11. Chapter 11 Gummy Bear Confessions
Jenna: October
It’s late afternoon, and I’ve been staring at the same email on my computer, my thoughts a tangled mess. Izzy and I are the only people left in the building. I drag myself to her desk to say good night.
“You okay? You’ve been quiet all day,” she asks, eyes narrowing like she already knows something’s up.
“Not much sleep. I had another one.”
“Same one as before?” she says, packing up her things.
“Sort of,” I mumble. “One second, I’m on a bridge, the next, someone’s chasing me. But I never see who it is. And there’s always this feeling, like I’m supposed to remember something important.”
Izzy nods. “And Jacob? Have you talked to him?”
“He knows. But he doesn’t ask, and I don’t offer.”
“That doesn’t sound easier,” she mutters gently.
“Maybe, you need a long night of really good sex,” she adds, gyrating in her seat. “So good it knocks the dreams right out of you, and then you’re so exhausted you pass out cold.”
“Sex?” I laugh. “Does sex solve everything for you? Though your brother really knows how to use his tongue in…”
“La, la, la, I heard enough.” She slaps her ears. “Go get laid tonight and talk to my brother about your dreams. If you can’t talk to him about the hard stuff, why even stay married?”
I roll my eyes, but her words hit home. “I wonder that myself sometimes.”
“Ugh, I hate that for you guys. But you know I fuggen love you?” Izzy says, reaching out to hug me.
“And you know my kids aren’t here, right?” I tease, squeezing her back. “You can swear like a trucker.”
“I know. But now I like it. So, deal with it.”
I nod, smiling. “Night, Iz. Love you and your dirty mind.”
When I return to my desk, a small box tied with a bright yellow ribbon is waiting for me.
My cheeks hurt from the sudden burst of dopamine.
I know exactly who left it. The fact that he went out of his way to leave this here, even after I’ve spent all day avoiding him and his messages, makes me feel a mix of guilt and anticipation.
Inside, I find my favorite candy with a notepad covered in adorable kitty designs. A handwritten note sits on top:
Life would be un-BEAR-able without… me, of course (and your notepads).
Love,
Your annoyingly persistent (but lovable) friend, Dylan
P.S. You might want to eat these gummy bears after the kids are in bed. Luis swears by them. I don’t use the stuff, but figured you might need some fun more than I do.
A laugh bursts out of me, the stress of the day melting away in an instant.
Dylan’s cheesy surprises—like the Halloween gifts, the massive pack of bubble gum he left on my desk after I ate tuna, and now this—always make my heart flutter.
They are small gestures, but they make me feel special in a way I’ve never felt before.
This doesn’t change anything, though. I can’t “start living,” like he suggested. I can’t run off with him, riding into the sunset like I’m single. I probably shouldn’t eat these bears either. And I definitely shouldn’t message him back.
The house is quiet, except for the sound of our daughters giggling in the bedroom playing a board game.
A nice change from the sadness they’ve carried since giving away Wobbles.
Jacob’s eating leftovers at the kitchen island, while I sneak into the box of Halloween chocolate that was meant for next week.
“Jacob.” I take a deep breath, trying to calm my shaky nerves. “Can we talk?”
Shit—out of all the ways to start this, I choose the worst.
He looks up, startled, fork hovering mid-air. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve… been unhappy,” I say, shoving a mini Kit Kat bar in my mouth like it’s going to fix everything. “With life… with us.”
His silence is heavier than any answer.
“Like I’m stuck… or maybe we both are.” I fumble for the right words. “There was a time we saw each other. We laughed. Shared dreams. Talked about our day. But now it’s like we’re just existing.”
Jacob sets his fork down, the clink breaking the quiet. “We have a beautiful family, a nice home. I don’t get it, we’re comfortable. What more do you want?”
“Comfortable?” I shake my head, frustration brewing as I slide onto the stool beside him. “A house isn’t a home because it’s filled with things, Jacob. A real home is built on love and connection. It’s the people that matter, not the fancy rug or big-screen TV.”
He stares at me, confusion deepening. “I thought we had that.”
The words sting because they should feel true. I drop my gaze, staring at the countertop. “I don’t want to feel comfortable. I want to live, to feel alive, Jacob. I want someone who wants to talk to me, who’s excited about life, who doesn’t run from their feelings.”
I force myself to look up and face him. “It’s like I’m living with two versions of you.” I pause. “The one who lets me in and the one who shuts me out. But I want the first one to stay because I don’t know how to live with the second one.”
Jacob’s shoulders slump. “And what am I supposed to do with that?” he murmurs. “I provide. I love you. I’m doing my best. Isn’t that enough?”
I let out a bitter sigh. “I appreciate everything you do. I know you’re capable of being an amazing husband.
But it’s like you fill my glass just enough to keep me going—showing glimpses of the man I married—only to leave me empty again.
Vulnerable. Waiting for a few drops to keep me from breaking. ”
His hands flex at his sides. “What does that even mean? Am I supposed to guess what you need?”
“Maybe that’s the problem! I’ve been telling you for years, but you don’t hear it.”
He cuts me off. “Of course, I’m the problem. I’m always the problem. What about what I need?”
“I never said that. I don’t even know what you need from me, Jacob!
Because you don’t tell me. It’s like I fell in love with the parts of you that let me in.
The parts that are good. The parts I hold onto, waiting for you to give me more.
But maybe that’s all it is—pieces I’ve become addicted to, getting high off those moments, waiting for the next, convincing myself that’s who you are. ”
I swallow hard, fiddling with the candy wrapper.
“The times when we’re away and there’s no work or distractions…
you’re different. Vulnerable. Funny. Charming.
The man I fell in love with. But the moment we step into the car to head home, that version of you disappears.
You shut me out again. But I knew this when I married you.
I knew I’d always have to share you with your work. ”
I just didn’t realize one day, I’d need more.
He flinches, his voice rising. “So now I’m not enough because I work too much? Is that what you’re saying? I’m trying to give you and the girls a good life! Do you think it’s easy balancing all this?”
“I'm not saying that,” I mutter. “I know you work hard. But what’s the point if half the damn time I feel like I’m living with a stranger?”
“Maybe I shut you out because I don’t know how to be enough for you,” he says, his expression softening. “I never once said work was more important than you, Jenna. Or our family.”
He rarely says my name. It makes my heart ache.
“I know you love me. But day after day, buried under work, bills, chores, there’s no space left for connection.
I’d love to feel more like a team. And desired.
And seen. And sexy. Then I look at our girls, this life we’ve built, and I’m torn between gratitude and this ache inside me, begging for more. ”
Jacob studies me with narrowed eyes. “Why are you telling me all of this now? What aren’t you saying?”
An image pops into my mind. My arms wrapped tight around Dylan’s abs on the back of his bike, but I push it away. He has nothing to do with this conversation.
“I don’t know,” I admit, the words heavy in my chest. “Maybe it’s my past and never being allowed to speak up for myself. Always feeling afraid that I’d drive people away if I said the wrong thing.”
My voice wavers. “You know I’ve never been good at sharing my feelings.
I let them build and build until they explode,” I say, trying to steady myself.
“But isn’t it ironic? Words have always been my love language, my way of feeling seen.
Yet I’ve never felt safe enough to share them with anyone. ” I look down. “Or you.”
Jacob rubs his hand over his face. “You married me knowing who I am. I’m not the guy who cries at movies, writes poems, or holds your hand in the park. That’s just not me. Honestly, sometimes, it’s like you don’t even see the things I do for you.”
The moment suddenly feels heavy with years of unresolved pain that can’t be fixed in one night.
And his parents’ awful divorce flashes in my mind.
His dad was the macho type. Emotionally absent, unloving, and cold.
And Jacob learned survival from him. I’d always hoped I could break through those walls, show him something different.
But maybe I was naive to think I could make him feel safe enough to open up.
“I do, and I appreciate you,” I say gently. “But sometimes, it feels like we’re living two separate lives. Like you don’t even like the person I’ve become.”
Jacob reaches for my hand. “Of course I love who you are. So…what do you suggest we do?”
I blink, surprised by the vulnerability in his tone. “I said like , not love. I think we need counseling. I’ve been asking for years. Maybe someone else can help us communicate better and reconnect.”
His face twists into a mix of resistance and frustration.
“You know how I feel about therapy. No one can change who I am or fix us. My parents tried for years. It was shouting matches, blame and resentment. And in the end? It made things worse, then it tore them apart.” He exhales sharply.
“I don’t want that for us. But I want to try.
Maybe we can spend more time together—go on dates again. ”