15. Gianna
— ? —
Gianna
Alex had finally fallen asleep.
It was past midnight, that quiet hour when the whole world felt muted and still. I’d fed him, burped him, changed him, rocked him until my arms ached. And now he was in his bassinet, making those soft little sounds that meant he was actually, truly, deeply asleep.
I should have gone to bed. My body was screaming for rest. But something kept me in the living room, curled up on one end of the couch, staring at nothing.
Orion was on the other end.
We’d been sitting like this for an hour. We did not talk, or even watch TV. We existed in the same space, the silence heavy between us.
The lamp behind him caught the angles of his face, turned his profile into something that belonged in a museum.
I hated that I still noticed. Hated that even now, even after everything, some traitorous part of me catalogued the way his forearms looked with his sleeves rolled up, the way his hair fell across his forehead when he wasn’t paying attention to it.
It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. It was more like waiting. Like we both knew something needed to be said and neither of us knew how to start.
He spoke first.
“I need to tell you something.”
I looked at him. He wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were fixed on the floor, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in front of him. He looked smaller somehow. Like the weight of whatever he was carrying had compressed him.
“Okay,” I said.
He took a breath. Let it out slowly.
“The night we told your family about the baby,” he said, “you asked me to be upset about what Demi said to you. And I told you she was boring and to get over it.”
My chest tightened.
“Then you asked me for one thing. Keep it professional. And she was in my office pouring bourbon her first week, and I let her. Not because I wanted her.” He looked at me then.
“Because she looked at me like I was impressive. Like I wasn’t disappointing anyone.
I hadn’t gotten that look from you in a long time, and instead of asking myself why, I just took it. ”
I couldn’t speak. The words landed and stayed there.
I’d spent two years feeling like the problem. Two years being told, in a hundred small ways, that what I needed was too much.
And here he was. Finally saying what I’d needed to hear for so long.
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.
“I made you feel small for needing me. That’s the whole thing. That’s what I did.” His shoulders shook. “I’m so sorry, Gianna.”
I sat there, frozen, watching my husband fall apart on my secondhand couch.
Part of me wanted to comfort him. To cross the space between us and put my hand on his back and tell him it was okay. My fingers actually twitched toward him before I caught myself. But it wasn’t okay. It hadn’t been okay for a long time.
And I needed to sit with that. Needed to let him sit with it too.
“Thank you,” I said finally.
He looked up. His face was wet. Even wrecked, even with red-rimmed eyes and a day’s worth of stubble, he was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache. I resented him for it.
“For what?”
“For finally saying it.”
I stood up. My legs felt shaky, like I’d been running for miles. Everything in me wanted to stay, to keep talking, to push further into this conversation and see where it led.
But I wasn’t ready.
“I’m going to bed,” I said.
He nodded once and stayed exactly where he was.
“Goodnight, Gianna.”
The way he said my name, something he was afraid to hold too tight, made my heart do something complicated.
“Goodnight.”
I walked into the bedroom and closed the door behind me. Leaned against it, trying to breathe.
He’d said it. He’d actually said it.
Not because I wanted her. Because she looked at me like I wasn’t disappointing anyone.
I’d needed some version of that for years. Not the apology but the reason. Had convinced myself there wasn’t one, that I really was the crazy one, the jealous one, the wife who couldn’t handle her husband having a female colleague.
But I wasn’t crazy. I’d never been crazy.
I’d been right.
And he finally knew it.
I crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling, listening to the silence from the living room. He was still out there. Probably still sitting on the couch with his head in his hands.
He didn’t come to the door. He stayed out there with what I’d given him and didn’t ask for the rest.
Good.
Because I wasn’t ready to forgive him. Wasn’t ready to pretend that one conversation erased two years of feeling invisible. Wasn’t ready to let him off the hook just because he’d finally said the right words.
But the ground had moved.
For two years I’d been carrying a question I couldn’t set down. What if I’m the problem? What if I’m just the wife who can’t handle a husband who’s successful and charming and busy?
He’d taken that question out of my hands tonight. Put it on the floor between us where I could finally see the shape of it.
It had never been mine to carry.
That wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t within a mile of forgiveness. But it was the first thing he’d given me in two years that I actually needed.
And when I closed my eyes, I didn’t see the hospital room or the Instagram post or the empty chair where my husband should have been.
I just saw his face, wet with tears and finally telling me the truth.
I pressed my hand to my chest, feeling my own heartbeat, and admitted something I wasn’t ready to say out loud. I still loved him. Despite everything. And I didn’t know yet if that made me brave or foolish.
I fell asleep without crying. That was new.