CHAPTER NINE Chip
Quiet was so noisy. I’d made that discovery over the past year. When you came home to an empty house, the reminder of just how alone you truly were hit you squarely between the eyes. The silence screamed into your head that you’re on your own.
There were no discussions about what’s for dinner. No shared after-work showers with your partner. No chance the post-workday bathing will lead to hot sex. Just the cabin greeting me with a big fat nothingness that filled my existence with sadness.
Pooch was glad we were home, though. He was so busy at the mercantile, greeting folks and making sure he extracted every pat he could get, that he loved the comfort of his bed in front of a crackling fire at the end of the day.
After a year, I’d finally removed all evidence of John and our life as a couple.
The few framed photos of us were boxed up.
The clothes he’d left in the loft were given to a local clothing drive.
His toothbrush was removed from the glass near the sink.
I’d managed to wipe the last vestiges of our shared life from the cabin.
However, you can remove a person’s belongings, and they still haunt the space, no matter how little of them is left.
The quiet I spoke of didn’t truly exist because no matter what I did, where I stood in the cabin, or how much time ticked by, John was everywhere, his ghost a presence I couldn’t let go of.
After a year, I’d realized that our split was unusual. There was no big blow-up. There were very few signs of an impending breakup. In fact, the whole relationship disintegrated far too easily and with little discussion.
* * *
John had stayed home on that fateful Tuesday, Christmas Eve of 2024. He’d said he had a lot to do with holiday preparations. I figured that since my birthday was the next day, he was most likely working on a surprise for me. He always made sure we celebrated my special day as well as Christmas.
The mercantile was slower than usual, being Christmas Eve, so I knew we could manage without him. In the back of my mind, I had this dread that’d been knocking about in my head for a couple of weeks. Something was off with John. He seemed removed from our day-to-day tasks and usual loving banter.
I’d asked him more times than I cared to admit, “What’s wrong?
” His reply was a subdued response that nothing was wrong.
His usual joy over the holidays, matching my own, was nowhere to be seen.
We were always competitive about decorating and discovering new ideas to light up the cabin and the store.
But this year, he’d barely participated in any of our usual preparations.
He was preoccupied with his laptop on what he called a work project.
The damn thing went everywhere with him, but was closed tight as a drum whenever he had work to do at the mercantile.
Of course, I trusted him and never thought anything other than what he told me was true.
He claimed he was working on a special project for some extra cash.
He maintained a freelance position with an accounting firm he’d worked part-time at during college.
I did appreciate the extra money he earned, and he never seemed all that distracted from our main responsibility, the mercantile.
But the level of attention he was directing at this new project was unusually intense.
“What has you so preoccupied?” I finally asked the night before our last day as a couple.
“It’s work,” he repeated.
“No, John!” I exclaimed. “It is not just work. You’re acting differently. Are you okay?”
“I’ll be finished tomorrow.”
I’d let it go, but that final night was worrying me. We hadn’t had sex for three weeks. That in itself was cause for worry. We were a sexual couple and never tired of physical contact. He rocked my world just by looking at him. I’d thought he felt the same way.
The next morning, he decided to stay home from the mercantile.
I’d hoped the job was nearly done, and then he would get back to his usual self before Christmas Day.
Even with me getting used to the change in personality I’d accepted for the previous few weeks, I missed the banter of our lives, the texts of ‘I love you’s,’ and the sexual innuendos we sent back and forth over our cell phones, even when we were in the same building.
I was hurting and terrified that something was wrong.
That night, when I drove down the narrow gravel driveway to the cabin, I noticed the yard lights were on and the garage door was open.
John’s Ford truck was backed up to the garage and had numerous boxes stacked in the bed.
He was stretching a tarp over the load when I pulled up alongside his truck.
John froze when he saw me drive up. A feeling of total despair clenched my throat, and then I swallowed hard, the fear depositing straight into my gut.
I was instantly sick to my stomach. I didn’t have to ask him what was in his truck bed because his face and body language conveyed all I needed to know.
I remained in my truck, staring through the windshield while he stared back. His eyes had glassed over as we were locked in a silent dance of pain. He didn’t have to speak, and I didn’t have to inquire about the load in his truck. John was leaving me.
After what seemed like an eternity, I turned the truck ignition off and trudged to the cabin’s front door, avoiding the garage and him.
I sat at the kitchen table, my chin resting on my propped-up hands.
The cabin was quiet while I prayed to a God I wasn’t sure existed.
Surely John wouldn’t do this on Christmas Eve.
Especially with Christmas—and my birthday—being the very next day.
I heard the garage door slowly closing, the opener groaning and screeching after a million uses.
The wait for the door behind me to open was excruciating.
If John didn’t come in the kitchen door from the garage, I wouldn’t have to hear the news.
Perhaps we could live in that safe limbo of never knowing.
Time could stand still. I could stay seated, trapped in the security of ignorance.
But that’s not how life works. Others make decisions about our lives, and then we adjust. But these decisions and the adjustments required were not of my choosing. I held my breath when the door opened.
John pulled a chair out from under the table, its legs making a high-pitched scraping sound on the wooden floor like a siren of doom. A weary sigh escaped his lungs.
“We need to talk.”
“It wasn’t a work project, was it?” I said, pretending I could be the bigger man and maintain a civil voice.
“No,” he admitted, laying both hands on the table in front of him.
His demeanor was calm and businesslike. I dared to look at the stranger beside me. This was not my John. This person had bad news and chose the direct, distant, efficient persona to deliver it.
“I’m leaving you, and I’m leaving Missile.”
“What’s his name?” I asked, dropping my hands from my chin and locking eyes with him.
He wanted to lie. I noted the hesitation on his face. But he didn’t lie. I had to respect him for that. He swallowed hard before clearing his throat. His tears proved to me he was having a difficult time voicing what had to be said.
“His name doesn’t matter, but I am leaving you for someone else,” he finally announced.
I let the words sink in. Slowly, and with deadly accuracy, the declaration hit my heart. A thousand questions raced through my brain. Things I wanted to know. Truths I had to hear. Everything I feared had come true, and I required an explanation.
“His name doesn’t matter,” I parroted to no one in particular, checking my pulse with my right hand, making sure I didn’t stroke out from the harsh, relationship death sentence. “But you’re leaving me for an unidentified person.”
“And I’m truly sorry,” he added.
We sat in silence and let the news hang over the room like a funeral in full progress. He was moving on. Our relationship was dead. Our friendship was dead. I was dead. Every single thing I’d ever loved and wanted was dead. This was a funeral, all right. Mine, and I was acutely aware of my loss.
“Can I fix anything?” I asked. He remained silent. “Do I get the chance to change?”
“It’s not you,” he stated.
I laughed out loud. A sad outburst of realization. “It never is,” I agreed, seeing myself in a bad rom-com, receiving the standard break-up reason.
I had an awful thought cross my mind. “Did I interrupt your packing? Were you going to leave with just a note?”
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
“That was decent of you,” I admitted. “So,” I added. “When? Now? Tomorrow? After the holidays? Are we not going to your folks’ house tomorrow?”
“Now,” he said, standing from the table.
“What about Pooch?”
Inquiring about his dog was probably an odd thing to ask at that moment, considering the situation, but I was stalling for time so I could rally and come up with some colorful expletives. Or beg. I was unsure of the right approach by that point, but I knew I was capable of begging.
“I can’t take him,” he replied. “I was hoping you’d want him with you now.”
“Now?” I mumbled. “Like a parting gift?”
“He was your dog, too.”
“And you were mine too,” I snarked. “That’s what you promised all these years.”
I was getting my legs underneath me now. I had a million comebacks ready to fire at him. I would convince him to reconsider. I had our shared experiences, time, and love as my plan to keep him.
“Things change, Chip. I’ve changed. I’m unhappy here.”
My list of comebacks deflated the second he stated he was unhappy.
I knew the score when someone said they were unhappy.
They meant unhappy with me. I was crushed, but no way would I stand in the way of an unhappy person.
An unhappy person blames their circumstances on others.
And when they blame, they’re usually looking at you.
“I’ve never wanted anything but your happiness, John. I wish you the best.”
I stood and began walking to the bedroom. “That’s it? You wish me the best?” he said, hurrying behind me and grabbing my arm, turning me around. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” I answered.
“Jesus!” he exclaimed. “I kind of expected more from you.”
“Seriously? You expected more from me?” I hissed. “Then let me ask you this, John. Are you willing to stay?” I asked. “Work on things? Maybe see if you can fix being unhappy?”
“Probably not,” he confessed, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets.
“Then, yes. Just like that.”
I closed the bedroom door and stood at the window, marveling at the quiet in the cabin. Pooch whined at the bottom of the door, sniffing and trying to figure out what was happening in the bedroom.
John’s footsteps alerted me to his departure. I waited until he walked out of the garage and looked toward the window I stood in. Snow had covered the blue tarp over his belongings, hiding the evidence of his impending departure from my life.
The taillights on his truck glowed red until he turned onto the paved road. Exhaust slowly evaporated in the cold. And then came the quiet. The loudest sound there is.