I have been writing...completed chapter eight at like 2 this morning...fixing to start chapter nine in a few minutes...or watch The Walking Dead...which might win, because come on, it's The Walking Dead...so yeah...
Moving on. I started chapter eight last night...sending my married couple on a date...and in the middle of the date, they start fighting.
I wrote all the things I occasionally want to say to my husband about his job. Because he and my main character's husband have the same job. Cliche, sure, but when I came up with the story idea, i needed a job where her husband would be gone for long periods of time that wasn't military (been there, done that...see) and after racking my brain, I figured why not...I am familiar with the line of work, and anything i don't know, i can just ask the hubs.
I rarely see my husband. I see him for maybe three days every six to eight weeks. I'm raising two kids, working, and handling all of life's other bullshit, on my own. sometimes it's great and sometimes it sucks balls. Especially when you're almost one year old is like, screw sleep, i want to pour diet coke all over mom.
Yeah, true story.
Which leads me to the reason I'm rambling at y'all at 11:30 at night. I started the chapter, frustrated. I thought about all the things I could say to my husband, things I'd like to say to him. and it bled out all over my chapter.
So Hun, if you ever manage to find this...it's truth...and fiction. Mostly.
* * *
“I’ve
been working on this night for a while, Ella. There just hasn’t been time to cement it
all. I knew when I talked to you the other night that you were in need of some
major cheering up. I know you haven’t been sick- well maybe you have been, but
there’s something else going on. You’ve sounded so dejected and beaten down. My
heart breaks when I hear that in your voice. It breaks when you try to fake
like it’s something else, when you try to be chipper and upbeat when you’re
words tell me you’re dying inside. I wish you would talk to me, that you would
let me help you.”
Pursing
my lips, I stare at him all of my words gone, my arguments invalid. “I’m
sorry,” I whisper. “I…its just stuff that I don’t want to bother you with. It’s
not important. I’m just hormonal.”
He
stares at me, his eyes intent as if he’s trying to sort through the bullshit to
find the truth. I hold his gaze with unwavering intensity, praying silently
that he lets this go, that he doesn’t pry.
Finally,
he looks away as our servers approaches the table. I glance down at the ivory
table cloth as the pair of them discuss wine selections.
I lied
to him. That truth weighs heavily on me. I lied to him. I went behind his back
and had lunch with Jamie. I didn’t tell Luke the truth about the whole
situation like I should have. Now I was in a whirlwind of regret, knowing full
well it was too late to tell him.
If the
situation was reversed, if he’d gone out to lunch with an old flame and not
told me, I’d be pissed. More than pissed, I would be murderous with rage, ready
to kill him and her, file for divorce and flee the country, change my name and
never look back.
Swallowing
my guilt, I reminded myself that it didn’t matter. I was never going to see
Jamie again, willingly or otherwise. It, the whole Jamie thing, was dead and
buried. Rightfully so.
“Ella?”
I glance
up, noticing both Luke and the server are looking at me. “I’m sorry?”
“I asked
if you wanted a red or white wine.”
“Oh, I’m
sorry. Chardonnay is fine for me,” I reply.
Luke
nods, telling the server, “I’ll have the Cabernet Sauvignon we discussed. Ella,
are you ready to order?”
I reach
for the menu. “Go ahead, I’ll look this over and decide quickly.”
Luke
rattles off his order then turns expectantly to me. “I’ll have the chicken cacciatore,”
I inform her.
She jots
my order down, collects our menu and breezes away. Luke reaches for my hands,
clasping them between his. “Where are you right now? You’re sitting here with
me, but you seem a million miles away.”
“I’m
here,” I say. “I’m sorry. Truly. It’s been a long week. I’m happy to have you
home, to be here right now, but I know it’s only going to last a few more hours
and then you’re gone again. Sometimes it feels like we have a marriage built
around stolen moments. I want to push the pause button on life and stay in
these moments a little bit longer. Sometimes I miss you so much that it’s
almost like I’m drowning in despair.”
“Do you
want me to come home?”
“No,
yes…no. I know how much you love your job and I know how miserable you would be
if I forced you to come home. Eventually you’d start to hate me and I couldn’t
live with myself if that happened. I’m sick of feeling numb all the time.”
“Numb?”
“That’s
probably an inaccurate description,” I sigh. Frustration makes me angry, the
inability to express how I feel, the laziness of my tongue as it struggles to
find the proper words boils my blood.
“Explain
it to me then,” he asks.
Shrugging,
I pick at the table cloth. I can feel myself shutting down, fleeing instead of
staying to fight for what I want. “On paper, my life looks amazing. I have this
amazing husband who works harder than any person I know. We have a great house,
nice cars and things. But when you look past all the superficial stuff, the
money, the cars, the nice house, what's really there is a woman who hates it
all, who would trade it all to have more than just a few days with her husband
every few months.
All I do, Luke, is go to work and watch TV. I don’t go out
and do things because I don’t want to do them alone. Do you know what it’s like
to be in a relationship but always go to the movies alone or to be in a
relationship and go out to dinner alone?”
I pause,
trying to reel in my emotions, stave off the tears and reign in my temper. “It
sucks. You got onto me earlier for not eating, but do you know how depressing
it is to cook a meal for one person? It
sucks. So why bother?”
“Why
didn't you tell me any of this sooner?” he asks, eyes downcast as if unable to
face the accusations in mine.
“What
would be the point?” I demand. “Would it change a single thing?”
“It
would.”
“Oh
really? Like what, Luke? It’s not like you would quit and find a normal job,” I
accuse bitterly.
He lets
go of my hand, propping his elbows up on the table, gripping his forehead. “I’m
sorry,” he says looking up at me from beneath his hands. “What do you want me
to do Ella?”
“It’s
not up to just me. What do you want to do Luke?”
He
sighs, his eyes a tumultuous sea of clear blue. “I have no idea.”
“Me
either,” I snap.
And just
like that, our fun night out has turned into a glaring display of everything
that was wrong with our relationship. I didn’t want him to go and he didn’t
want to stay.
“Maybe
we should just call it a night,” I sigh. “I'm not hungry anymore and honestly I
just want to go to bed.”
“No,” he
says. “Come on, we’re here, we’ve ordered.”
Oh my
god, I want to scream. Instead, I sit back in my chair and cross my arms across
my chest, pulling my wrap tight around my body.
“Come
on, Ella, are you really going to be like this?”
“Like
what?” I hiss.
“Mad,”
he supplies. “We’re supposed to be having a good time, not fighting. Let’s just
enjoy dinner and then I’ll take you home.”
“Fine.”
Silence
settles around the table as we wait for our dinner to arrive. I glance around
the courtyard, my eyes lighting on all the happy people sitting around the
beautiful room, wishing I could have five minutes of their lives, just to try
them on and see how they fit.
I never
noticed it before, but it felt like the beginning of the end was barreling
towards us. A dark cloud hovered on the horizon of our lives together threatening
to destroy us. I faced the uncertainty with mixed emotions. Not much would
change if we were to divorce, I’d be on my own same as I was already, but I'd
have less of Luke than the tiny piece I had now.
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