Chapter 42
Liz, February 26
I wake up with a start, almost toppling off my couch. The TV is on and the commercial that woke me with its obnoxious volume is still playing. I check my phone for the time: 1:26 AM. No messages, no alerts. I call Matt’s phone.
“Hello?” Matt’s voice comes out as a question, despite the fact that he has caller ID.
“Hey, it’s me. Sorry to bug you, are you still at work?” I quickly say.
“Yes. I can’t really talk right now. Call you when you leave.”
I hear the phone click softly before I can respond, and I hang up. Again. This is how it’s been lately. Matt is pulling long hours at work in order to save up enough from overtime to “be safe” when the baby is born. I have no idea how much is in that savings account, but whatever the amount, Matt isn’t happy with it.
I toss my phone onto the couch, frustrated. My stomach twists. What am I doing with this? I signed myself up for this life, didn’t I? No, not exactly. I thought I was making the right choice. I thought I wanted it. But I wake up in the middle of the night, alone, wondering if I made a deal with myself to vanish. To disappear.
I stare at the ceiling. I imagine Ben somewhere right now. Is he at a pub, nursing a beer? Is he driving fast down some empty street, letting the engine clear his head? Does he even think about me? Maybe he’s completely moved on. Probably better that way. Still, the thought hits me like a punch in the chest. And yet, I shove it down. I shouldn’t think about him. I can’t. I won’t.
I pull a blanket tighter around me and mutter, “Yeah, because nothing says ‘family’ like 2 AM phone rejections and a fridge full of nothing.” My own sarcasm tastes bitter. My mind races, turning over everything I’ve shoved into the corner of my brain since December. Every laugh I’ve faked, every smile I’ve forced. I’m supposed to be happy. I’m supposed to be grateful. And yet, here I am, questioning every step.
I curl up tighter, my eyes fixed on the ceiling. I could text Ben, just to hear a friendly voice, just to feel that spark of ease that only he can bring. But I don’t. I can’t. I’ve shackled myself to this path. I told myself this is what life looks like now.
Somewhere deep down, the real Liz — the sharp, fearless Liz who doesn’t pretend, who doesn’t settle, who doesn’t wait around for scraps of attention — stirs quietly. She whispers in my mind, but I shut her out. I always do. I take a deep breath, bury the thought of Ben, and fold myself into the life I chose.
The night stretches on. Commercials cycle. The silence presses against me. By the time Matt finally walks through the door, I’ll smile, greet him, and pretend everything is fine. Because that’s what I’ve been doing for months. Pretending.
And yet, tonight, my frustration lingers a little longer, curling around me like smoke, a quiet reminder that pretending is exhausting. Maybe, just maybe, one day, the real me will demand to be seen.