23 Productive Mornings #3
I stared at Mike out of the corner of my eye, and he must have gotten the message, because he hurried off. Jack scowled as he watched him depart. As we heard his footsteps making the fire escape clang, Jack said, “I don’t want you to be alone with him.”
“Mike’s not so bad, Jack.”
“I don’t want you to be alone with him, Jen. I’m serious. Anyone but him.”
I sighed. I knew he didn’t trust Mike because he had a habit of sleeping with Jack’s girlfriends. I nodded and kissed him on the lips. Sounding less angry now, he asked, “What were you two talking about?”
“My parents want you to come to Christmas dinner.”
He looked surprised, then elated, and said, “So what’s the big deal? That sounds amazing! I’d love that!”
“There’s a small problem, though…” I told him. “They want to meet your family.”
His smile vanished, but I kept squeezing his hand, peering into his eyes, praying he’d say yes anyway.
“My mother can go,” he responded. “But that’s it. Not Dad. You don’t know him, and I can’t run the risk of your parents thinking I’m as big an asshole as him.”
“Jack, I get that you and your dad have problems, but he tried, he apologized to me, he tried to make me feel comfortable in your house.”
“That’s what you think. There’s more to the situation you don’t know about. And now Mom says he’s expecting me to apologize to him. Well, to hell with that. I’m not apologizing.”
“What if I got him to apologize to you?” I asked, feeling the slightest bit of hope that maybe I could salvage the situation.
“Jen, forget it. You’re so sweet. I know you’re trying to make this happen, I know you’ve got everybody’s best interests in mind, but I don’t want you talking to my dad, and least of all just the two of you.
Do you hear me? I don’t want you to be alone with him.
And if it happens, I will cut him out of my life. I’m serious, OK?”
“Why? If you’re going to tell me something like that, it’s only fair that…”
“I’m done!” Jack exclaimed. “I’m tired of talking about this shit!”
“All right,” I said, defeated. “I only wanted to understand…”
“Why do you need to understand?” He was losing patience.
“I’ve never hidden anything from you. You know you can ask me anything and I’ll answer.
But not that. I told you I don’t want to talk about that and you know it and you keep asking.
Now, please God, don’t tell me that’s what you were talking with Mike about. ”
He let go of my hand. I was speechless, so he continued. “What did he tell you?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
“But now I want to know,” I said. “You wouldn’t get pissed off over nothing. There’s something there and you need to tell me.”
But he refused. At first he tried to tell me I was seeing things, inventing problems that weren’t there.
Then he asked why I couldn’t respect him when he said he didn’t want to discuss something.
Finally he admitted that he wasn’t ready, that he still needed time, that he wanted to open up to me but couldn’t bring himself to do it.
I asked him if it was something that I’d done.
Because I noticed the way he got angry with me sometimes was different from the way he got angry with other people.
He denied it, but when I stood my ground, he told me he was sorry.
I said I didn’t need an apology; I needed to know what was going on.
But still, he wouldn’t talk. He went back to his old tactic of changing the subject and said, “Let’s go eat dinner. ”
It wasn’t fair. He never gave a second thought to pressuring me into saying something if he felt like it; he even pretended he was doing it for my own good.
But then when I tried, he shut down completely.
I told him that, and then I thought to myself I’d wasted enough time up there, and I turned around and walked down the fire escape in a rage.
I was tired of begging—of begging just to get to know him better.
Once I was inside, I went to the bedroom to put on my pajamas.
He entered behind me, but stood at a cautious distance.
“I don’t want you to be angry,” he said.
“No problem,” I replied. “If you don’t want me to be angry, you can talk.”
But I knew he wouldn’t. I’d never complained when he’d wanted to know my secrets, but there he was, trying to stage-manage our relationship.
“Don’t be like that,” he said. “Come to dinner.”
“No. You can give my food to someone else, or throw it in the trash for all I care.”
“Jen, can you not drop it? At least for now?”
I’m sure he could tell I wouldn’t, though.
And why should I have? I told him to leave me alone.
That upset him, but he did as I asked. I finished changing, took out my contacts, and got in bed.
I was tired of all the secrets. I had opened up to him completely.
And the way he was acting made me feel like he didn’t trust me.
I hated that. And I hated being made to feel that way.
I could hear Shannon’s voice in my head telling me to stop acting like a baby, but I couldn’t, and I didn’t want to.
The lights were off, and I was turned away from the door when I heard him come in and stand at the foot of the bed.
“Are you mad at me?” he asked.
I didn’t respond.
“Do you want me to go sleep somewhere else?”
“Do whatever you feel like,” I responded.
“What I feel like is sleeping here with you.”
I didn’t say anything back. I heard him changing his clothes, and a few seconds later, I felt the bed sinking under his weight. He tried to stroke my arm, but I pulled it away.
“Jen, please. I just want to hold you,” he said.
I imagined his hand coming over, rubbing my head, squeezing my shoulder, and I wanted to tell him, Yes, do it please , but I held back. He pulled at me softly, rolling me over on my back, and I saw him leaning on his elbow and staring at me.
“I don’t want you to be mad at me,” he murmured, tracing a finger along my jawline.
No. Not this time. I wasn’t going to let him distract me with caresses. That was what he always did, and I was tired of falling for it.
I pushed his hand away and told him to stop.
I knew he was looking for an excuse to disobey me, something that would let him off the hook without him having to tell me what I wanted to know.
But I had made my choice. And when he leaned over and asked if he could kiss me, instead of responding, I turned away.
He rested his forehead on my cheek, frustrated, and begged, “Jen, dammit, don’t do this to me. ”
“If you’re so uncomfortable, I’ll find somewhere else to sleep,” I said, pushing him off and turning my back to him again.
“I’m not uncomfortable. I want to sleep with you. But not like this.”
I knew he was still staring at me, but he didn’t try to approach me again. I was thankful for it. And eventually I fell asleep, without a single part of our bodies touching.