonous.
“Uh, yeah. Look, Zoe, that—”
“It’s fine. I’m hungry. Let’s go,” she says, then she opens her door and steps out into the surprisingly warm winter air.
I follow her, her long legs moving quickly with irritation, so I need to speed up to catch up to her.
“Hey,” I say, grabbing her hand finally as we’re almost to the restaurant. The sky is cloudy like my mood, and I feel like I’m fucking it up. Fucking everything up.
We have one more night, and here I am doing the literal opposite of what I need to be doing, which is convincing her that this will work outside of this trip.
“What?” she asks, tugging her hand from mine and crossing her arms on her chest.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I want to pull her into me, to kiss her, to remind her that she’s important and amazing and that I’m just some dumb man who should bow down to her.
But I remind myself that ignoring the issue won’t help.
It will probably just make it fester.
And if we’re going to do this, I need her to know I’m a good partner for her to settle with. That I’m rational. If we have an issue, we need to work through it instead of brushing is aside, and I’m more than willing to do that. For her.
“I’m frustrated. I’m crazy about you, Zoe. I have been for so long, and I hate seeing you miserable. I hate that you’re looking at a job you won’t love. A job that will mean you won’t be staying in Springbrook Hills. I hate that for you. I hate that for me. I want you to have everything, Zoe: your dream job, your dream life. I want you to be happy and satisfied. And selfishly, I want you close. I want to come home to you every night. But I also know that it’s not fair to expect you to up and change everything right away.” Her shoulders relax just a hint, and I take that as my cue to keep going, to step closer to her.
My hand moves up, touching the side of her face.
“If you take that job, I’m going to figure it out. Telling you now, I know you’re playing pretend and you need that to be carefree while we’re here, but this is real for me. We are real. You’re living in the present, baby, and that's beautiful, but I’m looking at the future, and it’s fucking gorgeous. And I’ll do whatever it takes to give us that.”
Her hands drop to her sides, the tension of her jaw slipping out.
My other hand moves to her face, and I press my forehead to hers.
“This is not how we fight, Zoe. We fight clean. I respect you. You respect me. I shouldn’t have said it’s stupid. I’m allowed to be annoyed, to be frustrated, but I’m not allowed to take that out on you, okay?”
Her brow furrows.
“Okay?” I repeat.
I want her to know that.
I watched my parents argue my entire life.
But they always made up.
They always talked it through.
When it was necessary, they apologized.
And they never hid it from us, never hid their hushed arguments behind closed doors. I learned the right way to fight without ruining a relationship, and I refuse to mess this up with Zoe because I forgot that.
“Are you real?” she asks, her voice low.
Now my brows furrow in confusion.
“What?”
“Are you real?” I don’t reply, waiting for her to continue. “Men don’t do this. They don’t take accountability. They don’t instantly realize they were assholes.”
“When they’re so in love, they’re terrified to lose their woman because they spoke without thinking, fuck yes they do.” Her face pales, and I smile. “Pretend, baby. Don’t stress about that, not yet.”
I see that’s not helping, so instead, I do the only thing I can think of.