I’ve decided after this last business trip that I’m done pleading with him to act like a decent human being, to respect me and not cut me off. Now I’m just tired. I’m tired of trying to compromise. I’m done asking. I’m coming close to being done with him and this marriage.
He can say all he wants that it’s his job or whatever the hell he thinks I’m stupid enough to believe, but I’m sick of it. He thinks this is fun for me. Being here, waiting around until he decides to show up is not fun. Whenever I see that overnight bag appear, I feel myself slipping into a rage. There is something more than work going on. There has to be.
We haven’t been on speaking terms for the past two days. He came home from this last “business” trip after being gone six days, leaving with less than an hour’s notice on the very night he promised to go with me to Saginaw to visit Raven. I couldn’t bring myself to say a word to him since he’s been home. He doesn’t want to talk about what I want to talk about… things like who the hell he’s with when he’s gone. I know he probably has a mistress somewhere, maybe one in every freaking state. He laughed when I told him that. It was apparently hilarious, based on his reaction. When I told him his job title should be “Dexter’s Bitch,” he didn’t find that as funny. And now he’s not talking to me either.
The screwed up part about all of this though is that even with me being so mad at him, so furious I just want to hit him, I miss him. I miss him so much that it makes my stomach turn. I miss him, despite us sleeping in the same bed. He hasn’t tried to touch me since the first night I pushed him away and told him to keep his hands off me. Still, my body craves his touch. I want to lie on his chest and feel his fingers tracing his name on my back. I’m furious that he makes me feel like this, that he’s doing this to us. He thinks I’m overreacting, but I think he is underreacting to the effect this is having on our relationship.
Today, I’ve been in the gym for the past two hours, beating the track with my sneakers instead of destroying things in my house. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I’m becoming someone I don’t want to be—a mean, vindictive shrew.
I take deep breaths as I walk into our bedroom and see him shuffling through his drawer, his luggage case near his feet. My stomach tightens, and I feel my pulse beating in my head. He’s leaving, and he just got back three days ago.
“I’m going to Seattle tomorrow. In case you give a fuck,” he says sardonically. He has to feel my gaze burning into his back.
I turn down the music and snatch the buds out of my ears. “What?” I say angrily, even though we both know I heard him plain and clear.
“You heard what I said,” he says shortly.
I laugh angrily. “Of course you are. Thanks for the heads-up on the location, but FYI, I’m starting to not give a fuck.” I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth, but they came out so effortlessly.
He stops shuffling through his drawer, swiftly turning around, and anger radiates from his expression. His eyes climb my body, and for a moment, the look he gives me is familiar, something I haven’t seen in a few days from him—lust. But I’m too angry to care and it disappears, replaced with his new pissed-to-shit demeanor. I sit on the bed with force and remove my gym shoes. I’m hot, irritated, and sick of his shit.
“You are, huh?” He laughs in disbelief.
I roll my eyes at him and snatch off my other shoe.
“Well, it’s the last time I’ll tell you where I’m going, since you don’t give a fuck,” he says angrily.
I open my mouth to respond, but I feel a burning in my throat, and I know that if I say something, my voice is going to break and I’ll start crying. I won’t give him the satisfaction. So instead, I take a deep breath, stand up, look him directly in the eye, and show him my middle finger. I walk toward the bathroom, holding the gesture the entire time until I’m inside, and I slam the door as hard as I can.
Once I’m inside, my angry façade quickly starts to break down. I rush to the shower and turn on the water so he can’t hear me cry. I strip out of my sweaty shorts and sports bra and make my way into the water, where I let go completely. I’m angry. I’m so angry that I don’t feel angry. I’m devastated. It hasn’t even been three months since he started going back to work, and my marriage is on the brink of falling apart.
I hate the way we’ve been acting toward one another. That little spiel was the first actual conversation we’ve had without screaming at each other. Tomorrow he’ll be gone again. I’m terrified the cycle will just repeat itself, and in a year, I’ll be signing divorce papers.
I rest my arms on the wall, cradling my head as the water pours over me and I continue to cry. The hot water isn’t washing away the sorrow I feel or numbing the pain my spirit’s in. Suddenly, cool air filters into the shower. I turn around, and my face automatically sets into a scowl as I see him standing there.
“We need to talk,” he says sternly.
I hope the droplets of water camouflage my tears. I turn back around, barely glancing at him. “Go fuck yourself, Cal.”
I laugh angrily, barely glancing at him. He doesn’t want to talk about anything I want to talk to him about, and he’s leaving anyway, so any conversation is useless.
“Oh, but I’m sure you have plenty of women doing that for you,” I add with a bitter chuckle.
A second later he’s in the shower, fully clothed.
“What are you doing?” I ask in disbelief.
He takes off his shirt and undoes his pants, stripping right in the shower. He’s lost it. He throws out his wet clothes and closes the shower door. I shake my head in disbelief and shock. I try to move past him as he grabs me. I move to snatch my arm away, but he doesn’t let me go.
“Let go,” I yell, pulling away from him.
“Talk to me!” he demands angrily.
Oh, he’s angry. No, I’m angry! I’m tired of talking to him. It hasn’t helped! I’m wasting my breath. I try to snatch my arm away from him again, but he doesn’t let me go.
“No!” I yell, trying to push him out of my path.
He moves in front of me each way I try to go.
“I don’t want to talk to you!” I say angrily, shoving him away from me, but he forces me toward him. I resort to hitting him hard on the chest, and he grabs me.
“Then just fucking listen!” he demands, pinning me against the shower wall, my arms near my head. “I’m not fucking anybody else, okay? If I wanted other women, I wouldn’t be with you. I know it looks bad! But I swear to God I’m not cheating on you. If you’re mad, be mad about me being gone, but I can’t deal with you hating me for this imaginary shit going on in your head.”
I look up at him. He’s breathing hard, his brow furrowed. I want to slap him and kiss him all at once. He’s looking directly in my eyes, staring me down and trying to read me, and I look away from him.
“You’re all I want.” His tone is low as he rests his head on mine. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”
He loosens his grip on my wrists, but still he holds them. He kisses me. I turn away slightly, still trying to process this. He grabs my chin, holding my face toward him, and kisses me more forcefully. When I break away, we both catch our breath.