“Do you think it is?” he replies. “Jesus, El—I’m doing what I can to keep you safe, why the fuck do you have to make everything so difficult? How am I supposed to work and build a life for us when I’m always worried about you?” He finishes, watching me closely. The silence in the apartment feels deafening. “Maybe it’s time for medications after all.”
“What?” I reply.
“Just a low dose, just enough to help you sleep through the night. Dammit, El—every time I come home I search your arms for new bruises. I can’t keep living like this.”
“I’m not going on meds. We’ve talked about this,” I say, nonchalant. This is not up for discussion.
“There’s nothing wrong with a little prescription, something to take the edge off. It’s not your fault, El—your illness is inherited.” He takes a few steps closer, resting a hand on my shoulder in an effort to comfort me. “Listen, you came by your crazy honestly.” He smirks but I’m not laughing. “Now I know how your father must have felt all those years with your mom and her struggles. It’s damn hard to focus and provide for a family when you’re worried your wife is going to undo everything you’ve worked for in one manic moment of madness.”
My eyebrows shoot up with his words, but I let him continue to dig his own grave. He gives me a long look, as if he’strying to determine if he should say any more. “Babe—if you don’t start taking something... well then, at what point are you orchestrating your own downfall? Left untreated maybe you’re destined for the psychiatric ward too, have you ever thought about that?”
“Wow, that’s a low blow.” I get a sinking feeling as I let his words settle. I’ve always trusted this man with my life, but that was before sleepless nights and workaholism and run-of-the-mill stress took hold. While my husband may be direct to a fault, I’ve always thought he meant well. Is he right? If my mom had taken medication when her issues started, would she still have spent the last few years of her life in a psychiatric ward, forced into the confines of full-time care with no say in her future?
“I’m going to bed. Are you headed back to the office or will you be joining me tonight?” I finally say.
“I just stopped in to grab some client files; your father is expecting me back about now.” He glances at his watch and then back at me, eyes softening. “I’m sorry, El—I know I get pushy sometimes but I love you and I’m worried. You know that, right?”
Jack pulls me in for a hug. I gulp down the ball of frustration that’s lodged in my throat and nod as he walks out. I love my husband—I love him with every fiber of my being—but moments like these make me think the line between love and hate is a thin one. It’s something I never would have believed when we first started dating.
Thoughts enter my mind then about one of our first dates.
The sun is warm against my shoulders, and for once, New York’s sharp edges feel soft. A breeze blows gently through the trees, carrying the scent of freshgrass and something sweet from a nearby food cart. Jack spreads the blanket on the lawn like he’s done it a thousand times, every move easy and unbothered, like the world was made to accommodate him.
He looks up at me with that smile—wide, bright, maybe a little cocky—and pats the spot next to him. “Your throne awaits, m’lady.”
I laugh, smoothing the skirt of my sundress as I sit. The fabric is light and floral, something I almost didn’t wear because it felt too hopeful, too unguarded. But now, under the spring sky with Jack’s eyes on me like I’m the only thing that matters, it feels just right.
He pulls a little Tupperware from the picnic basket and grins. “I brought the good stuff. Strawberries, brie. Sourdough I didn’t bake, but let’s pretend.”
“I’m impressed,” I say, accepting a strawberry from his hand. Our fingers brush—brief, electric.
“You should be. I scoured a Whole Foods at peak rush hour for you.”
“And lived to tell the tale?” I tease.
“Barely.” He leans back on one elbow, looking up at me. “But honestly, worth it.”
He says it so easily, so earnestly, I can’t help but blush. I glance away, pretending to study a dog chasing a squirrel across the quad.
“You’ve got this... glow,” he says. “I don’t know if it’s the dress or the sun or just you.”
I laugh, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “Do you always lay it on this thick?”
“Only when I mean it,” he says. “And only with you.”
I look at him—really look. His eyes are soft, sincere, crinkled at the corners from smiling too much. It’s disarming. I’m not used to this kind of attention. I’m used to going unnoticed—being the quiet girl in the front row, the number nerd, the reliable daughter, the one who makes sense but never sparks.
Jack makes me feel like a spark.
“So,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Last semester of law school. Busy year?”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Kind of.” And then: “I’ve been seeing you around campus for a while.”
I can’t hide my surprise. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he says, picking up a piece of brie. “Library. Econ building. That weird bench near Philosophy Hall you always sit at with your coffee.”
I laugh. “You’ve been stalking me.”
