All good. Promise.
I want to believe him.
It’s just that I don’t.
I wake up alone.
It’s three a.m., and my bladder is telling me not to drink a glass of water before bed again. I knew better, but the heat of the beach left me thirsty.
Gabriel is a sound sleeper when he’s beside me. He closes his eyes, sleeps for eight hours, and wakes up happy.
That’s why the thrown back comforter on his side bothers me.
I leave the bathroom and walk through our bungalow. It has three rooms, and we’ve used one to sleep in, and all three to have sex.
His snoring leads me to him.
Only, Gabriel rarely snores.
Is someone else in our room? Of course not. Gabriel wasn’t in bed. It must be him. I’m the one who needs to go back to bed, if these jumbled thoughts are any indication.
I cross the living room, where the snoring is still as deep and rhythmic as it was when I first heard it. All the way to the couch I go, peering over.
Gabriel lies on his back, face serene, mouth open. I take a moment to study him. I’ve only slept beside him for two-thirds of our relationship, and it makes me remember an old couple I interviewed in college who said they hadn’t slept apart from one another their entire marriage.
Gabriel’s eyebrows twitch, like maybe he’s dreaming. His head moves back and forth, the movements tiny but rapid.
Time to wake him up and get him to our bed.
I round the couch and crouch beside him. My plan is to kiss his cheek, gently rousing him, but a snore followed by a long exhalation stops me. I’m frozen, my lips hovering an inch above his warm skin.
I smell it on his breath.
Vapors. Ethanol.
How? The room doesn’t have a mini-bar.
I sink down to the cold tile floor, my shattered heart clattering around me. His commitment to me, to us, to the life we wanted to bring into the world,poof, there it goes. Alcohol soluble. And with it goes every remaining shred of hope.
How can I keep loving a person who refuses to love himself?
He has a problem.
My Gabriel, my husband with the kindest soul, has a problem.
Confusion and anger fill me. Gabriel lies passed out, oblivious to my pain. He has become oblivious to it while he is awake, too.
I push the tears from my face, certain of one thing. I cannot,will not, bring a child into this marriage.
I get to my feet and walk away from my snoring husband.
I find my suitcase, then the smaller toiletries bag nestled inside it, and locate the plastic disc I didn’t plan on using.
Tears stream down my face as I swallow two birth control pills. Tomorrow I’ll take the next two.
I lie down in our bed, but I’m not alone, because I have my loneliness beside me. It has a heartbeat. It’s a living, breathing thing.
True loneliness isn’t being alone. It’s being with someone else and still finding yourself alone.
