“Hey, Dad.”
“Give your ol’ man a sec.” He pointed at the stairs, and I followed him down and toward the kitchen table. “How’re you doing, sweetheart?” He watched me closely, looking protective. The Klasko & Fitch T-shirt I’d given him when I got my offer hung loosely around his neck above the hospital scrub pants he always wore to bed.
“I’m good! I was just stressed that you didn’t have internet.” I looked around the kitchen, at the outdated cabinets and the slightly peeling paint that I had never taken note of before. I suddenly wanted to cry, not so much because those things were there, but because I saw them, and cared about them now. I picked at an imaginary hangnail. “You don’t have to wear that shirt just because it was free.”
My father looked down at his chest. “I don’t wear this because it’s free. I wear it because I’m proud of you.” I really didn’t want to cry, but my eyes welled slightly. “We know you’re working so hard. And stressed.” My dad put his hand on mine. I looked at his thick palm and then up to his warm brown eyes.
My tears spilled out from the outer corners of my eyes and down my face. Was I losing myself to this job?
“I’m just stressed. Not sad,” I attempted to assure him, wiping at my chin and steadying my breath. My palm was dripping wet. Maybe I was sad. “I’m looking forward to not working tomorrow.”
“We love you, and we’re so proud of you. And worried about you! Go get some sleep.” He leaned over and kissed the top of my head, and I ran upstairs again and crawled under the covers beside Sam. The mattress below me felt lumpy and old, and I missed my bed in the city—the one I had picked out with the plush pillow top. I could tell by Sam’s breathing that he was still awake, and I sighed contentedly, indicating that I was on the verge of sleep to end-run any desire he had to talk to me.
“Babe?”
Shit.
“Hi love.” I snuggled up to him, hoping he would appreciate the sweetness in my voice enough to leave me alone. He inhaled deeply. Please don’t start a fight right now. Please. I suddenly remembered I had something to distract him, and hopped out of bed. “I have a surprise!” I turned on a light and riffled through my weekend bag, pulling out a small square baby blue box.
“I almost forgot about it. It’s nothing. It’s small. But I saw them and thought of you.” I handed Sam the Tiffany’s box, and he sat up in bed, confused but smiling, and opened it. His smile faded and his brow furrowed.
“They’re cuff links!” I explained, then added, “They’re returnable.”
Sam plastered a smile on his face and nodded. “I’m not returning them! I love them. Thank you.” I could hear the forced enthusiasm in his tone. My throat closed a bit. He’d never wear cuff links. It was a stupid gift. He never even wore collared shirts. I turned off the light so he wouldn’t see my expression, and stood for a moment with my hand on the switch, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness, before making my way to the bed.
It occurred to me, there in the quiet, warm blackness of suburbia, that I was less disappointed by the fact that he didn’t like my gift than by the fact that he wasn’t the type of man who wore cuff links. I knew it was a ridiculous feeling, but I felt it. I wanted him to have important meetings, and to care about looking good for them. And it had nothing to do with success; it had to do with the fact that I was surrounded by people who wore them, who cared to wear them. The start-up and tech worlds frowned upon suits and shoe shines and designer labels and everything I had begun to feel familiar around and drawn toward.
I allowed myself to stand next to the bed a moment longer, then finally crawled in next to him again.
“Thank you for the cuff links,” he tried to reassure me. I put my head on his shoulder. Even if he hated the gift, I was hoping I’d been successful in waylaying a conversation about my recent schedule.
“We have to get better at this,” he whispered.
No such luck.
He stared at the ceiling, with his arm around me, his thumb drawing a circle on my shoulder.
At what? “I know,” I said, even though I didn’t. “I’m so sorry I had to work tonight. But now I’m free tomorrow!” I forced a yawn.
“It’s not fair to me or your family or anybody that you’re in the office so much, and when you’re not in the office, you’re either working or worrying that you should be working.”
It’s fair to my clients. “Sam, this was sort of the deal. Remember? A few years of hard work—”
“This isn’t hard work. This is madness.”
I sat up, my legs still under the covers, and opened my mouth, ready to ask him how he thought we could afford the apartment we lived in or the thousands of dollars he put on my credit card at JackRabbit for marathon gear and renting WeWork meeting space every month. But instead I forced myself to clench, then release, my jaw.
“It’s not madness. It’s BigLaw. It’s what I signed up for. Our relationship just can’t be all about you right now.” The quilt felt heavy around my legs, and I kicked it off onto the floor.
“That’s so unfair, Alex. You know it is. It doesn’t need to be all about me. Nor has it been in the past, for the record. It needs to be half about me. That’s how relationships work.”
“Yes. Agreed. But on average. Not every day. I was patient when you were starting your company, off at tech conferences and meeting with investors seven nights a week. You went on coding binges for days at a time. And I never once complained when we were in Cambridge about cleaning up after you or doing the dishes or cooking dinner every night because we had no money to go out. And all while I was studying my butt off. And do you know why?” He was silent, and I opted to gloss over the fact that I hadn’t complained because I actually hadn’t been unhappy at all. “Because I love you, and people who love each other support each other. And give more when the other person needs more. Because it all evens out over time.”
I put my head back on the pillow, and heard him breathing angrily.
“Jesus, you really argue like a lawyer now.”
I whipped my head around toward him, and then I opened my mouth and closed it. “You’re right, honey. I’ll make sure to tell my clients that I can’t work past five because you need dinner and a foot rub. They’ll understand. And I’ll want to quit as soon as we have kids, so what’s the point of working so hard anyway?”
“Jesus Christ, Alex,” Sam growled, then rolled his body away from me.
I didn’t say anything, and a few minutes later, when I felt Sam’s breathing deepen, I seethed at the fact that he’d been able to drift off in the middle of a fight. I wriggled around next to him in a futile attempt to make his night as sleepless as I knew mine would be.
Though I’d only had a few hours’ sleep, the soothing morning light helped to calm my frayed nerves. It was Thanksgiving, our families would be together, and we could leave the argument in the past. As I washed my face, feeling ready to accept Sam’s apology, he entered the bathroom across the hall from my room, brushed past me, turned on the shower, and stepped in without a word.
Fine. If this is how he wants it. Fine.