She nibbles her lip, as if deciding whether to answer or not, and then nods before launching into vivid detail about how perfect, adoring, helpful, loving, (insert admirable quality here) every single fucking person in her family is. She has one brother and two sister who are just, like, her best friends, though unfortunately she doesn’t get to see them as much as she’d like because they moved back to Texas a few years ago and she’s still way up here, in northern Minnesota.
We’re interrupted briefly by the arrival of our food, and after the waitress leaves, I shake my head and sigh.
Marla looks up from her club sandwich and frowns. “Something wrong with your burger?”
I pretend to be confused by her question. “What? Oh, no. No, it’s fine. I just…” Pushing some fries around on my plate, I wait a few seconds before continuing. “Actually, it’s not my place. I just need to keep my big mouth shut.”
I take a bite of my burger, filling my trap, and wait for her to take the bait.
Wait for it…
“Not your place to say what?”
I shoot her a sad smile. “It’s just that you seem so unhappy here. And now I know why. I mean, your family…your, like, best friends…are all together, in a state that you adore, and you’re stuck all the way up here alone, suffering through horrid winter after horrid winter, just so your husband can be happy.” Reaching for the ketchup bottle, I squirt some on my plate. “I just don’t get it.”
“Well, he’s my husband. I want him to be happy.”
“And you’re his wife,” I say, putting a twist on her words. “Shouldn’t he want you to be happy?”
Marla looks down at her plate, and though she doesn’t answer, there’s an air of embarrassment in the slump of her shoulders, the way she won’t meet my gaze.
“You deserve to be happy too, Marla.” I pace my words, keeping my voice as gentle as I can. “I mean, what’s keeping him here? He’s a writer, so he can basically work from anywhere, right?”
She nods. And then, rather than look at me, she nudges the kid’s plate, encouraging her to eat.
“Then, what? Oh, wait.” I pause, as if letting an a-ha moment sink in. “He has family here. Is that right? And they’re close?”
Marla pushes a fry through some ranch dressing. “Yeah. Well, not here; they live in some small town about an hour west of here. And Hollis is extremely close with them. Especially his mother.”
I mask my shock. This bit of news is…interesting.
She looks up, and though she’s smiling, there’s a hint of discomfort in her grin. “Besides, marriage is all about compromise, right?”
“So he gets to stay in the state he loves while keeping his family within arm’s reach. And you,” I point a fry at her, “get to endure the godawful cold while living in a state that you hate – all while being separated from your family. Seems fair to me.” I huff and pop the fry into my mouth. “But what do I know?”
I return my attention to my meal, pretending to believe her answer, like the literal definition of compromise has changed or something, and now it means that one party has to give up everything while the other loses nothing.
Marla, Marla. You’re so blind.
If Hollis really loved her, truly loved her, he’d move. He wouldn’t let her suffer, let her turn into the miserable, sad sack of shit that’s sitting here now, tears brimming her eyes.
Because you want the person that you’re with to be happy. For fuck sake, it’s half the reason I’m working so hard to get Hollis back. Sure, my motives may seem selfish. And they are, they are. But not entirely. Because I’m answering his call, the call he placed in his book, the one he directed at me. It was a silent plea for help, one last ditch effort to reach out, to reconnect. And it had to be done that way, like this, under the radar from his nosy, annoying, pathetic martyr of a wife.
Don’t be a martyr, Marla. If you truly want to give your husband what he wants, I’m sitting right here. In front of you.
But now she’s crying, like full on tears, and the kid is pushing up on her seat, concern etched on her little brow. “Momma? Why are you crying?”
Shit. I wanted to bring out her fire, not turn her into this simpering mess. Though, let’s face it, I was probably being too optimistic.
This is Marla we’re talking about.
“Hey.” I push my plate aside and reach for her hand, which is greasy from her fries. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean any offense,” I say, repeating the apology she gave me just moments ago.
The waitress approaches, and I shoo her away with my free hand.
“Don’t be sorry. I know how it must look.” Marla takes a big, shuddering breath and wipes her tears. Then, her smile strained, she urges the kid back in her seat. “Momma’s fine, Belle. Okay?”
The kid plops down in a flurry of tulle and proceeds to shove a chicken nugget into her mouth.
Marla presses the tips of her fingers to the corners of her eyes one more time, as if by doing so she’s closing a floodgate, and laughs like I just told a joke. “There are extenuating circumstances around Hollis and his family. They haven’t always had the best relationship, I guess you could say. They only reconnected a few years ago. Right after Belle was born, in fact.”
That itchy, twitchy feeling is back again.
“Oh?” I scratch at my elbow, and then my shoulder, but none of it helps because the elusive sensation keeps moving, shifting. Tucking my fingers into a fist, I cross my arms and prop them on the table.
“Yeah. They were estranged for, God, years.” She waves her hand. “Something about a girl he was living with who was, like, a bad influence or something. I don’t know all the details. Hollis doesn’t like to talk about it.”
On the outside, I’m calm.
But inside? My nerves jerk and spasm as if I’ve been electrocuted.
Oblivious to my inner turmoil, Marla continues. “Apparently she was a real piece of work. You know,” she glances sideways at the kid and cups her hand alongside her mouth, “a psycho B-I-T-C-H.”
My vision narrows to a pinprick, and I forget how to breathe.
The sounds of the restaurant are gone. Marla is suddenly a silent actress; her lips are moving, but her voice is drowned out by the ocean in my head. Wave after wave, crashing against my skull. Beating, battering, raging…
I don’t know how I get through the rest of the meal. To be honest, I don’t have much memory of it. The next thing I know, we’re standing in front of Marla and Hollis’s building, and she’s inviting me up. “…had Hollis sign it and everything.”
His name is like a siren’s call, pulling me back from the wild, wild sea.
Marla waves to the doorman, and he nods back, holding the door open as we step inside. I meet his gaze when we pass, and he tips his hat, his eyes twinkling beneath the brim.
My legs are moving on their own accord, like they’re no longer under the control of my mind, and – without thought or consequence – they’re going to take me wherever the hell they please. They follow Marla into the elevator where I watch her punch the button for the fifth floor. It’s like I’m here but not here, present but viewing everything from somewhere outside of myself, engaged yet disconnected at the same time.