7. abbi #3
Taking my time, I wash my hair and shave my legs, then dry my hair and moisturize my body from top to toe.
Feeling more centered and determined to make Nix work hard to save our marriage, I leave the bathroom.
Our end of the house is quiet, and I wonder if Nix left.
There’s no reason for him to stay here if I’m being difficult, when he could easily stay at his office in one of the two suites he has set up for his employees.
Metal scrapes against china, followed by a thud and the closing of the trash can.
I guess that answers my question. I pad down the hallway and step into the kitchen to find Nix bent over the trash can, clearing the second plate of food.
His hair is wet from the shower he must have had, and he’s wearing gray sweats and a long-sleeved T-shirt that hugs his muscular form.
The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, leaving his forearms bare.
He knows I have a weakness for his forearms. The way his muscles flex and tense.
The thick veins that decorate the inside. The dusting of hair. Damn him.
He stands and turns, an apologetic look softening his features, his shoulders curled inward, making him look smaller; less imposing.
“I figured I’d clean up.” He shrugs. “I’ve ordered pizza.
It should be here soon.” The uncertainty in his voice is unfamiliar, as is the self-doubt shining from his eyes.
He’s always so confident and self-assured.
He’s a leader, and I’ve always been the follower.
The dynamic between us has shifted, the ground unsteady beneath our feet, and I don’t know where it leaves us.
I step further into the kitchen. Should I apologize? He’s trying to be more present, and maybe I overreacted, but I have so much pent-up anger at our situation.
He wants to connect. He says he wants to make things right between us. But can I trust him?
“Sorry,” we both say at the same moment.
He steps closer to me, but still leaves a significant amount of space between us.
I have to bite my bottom lip to stop it from quivering.
When his eyes meet mine, they’re full of pain and sorrow that almost splits me down the middle.
“You don’t need to apologize. I’m the one who’s so fucking sorry, Abbi.
I’m the one who fucked up. Again. I had no right to assume we could share such an intimate moment when we’re on the brink of destruction.
” He steps forward a little more, and I press my fingernails into my palm, sending a shock of discomfort through me to prevent myself from reaching out to him.
He looks so broken. My stomach twists and turns like soft clay being molded, and if my heart were made of pottery, it would crack.
“I … uh … I was hoping we could share a meal and talk over our day. Maybe make some plans for the backyard for Prue’s wedding?
” Hope shines in his eyes, softening my heart.
I can do it for Prue.
I nod as the doorbell rings. Nix leaves the kitchen to collect our pizza, and I fill two glasses with lemon mineral water, grab some napkins, and sit at the table as nerves tumble through my stomach.
When he returns, we eat quietly, the atmosphere heavy with discomfort and uncertainty.
If I stay, is this how it will always be?
This sense of unfamiliarity. We have intimate knowledge of each other, yet we sit together sharing a meal as if we’re strangers.
Conversation used to flow so easily. We never had to think through each sentence as if we’re walking through a minefield, avoiding the hidden bombs.
“Have you heard from Pam? How’s her mother?” Nix breaks the silence.
I put down my slice of pizza; I almost forgot he came to my office this morning.
“I spoke with her at lunch. Her mom’s still unresponsive, and she said the nurses have been giving her sympathetic smiles whenever they walk into the room.
” My hand shakes as I wipe my mouth with the paper napkin.
“It all happened so fast. Even though Pam’s doing her best to stay strong, I could hear the devastation in her voice.
” I’m not close with my parents, but I can imagine the pain she’s feeling.
Losing a loved one is never easy. “I wish I could do more.”
“You’re doing everything you can by making sure she doesn’t have to worry about work and can focus on her mom. That’s what she needs right now.” He sends me a reassuring smile, the creases around his mouth deepening.
We return to eating our pizza, and I know he’s right about Pam, but I’m a person of action. I like to help directly if I can. “I’d like to do more. Maybe I can order some meals to be delivered to her parents’ house or something. That way, she and her dad can still eat properly.”
Nix nods. “Good idea. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
He asks about my volunteer shift with CompassionAide and I tell him all about Elijah and Hannah and how I wanted to bring them home.
“If you feel that strongly, you should. They could stay in Murphy’s room. He’s not using it right now.”
I shouldn’t be surprised by Nix’s generosity—he had it tough growing up after his dad passed away. He knows what it’s like to fall on hard times.
“Simon has explicitly told me I’m not allowed to offer our home to strangers.
He says that volunteering is enough.” I fidget with the pizza box.
“But if I see them again, I’ll offer. I doubt they’ll take me up on it, but I can try.
” I take another piece of pizza, the idea sending warmth cascading through my body.
Our conversation stalls.
Because I don’t want to ask him about work.
It’s the main contributing factor to our marriage breakdown. I know it’s selfish and rude. Unsupportive, even—especially since he’s trying to be supportive of my volunteer work. But I can’t bring myself to care about something that’s hurt us so deeply.
I take my last bite of pizza and swallow it down with water. “Thanks for dinner.” I wipe my mouth. “And thanks so much for the new storage in my craft room. It’ll make such a difference. I really appreciate it.”
He dips his chin. “You’re welcome. How about I clean this up and then we can work out our plans for the backyard?” It’s late and I should head to bed, but the hopeful expression in his eyes has me agreeing. He could get me to agree to almost anything when he looks at me like that.
I watch him move about our kitchen fluidly, and remember the times I would sit and watch him prepare dinner for us when he was home from his tours.
He took such pride in feeding his family, as if it was some great accomplishment.
I took those moments for granted, thinking they’d always continue.
If only I could have seen into the future …
seen how our marriage would change. I would have celebrated those moments and valued them for the treasured memories they would become.