Chapter 2 #2
Brett's face darkened. He pushed back from the island slightly, like he needed space from this conversation.
"I've been working my ass off to provide for this family," he said, his voice getting louder, more defensive.
"The European expansion is huge for the company, for our future.
We're talking about six new markets, Lauren.
Six. Do you have any idea what that means for our bottom line? "
Our bottom line. Not our family. Not our happiness. Our bottom line.
"I'm not asking you to stop working hard," I said, trying to keep my voice down even though I could feel my heart racing. "I'm asking you to be here. With us. With me. I'm asking you to care about the things that happen in your own house."
Brett rubbed his forehead like I was giving him a migraine. The gesture was so dismissive, so tired, that I wanted to throw something.
"What exactly do you want from me, Lauren?" he asked, his voice flat. "I work hard, I provide for our family, I don't cheat or drink or gamble away our savings. I'm home every night. What more is there?"
What more is there?
"I want you to want to be here," I said, my voice cracking despite my best efforts to stay composed.
Tears were threatening now, hot and shameful.
"I want you to notice when I'm struggling or excited or sad.
I want to feel like I matter to you as more than just the person who keeps your life organized and your house clean. "
Brett stood up abruptly, carrying his plate to the sink with sharp, dismissive movements. "You're being dramatic," he said over his shoulder, like he was closing the conversation along with his breakfast. "Everything's fine, Lauren. You're looking for problems where there aren't any."
Dramatic. Like a blow.
"Everything is not fine." My voice broke now, and I didn't care anymore. "I'm not fine. We're not fine. I feel like I'm married to a stranger who tolerates me instead of loves me."
"Speak for yourself," Brett said coldly, grabbing his golf bag from the closet. He slung it over his shoulder with quick, angry movements. "I've got to go. We'll talk about this later."
"When?" I called after him, getting desperate now. "When will we talk about it? Because later never seems to come, Brett. It's always golf or work or some meeting or conference call. There's always something more important than dealing with what's happening between us."
But he was already walking toward the garage, already gone even though he was still in the room. The door closed behind him with a decisive click that felt final, like the sound of opportunity slipping away.
I sat down for a long time, staring at his barely touched eggs and feeling stupid for trying.
For hoping.
For thinking that one conversation over scrambled eggs could bridge the canyon that had opened up between us without either of us noticing. The fruit salad looked ridiculous now, all those pieces arranged like I was expecting company instead of just trying to connect with my own husband.
Twenty four years together, and this is what we'd become. Two people who shared a mortgage and a last name but couldn't have a real conversation over breakfast.
My phone vibrated against the counter, making me jump. A text from Devin.
Devin:
Hey Mom, heading home from Jake's. Thanks again for coming last night. Still can't believe I hit that homer. Feel like I'm dreaming.
I smiled despite the ache in my heart. At least someone in this family still knew how to love out loud.
I text back.
So proud of you, baby. Can't wait to hear all about it. Love you. See you in a bit.
I cleaned up the breakfast mess, wrapping up the leftover fruit and putting Brett's untouched orange juice in the fridge. All that effort for a ten minute conversation that went nowhere. All that hope for nothing. The scrambled eggs went into the garbage disposal with a satisfying grinding sound.
Twenty minutes later, Devin burst through the front door like a hurricane, still buzzing with energy from his victory and his sleepover.
His hair was sticking up in every direction, and he was wearing clothes that definitely weren't the ones he'd left in last night, probably borrowed from Jake, who was three inches taller and twenty pounds heavier.
"Mom, you should have seen Jake's face when Coach called about the scout meeting," he said, dropping his duffel bag in the middle of the hallway like he'd been doing since he was five years old. "He was so jealous, but in a good way. Like he was happy for me but also wanted to kill me."
The energy radiating from him was infectious. This morning, I felt myself smile for real.
"That's what good friends do," I said, pulling him into a hug that he returned instead of tolerating. His body was solid and strong, smelling like teenage boy and grass stains and victory. "They celebrate your wins even when they're jealous."
"I keep thinking I'm going to wake up and it'll all be a dream," Devin said, his voice cracking slightly with excitement. "UConn, Mom. The University of Connecticut Huskies want to talk to Devin Holmes from boring old Bexley Hills."
"It's not a dream, and you're not boring," I said, pulling back to look at his face. His eyes were bright with possibility, with hope I hadn't felt in years. "You earned this, sweetheart."
Devin's eyes swept the kitchen, searching. The hope in his expression dimmed slightly.
"Where's Dad?" he asked. "I figured he'd want to hear about the scout thing. I mean, this is pretty huge, right?"
My heart ached. Of course he'd want to share this with his father. He had assume Brett would be here, waiting to hear every detail about the most important thing that had ever happened to him.
"He had to leave for golf," I lied again. Making excuses again. "But he's excited for you. Really excited."
"Right," Devin said, his face going sour. "Golf. With the guys."
The resignation in his voice broke something inside me.
"He really is proud of you, Dev," I said, hating myself for making excuses for Brett again. "He just shows it differently than I do."
"Sure," he said, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl and taking a huge bite. Juice ran down his chin, and he wiped it with the back of his hand. "It's fine, Mom. I'm used to it."
That was the problem. He was used to it.
My seventeen year old son had already learned to expect disappointment from his father. He'd already developed the emotional armor kids needed when the adults in their lives let them down consistently. Brett was missing everything that mattered, and Devin had stopped expecting anything different.
"Listen, I've got to shower and then meet the guys for pickup basketball at the rec center," Devin said, already heading toward the stairs. "But can we talk later about the UConn meeting? Like, what I should say and stuff? I have no idea how these things work."
"Of course," I said, truly intending it. "We'll figure it out together."
"Thanks, Mom. You're seriously the best." He paused on the bottom step and looked back at me, his expression suddenly serious. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
He bounded upstairs two steps at a time, leaving me alone with my coffee and the wreckage of my failed attempt at connection with Brett. I finished cleaning up the breakfast dishes and wiped down counters that were already spotless, just to have something to do with my hands.
By nine forty five, I was ready to escape to Marie's Roast and the company of women who understood what it felt like to be slowly suffocating in lives that looked ideal from the outside.
The coffee shop was busy with the Saturday morning crowd. Families with kids and couples reading the paper together and groups of friends catching up over lattes. All these people who seemed to enjoy each other's company.
I spotted Robin and Amy at our usual table in the back corner, the one surrounded by bookshelves and mismatched chairs that made it easy to settle in for long conversations. Robin looked put together as always, her blonde hair styled and her makeup flawless despite the early hour.
Amy looked like she'd been crying for days.
"Oh honey," I said, sliding into the chair next to Amy and immediately reaching for her hand. Her fingers were ice cold and trembling slightly. "What happened?"
"Richard happened," Amy said, her voice thick with tears she was trying not to shed in public. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue that was falling apart from overuse. "God, I'm such a mess. I keep crying."
Robin leaned forward and lowered her voice, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. "Tell her what he said," she urged gently.
Amy's face crumpled like she was reliving whatever had happened all over again.
"He called me fat," she whispered, barely audible. "Not suggesting I could lose a few pounds or asking if I wanted to work out together. He called me fat. To my face. Like I was disgusting."
My stomach dropped. I'd known Richard for twenty years, had seen him be dismissive and condescending, but this felt like a new level of cruelty.
"He said that word to you?" I asked, my hands curling into fists.
"I was getting dressed for dinner last night, trying on three different outfits because nothing fits right anymore," Amy said, her voice breaking.
"And he looked at me putting on my black dress and said, 'Jesus, Amy, you've gotten fat.
' Just like that. Like I was something disgusting he'd found on his shoe. "
"Amy, you're not fat," I said fiercely, and I meant it. She was curvier than she used to be, sure, but she was still beautiful. Still the same person who'd been my friend for twenty years. "You're a normal woman dealing with the aftermath of major surgery. Your body went through trauma."
"I'm five six and one sixty five," Amy said, like she was confessing to a crime. "That's twenty five pounds heavier than I was before the surgery. My clothes don't fit, I can't exercise like I used to because of my hip, and I feel like a stranger in my own skin."