“Because?” I ask promptingly. Even though I don’t want to hear the answer. The answer is only going to destroy me.
“Because we don’t feel like us these days.” His arms flap at his sides. It’s apparent that a lot of frustrations are coming out all at once. “We feel…old.Settled? Bored?”
“What are you even—”
“I don’t know! I’m just asking…” He takes a long, loud inhale. “What is all this? What are we even doing? I don’t like to cook. You don’t like to decorate. We don’t like to host things. We could barely afford this house, but we bought it anyway and now we’re miserable. We hate it!”
“I don’t hate it. You hate it?” I ask. Then, I realize how silly that was. That’s clearly not the most important part of what he was saying. “It’s Christmas Eve, Quinn. What is this all about? Where is this coming from?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what page you’re on right now, but it’s clear we’re on different ones.” Somehow, his words ring in my head like he thinks the page he’s on is better.
“Well, I’m sorry I can’t flip through the book of life faster for you.” I fold my arms across my chest. I’m angry and hungry and tired and speaking too fast for my brain to catch up. “I’m sorry I didn’t read your mind to know you hated this house. I’m sorry I didn’t know movie night meant so much to you. And while I’m at it, I’m sorry I got fired from my job. Maybe youshoulddivorceme.” I kick at the icy, dead grass. The toe of my boot creates a divot. Only a million more kicks and maybe it’ll be a hole big enough to bury myself in.
Quinn’s face falls and his hands drop to his sides. He takes an almost fearful-looking step forward. “What are you talking about?”
“I overheard what you and Veronica said.”
His head shakes. Almost imperceptibly. “No. Not that. The part about you getting fired from your job. When?”
My eyes refuse to meet his out of shame. “Five days ago.”
“Five days ago?” I expect loud anger for withholding this from him. All I get is barely audible disappointment. It’s far worse in my book. My whole body goes numb in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.
“Say something?” I ask pitifully.
Quinn clears his throat, looking away. The sound of us cracking apart is embedded in the words he says next. “I’m exhausted. We can—We can talk about all of this after Christmas but right now, I’m going to bundle up and sleep in the guest room so I can get up early and finish cooking.”
“Quinn—”
“Don’t, Pat,” he says shakily. It breaks my heart. Him sounding this way. “Just don’t. Not tonight.”
Quinn shuts the front door slightly too hard and the43that denotes our house number pops off. It hits the cement landing with a clatter. Dammit. One more thing to add to the never-ending list of fixes.
Two, if you count Quinn and me.
After unplugging the cords, I go down to the basement and fiddle with the fuse box to the best of my ability. I need to keep moving so I don’t fall apart over all this. We’re still hosting Christmas. Can’t do that without power.
It takes me an hour and a YouTube video, but I get it done. I’m sure Quinn is happy the heat kicked back on. He hates being coldwhile he sleeps. Even when he cutely hogs every blanket we own no matter the temperature.
What if this is it? What if we never sleep in the same bed again?
To rid myself of those questions, I head into the garage. I’m on the hunt for outdoor-friendly power strips since, from what Quinn said, it seems we’re going ahead with pretending our marriage isn’t falling apart for the next twenty-four hours.
I’ve barely been in the garage since we moved in. It’s a veritable minefield of things we didn’t know what to do with. At the time, instead of labeling the boxes, we assumed we’d remember where we put everything. Now I’m beyond upset with myself as I dig through stuff we probably could’ve gotten rid of in a yard sale.
In my hunt, my hand lands upon a shiny, weathered piece of paper. It’s the Christmas card we made and got printed at CVS the year we moved in to our first apartment together. Quinn was student teaching, and I had just gotten hired at Carver & Associates.
There’s a romantic optimism in our expressions.
The next year, we got engaged a month prior, so our holiday season was consumed with wedding planning.
This is our fifth Christmas together, first as a married couple, and I don’t feel the Christmas spirit at all. I feel nothing but dread, actually.
I got fired. I lied to my husband. He’s talking about divorce with his best friend. I put us up to the impossible task of hosting a perfect Christmas dinner at the last minute.
Maybe we aren’t happy after all.
Looking at my watch, I realize it’s already past midnight. The lights are a bust. I need at least a wink of sleep to regroup. Figure out how I’m going to make it up a million times over to Quinn. Prove to him that we are worth fighting for after he sounded so defeated.
