Chapter 11 #2
“No, Lovey, I—” Lowering my voice to a whisper, I lean closer to him. “I meant that maybe we could try to have sex.”
The topic of sex never used to make either of us uncomfortable. We never really talked about it with other people, but between the two of us, it was always an open conversation. We always paid attention to what the other liked or needed. We were always perfectly aligned.
But as my husband wears his apprehension on his face like the flickering sign on the window next to us, I’m reminded that we’re no longer in the days of struggling to keep our hands off of each other.
I’m reminded that he won’t be taking me by the hand through the parking lot and breaking traffic laws just to get me home and into our bed.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” I say into my wine glass as the air shifts around us.
“No, it’s…” he sighs, shifting in his seat. “One good dinner isn’t gonna fix whatever this is. I just don’t want to screw up a good night by jumping into bed and fighting there.”
“You say that like you plan on us fighting,” I say with a humorless chuckle.
“Our track record looks like ass lately.”
Even though I know he’s right, I pull my hand from his and rest it in my lap, defeated.
We’re in critical condition.
What if we can’t recover?
As our server comes to collect our plates and wine glasses, leaving just our glasses of water and the bill behind, we don’t say a word to each other.
Tripp is somewhere else, far away, and I’m left alone to navigate the thick fog in my own mind. Blankets and quiet prayers and…
As I move to put my folded napkin onto the table, my wrist knocks into my water glass and sends it crashing to the floor. It shatters, sending shards of glass in a wide spray on the ground.
My cheeks heat under the prying eyes of the people around us whose attention was drawn by the noise as I reach to the ground to start picking up the pieces.
“I got it. You’ll hurt yourself,” Tripp tells me, just before crouching down next to me to pick up the larger shards himself.
He apologizes to a member of the staff, offering to pay for the glass, and I’m stiff in my chair.
It takes a few minutes for all of the glass to be scooped up by both hand and by dust pan, and I am absolutely mortified.
“It’s not a big deal,” Tripp assures me as he settles back into his seat. “It probably happens twenty times a week.”
“Don’t tell me it’s not a big deal when it’s a big deal to me,” I snap. “You don’t know how I feel.”
Like it always does, a small voice in the back of my mind starts screaming at me.
Stop it! It shouts. He hasn’t even done anything!
But I can’t.
His eyebrows raise in annoyance as he pulls his wallet from his pocket.
“Maybe I would if you’d talk to me about it,” he argues.
“Great, so now I don’t talk enough,” I mumble.
Pulling enough bills from his wallet to pay for our meal and the tip, he drops them onto the table and stands.
I follow behind him out of the restaurant and into the parking lot, each of us stepping harshly against the asphalt until we reach our car. No held hands, no giggling or rushing so much that we forget to secure our seat belts. No making out with each other at every red light.
When Tripp opens the passenger's side door for me, he doesn’t make eye contact with me. His face is pulled into annoyance, the muscle in his jaw rolling, and he hardly waits for me to reach for my seat belt before closing the door.
“So it’s the silent treatment, then?” I push when he lowers himself into the car.
“We’re fighting over a fucking glass of water, Jules,” he tells me. “I’m not doing that.”
“Don’t curse at me.”
“I—” he stops, dragging his hand down his face as he twists the key in the ignition. “Let’s just go.”
As we pull out of the parking lot, I roll down my window. My arm rests on the door and I drop my chin onto it, watching out of the window as the city passes us by.
I can hear it; my connection to him, hanging on by a thread.
I can hear its pulse slowing.
I can hear it struggling to breathe.
And I can’t stop it.
I don’t know why I pick fights with him like this. I don’t know why I get so impossibly angry with him. Especially when all he’s trying to do is cheer me up, and when all I want is to be closer to him again, because I love him and I really believe that somewhere deep inside, he still loves me.
I want to fix it, but I just keep breaking it.
Walls close in on me as we pull into the garage, Tripp’s hands wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel that his knuckles have gone completely white. Fingers flex and release on repeat on his shaking hands, and he refuses to look at me.
Pushing open his door, he crosses to my side of the SUV to pull it open, silently offering a hand to help me out of my seat.
It’s the same gesture he’s made every time that we’ve ridden anywhere together, only this time, it’s cold.
Ice radiates off of his body as I take his hand, begging for my touch to warm him.
I pin him in my gaze, letting my thumb stroke the back of his hand as the muscle ticks against his jaw.
“Tripp…”
His hardened gaze snaps to me. A fire rages behind his eyes, and I can’t put it out.
“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on with you?” He demands.
As he releases my hand, it trails up to his cheek. He swipes it away from him, leaving in its wake an emptiness, echoed by a hollow ache that settles low in my chest.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
“Something happened to you at Aislin’s birthday party,” he tells me. “I don’t know what, because you won’t fucking talk to me about it, but you’re lying to me, Jules.”
“I’m not—” I’m cut off by a harsh roll of his eyes as he storms away from me, reaching for his helmet. “Where are you going?”
“For a ride,” he barks. His attention turns to me as he slides his helmet into place and takes hold of his motorcycle’s handlebars.
“You don’t want me to curse at you, you don’t want me to not talk to you; the only other option is to start breaking shit, and I am not gonna be that guy.
If you want to tell me the truth and actually talk to me, call me and I will push this fucking engine to its limit to get back home to you. ”
I open my mouth to speak, to offer him something – anything, but the words refuse to come.
Even as he rolls down the driveway and climbs onto the seat of his motorcycle.
As its engine purrs to life and he carefully navigates past the house.
As the engine roars loudly to let me know that he’s left our small neighborhood, they refuse.
And there it is.
Flatline.