“You know what this means, right?”
“No?” I was genuinely confused. He started crying again.
“I am going to find my mom. My real mom.”
I smiled. I didn’t think he would take it so hard. But yes, he was going to find his mom and figure out who he was.
And, before he could say much more, he wiped his face and hugged me again, promptly announcing that he had to go.
“What? You’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
“What? Why? We had a whole night planned. We can do your DNA test and watch a movie.”
“I’m sorry,” he sniffled. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
I didn’t understand, but I expected him to at least say he wanted to go home with his dogs or something, but he didn’t.
“Number 3 invited me for dinner. And if I don’t hurry, I’m going to be late.”
I am sure fire burned from my eyes as it coursed its way around in my blood. I said nothing. I stared at him and felt like I would surely pass out. I grabbed a bottle of wine and stormed off, straight to my closet, where I fell to the ground and began to sob. He followed me in, closed the door, and I drug my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs to pull them close. He sat down, much in the same position across from me. I didn’t care at that moment that I had laundry to be folded or that my shoes had been tossed in there the day before. At that moment, I didn’t care about much, except crying and releasing every toxin that had been built up inside of me.
“Will you look at me?” I shook my head, refusing. His voice was soft. “I’m sorry. I thought you understood.”
My head shot up. My eyes fixated on his. “Understood?” My voice was shaky from crying but still firm. “Understood?” I pointed at him and then threw my hands onto my chest and then pointed back at him, all the while blinking furiously trying to figure out what words to use to properly express my anger. My heart raced. My breathing jumped and made it hard to talk as I was swallowing air trying to calm down. Tears fell into my lap. By the time I found the right words, my voice was horse and strained. “Understood? I thought I understood. But, I was wrong. We’ve been together all month and had plans and I went shopping and did your fucking stocking and made you dinner, and...understood? Fuck you.” I again pointed at him and then the door while I sobbed. “Fuck you. Get out of my fucking closet and get out of my house. I hate you. Get out.” I had finally had enough. I was finally losing my shit.
As contrary as this might sound to what you’ve read already, I am not a weak woman. I am strong and educated and smart and do just fine by myself. But even I can get manipulated. It wasn’t the first time. My ex-husband was a manipulator. The man I dated after him, you know –the one with the bad shoes, was a manipulator. It was like this pattern in my life, except for my husband who passed away. Other than him, they were all manipulators. Yet Joe – he wasn’t just a manipulator. He was a masochist. It was like he took pleasure in my pain. I assume he was the same way with Emme who, by the way, is also a well-educated, strong, independent woman. We are not fools. We are not dumb. We are not doormats.
But, he was a master at making you believe him. Whether it was the sound of his voice or the touch of his hand or the look he would give you before he admitted something – I don’t know. But he had this boyish look that he would display when he had something he “had to tell you.” I can still see it in my mind’s eye, I mean of course I can. I saw it so many times it’s engrained in me. He would look down, then at you, then down again. His eyes would not smile. They would sink. He barely blinked. Ever. It was odd. His mouth would relax. He wasn’t tense in any way. And that was weird too. Because, you would think that when he was going to tell you something sad or hurtful, he would be tense. But, it was the only time I really ever saw him relaxed. Because he enjoyed it. He enjoyed watching the light come out of your eyes. He enjoyed blindsiding people. He enjoyed planning and plotting and executing it.
And that’s why that look, that I can best describe as “coy,” signaled that something very hurtful was about to happen. Like when I confronted him about why he was adding all my pretty friends on social media. Or when he ate the last piece of chocolate. Or when he finally told me that he had actually only broken up with Emme two months before he met me. Or when he was telling me he was a monster. Or when he barbequed for us and fell asleep while he was eating because he drank too much. Or when he forgot to take the trash out. It didn’t matter if it was a big thing or a little thing – it was always dramatic, yet he would laugh off just about everything. And the sad aspect about the whole thing is that when he was done confessing to whatever sin he had committed, you would feel sorry for him, if you can believe that. He would bare his soul and tell you what a horrible person he was and how you should not forgive him, not now, not ever, and go on and on about how he ruined everything until YOU begin to console HIM. And then he would follow with, “Nobody cares about me. And they shouldn’t.” And then you would fall into it and reassure him that you did, and he would feign some emotion, and you would, undoubtedly, feel badly for him and excuse whatever horrible thing he had done. Because somehow, in the twisted world he lives in, he becomes the victim, even though he causes the problem.
And on this day – it was no different.
I had finally controlled my breathing and he sat there and watched. “Go, Joe. Please, just leave.” I was resigned. I was done. I was over it. I think he could feel that.
“No.” And there it was. The look. I tried everything I could not to get sucked in. I tried to ignore it. I tried not to let it consume me. I should have kicked and screamed and pulled him out of the closet myself, but I didn’t. “I’m so sorry. I am such a mess. I am a horrible person. I am a monster.”
“Yes, you are all of those. Now, please go.” I waved him away.
“Please, just listen to me.”
I took a swig of the wine, straight from the bottle. I continued to cry. Not just for him. But for my grief. Because I was alone. Because of so many things.
“What? What can you possibly say to fix this? You were with me and you made dinner plans with her? Just go. I am sure your dinner is getting cold.”
“I wish you would listen.” His voice became desperate. “I wasn’t going to go there tonight, on Christmas. I was going to be here. But, I was there last night and she invited me to come back tonight, and I said yes without thinking. And now, I am stuck because it would be rude to cancel at the last minute.”
My jaw must have hit the ground. My head must have shook in disbelief. I must have blurted out a million cuss words.
But, in all honesty, I didn’t do anything. I was likely paralyzed from shock that he was that stupid. Hadn’t he just cancelled our dinner at the last minute for her? Was he certifiable or just insanely insensitive? I wanted to jump up and scream, but something held me down. The room was spinning. There was buzzing in my ears. And when I came out of it, I picked up the thing closest to me, which happened to be a T-shirt, and I threw it at him. Leggings were next. A towel. A flip-flop. A bra. Shorts. A blouse. And I kept throwing thing and kept throwing things until he was covered in my laundry. He stayed still and said nothing. The silence was deafening. And then, out of nowhere, he began to laugh. He had this laugh that started in his gut and rattled his chest until it moved into his throat and pushed out of his mouth until it became contagious. He continued to laugh until he shook and each time one of the garments fell off him, he laughed harder. He laughed and laughed and laughed until tears filled his eyes and until I started laughing with him. And in between breaths, he told me he loved me.