Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
T he next morning is laced with an uncomfortable tension, which is something altogether new for us. I want to believe it is from Matt's very normal insecurity and possible jealously that I saw Nick. But it feels like more than that. Like a culmination of little things, water rushing toward a dam. We are out of sync, and it does not feel good.
I try again to bring it up, but Matt shuts me down, insisting everything is fine. Eventually, after a walk full of stilted conversation, we are surprised by a photographer as we exit a restaurant and it leaves me shaken—literally. We get back to my apartment, and as my hands finally stop trembling, I decide I can't stand the tension anymore.
"What is going on, Matt? This doesn't feel like us. Please talk to me."
He lets out a huge sigh and scrapes his hands down his face. “I feel like you’re pulling away from me. Like you are actively trying to create space between us, and I don't know why. Today I could feel you flinch as we walked down the street."
“I am not pulling away. There is a difference between me pulling away and me adjusting to this reality that our relationship is now open for public consumption. The perceived flinching is just that, Matt. Not you. That photographer scared the shit out of me. You’ve had twenty years to adjust to this life, can’t I have some time?
“Yeah, but you knew who I was when we met. You knew this was my life.”
“Again, there is a huge difference between knowing this is your life and actually living it. I didn’t plan for us to meet, neither did you. That has been one of the most incredible parts of all this, the unexpectedness of it. But we, really I, have to figure out how to navigate feeling like someone is always watching me, judging me, judging us. It makes me second-guess myself in a way I never thought I would, especially at this point in my life. It can be overwhelming. I know you're going to tell me to tune out the noise, and I am, I am trying, but it takes practice, and I'm still practicing.”
He takes a minute to let that settle.
"Is that why you went to dinner with your ex-husband? Because you're overwhelmed?"
"What? No, not at all. Is that what this is about?"
"I don't know, Jules, but it didn't feel great to hear. Especially because it came from JP, not even you. Like I wasn't even a thought in your mind. Why wouldn't you have told me?"
"Because there was nothing to tell. I had dinner with Meredith, not Nick. He showed up afterward. And we stayed an extra thirty minutes. That was it. It was a good conversation, one that answered a lot of questions I'd been thinking about for years. Of course I considered telling you about it, but I thought that might make it significant in some way which it was not at all. Also, it's a little rich for you to be commenting about dining with exes. At least my beer with Nick didn’t make front page news," I say with more venom than I intended. It catches Matt off guard.
"You're still upset about Kerri?"
"No, I'm not still upset about it, I was just proving a point that we both did the same thing. Neither of us did anything wrong, though certainly we could've handled it differently. And the takeaway is that overcommunicating is always the better option. For both of us." I sigh, deflated. I do not want to argue with Matt.
"And I'm sorry about the Kerri thing. But if it's not that, then what is the problem here?"
I take a deep breath.
"It's what you just said—you asked if you were even a thought in my mind. You are every thought in my mind. All the time. You are so consuming. Us, our love, it's impacted every single cell in my body, every part of my life, which is incredible, but sometimes I feel like I can't even see straight."
"Consuming? That's the best you can come up with to describe what we have?" he asks, hurt in his eyes.
"No, of course it's not the only word. But that doesn't make it less real for me. I love you, and that is one thing I am one hundred percent sure about. But we don't exist in a vacuum. Adjusting to the realities of your life and career has at times felt stifling. I'm trying to imagine what our life looks like together long term. I know you are, too—you've told me many times about the pictures in your head of your life and your future partner and what it'll all be like for you. My fear is that this imaginary, one-dimensional person who exists only in your mind never has much of an opinion. And I do."
I'm not even sure what I'm talking about or where I'm going, but these thoughts have been swirling around in my head for weeks, and it feels good to say them out loud.
I keep going.
"I don't want to live in LA. Or at least I don't want to feel like that is the only way to make this work. I don't want to leave my job, my friends, my team, my life—unless I want to. I don't want to follow you around the world like a groupie, and I don't want to feel like we always have to be looking over our shoulders, waiting for some next big public crucifixion. I don't want to hear strangers' opinions about me or you or us. I don't want you to feel like you have to move to New York full time and give up your life in LA. I love the idea of Virginia but I can’t ever see it being a permanent full-time base for either of us. I don't want you to feel like you have to change anything about yourself, or your life, or your career, for me. I don't want you to resent me. And I don't want to resent you. I don't want either of us to feel like we're settling. Ever."
He blows out a big breath. "I get all of that. I hear you. And I agree, neither of us should ever feel like we're settling, but I think there is a middle ground between compromise and settling. Right?"
"Yes, probably."
"I love you so much, Jules. And I know you love me, too. Isn't that enough?"
"Yes. The love is more than enough. But it doesn't magically erase the fact that we have to figure these things out. Falling in love with each other isn't the finish line. It’s more like the starting line. I've seen both. I don't want to make the same mistakes as I have in the past. I'm doing my best to think ahead this time."
He sits quietly. I've never seen him so taciturn.
"I just want you to know what's going on in my head," I add.
“I didn't know you were thinking all of this. When you go inside your head and don’t let me in, it makes me feel like I’m losing you,” he admits.
“You can’t possibly know what is always going on in my head, nor should you want to. I will always be honest with you. And if you feel like I'm pulling away, maybe you pulling away in response is not the most helpful solution.”
“I wish things could be like they were at the beginning.”
“You mean when no one knew about us? That was not real life. It was an artificial environment. There was no way for us to sustain it.”
“Yeah, but it was so much simpler. Why can’t we get back there?” he asks with an edge to his voice.
“We can. But it may look a little different than before. That’s all I’m saying. We will figure it out.” I can feel his frustration and mine, although I think we’ve made some headway.
"It is okay for us to talk about these things, Matt. We have to be able to talk to each other with honesty and trust that we will be heard by the other person, right? After all, how do you think people make relationships and marriages work for thirty-plus years?”
“Well, apparently I have no idea … and clearly, you don't either.”
My jaw drops. I'm sure I misheard him.
"What?"
He is quiet, staring at the counter. Confirmation that I did not mishear him.
“Wow. That was a low blow.” I'm so shocked that I don't even register the hurt. I do register humiliation when my eyes fill with tears.
Matt is silent.
I stare at him, confused. “Why would you say something to purposely try to hurt me?”
“I don’t know,” he mumbles.
“Well, I suggest you figure it out. You saying things like that is not going to work for me," I spit out.
"I'm sorry," he says half-heartedly.
I get up and grab Murphy’s leash. My apartment suddenly seems too small. I turn back toward Matt. "Don't say sorry when you don’t even know what you’re sorry for.” I walk out the door with my dog.
* * *
I get back to my building after walking around for an hour and feel no better. Matt knows my failed marriage is my biggest sore spot. I cannot understand why he would so cruelly and impulsively throw it in my face. What does it say about him? About me? Is Nick something he'll hold over my head if we hit rough patches? Forever?
It’s as if he has suddenly revealed a part of himself to me. And for the first time since I met him, it’s something I don’t like. And will not tolerate. The thought rattles me to my core, and I feel an overwhelming urge to pull the rip cord—to try to get out while I can, unscathed. An impossibility at this point, but the impulse remains strong.
When I walk in the front door, Matt has moved from the couch to the barstool. He’s poured himself a drink, and the look he gives me is riddled with self-loathing. I refuse to feel bad for him.
“I am so sorry,” he says.
I cross my arms.
“I am not used to navigating conflict. It is very uncomfortable for me. If I’m honest, I’ve probably been conflict-avoidant my entire life. I think I’ve managed by running away at the first sign of it, or sabotaging things so I don’t have to deal with it. I think that’s why I made that shitty comment. I am so sorry, Jules. Truly. I don’t like arguing.”
"You should probably work on that,” I say, my guard up.
"I know."
"Maybe we should just take a breather. And figure out what we're doing and where we're going and how we're going to get there."
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
Matt jerks back like he's been hit. "A breather?"
"Yes."
"Like a break?"
I double down.
"I guess."
I feel the train coming off the tracks, careening toward something at breakneck speed, and I'm helpless to stop it.
"Because I made that shitty comment? I'm sorry, babe. I didn't mean it. A break? What does that even mean?"
"I don't know, Matt. I just think that when we're together it's hard to get any perspective. Maybe we need some."
"But we aren't together half the time anyway. We're three thousand–plus miles from each other for weeks on end, usually more."
"I didn't necessarily mean we needed a break from being physically together."
"Don't do this," he pleads.
"I'm not saying we're breaking up, Matt. I love you. I want us to work. I want us to last—forever. And I need a minute to figure out how to do that. I think you do, too. I know you've got a lot going on."
"But can't we figure it out and still be together? A break is the first step of a breakup. Come on, Jules."
The tiny fissures of doubt, insecurity, and fear I've felt throughout our relationship seem to have culminated in this moment. Despite the rising panic in my chest, I feel deep down that this is the right decision—for now, at least.
"Let's just see how it goes when you go back to LA, okay? I will call you."
"When?"
"When I get some clarity."
He puts his head in his hands, resigned. "Okay, I guess? Do I have a choice? What am I supposed to say to that?"
I walk over and wrap my arms around him. He looks up at me, his brown eyes miserable. I kiss him, and he resists, but only a for a minute. Then he leans in. I try to convey to him how much I love him, fearing I may have acted impulsively. He squeezes me tight, burying his face in my hair.
I want to grab him by the hand and tug him toward my bedroom so he can slowly undress me, and I him. So I can run my hands along his smooth chest, kissing each tattoo, saving the dahlia for last. So he can put his hands on my hips, my back, my breasts. So we can lie down skin to skin and he can get inside of me, fill me, stretch me, love me. So we can move together, our heartbeats thumping in sync. So I can make him feel so good, so loved. So he can make my body respond in ways that only he can. So I can remind myself that I am his, and he is mine. I want us to make love to each other and make everything better and fix it. Or, at the very least, distract us from it. The thought dangles in front of me, so close I can taste it.
I resist.
I tell myself that no matter how earth-tilting the sex is, it can't fix the schism that has developed overnight between us. Sex won't erase the uncertainty or answer the unknowns. Sex won't give us time to think about what we both need to make this go the distance. Sex isn't the solution. Instead, I settle for that one last kiss, then walk into my bedroom alone and close the door behind me. Only then do I let the tears fall. I'm so exhausted by the conversation I fall asleep.
I wake up later to the sound of the door quietly clicking shut. I walk out and see that Matt is gone with all of his stuff. Murphy stands in the middle of the living room, confusion in his eyes as he looks between me and the front door. I can almost hear his question: Where'd he go? I kneel to pet him, more tears streaming down my cheeks. I wonder out loud, "What have I done?"