“I couldn’t just leave the fire.” His usually loud and gruff voice is quiet and soft.
“You could’ve chosen to not go.” There’s no emotion left in me. I’m so tired of telling him how to fix things, how to put me first. “Goodnight, Cal.”
Passing him, I don’t make eye contact. If I look at him, I’ll end up breaking my boundaries again. I can’t keep doing this. He can’t keep doing this.
Slamming the door to our bedroom shut and locking it, I strip the sexy clothes off and climb into bed wearing one of his old tees.
Me:He blew me off tonight.
Jess:Noooo! Why?
Me:Murray said it was a fire. Cal said he couldn’t just not go to the fire. But he could easily have not gone. The volunteers do it all the time.
Jess:I know it sucks, but maybe hear him out?
Me:I can’t. I need to be put first. I can’t do this anymore. He’s proven that I’m not number one for him, meanwhile I left my bar in shambles to come get ready for a date with him.
Jess:I get it, babes. You’re totally welcome to come stay here if you need to.
Me:I might. I just want to go to bed now.
Jess:Text me in the morning. Or come get coffee. I love you.
Me:Love you too. >
The tears won’t stop flowing. And I feel like a heartless asshole asking him to not go to a fire. But tonight, of all nights, he had to go?
There’s a tentative knock on the door.
“Jules, please talk to me.”
Silence.
“Please? I love you. I want to fix this… it was just… unavoidable. I didn’t know it would go so late.”
How many times have I heard that excuse?
A heavy sigh. I listen to what sounds like his hand falling down the door until it thuds into his thigh.
Hubs:> I’m sorry. I just… I don’t know what else I can do.
The tears fall harder, soaking my pillow under my cheek. My heart feels like it might actually crack in two. I love him so much, but I need to love myself more. And letting myself get disappointed time and time again, I just can’t see that as self-love.
Sitting outside my locked bedroom door, listening to my wife cry herself to sleep over me, it’s gut wrenching. I’m so helpless. The amount of times I’ve gotten up and sat back down, because I’m contemplating breaking into our room is embarrassing. It’s embarrassing that I even have to break into my bedroom to comfort my wife. But here we are.
How the fuck do people do this? Countless men before me have been ranchers and volunteer firefighters. They’re all married, still married, and have been for decades. What’s the damn secret that no one is letting me in on?
And why can’t my own wife see how hard I’m trying despite tonight’s setback?
I didn’t know how bad the fire would be. Ground fires aren’t usually so long, or emotionally draining. But it was the RecCenter. I couldn’t leave everyone else to fight with trapped kids and just say“Sorry. I have a date with my wife.”
There’s got to be a balancing act somewhere I’m missing.
Me:Chief, how do you do it? How do you do the firefighting and keep your marriage going?
Instead of getting a text back, my phone rings in my hand. I scramble to get up off the floor and make my way down the stairs, so I don’t interrupt Juliette. It sounds as if her sobs have stopped and I don’t want to wake her up.
Stepping out onto the porch, I swipe to answer the call.
