Because this is his dream job. Just like teaching is—was?—my dream job.
That dream has started to feel more like a burden as of late, with budget cuts and class sizes doubling and my bulletin boards getting vandalized every other week. At times, I’m tempted to walk out the front door and never look back, like Nora inA Doll’s House.
Dream jobs come with sacrifices. I have to support Patrick in his, despite his sacrifice being our time together.
He seems uninterested in discussing work any more, so I ask, “What were you talking to your mom about?”
“Uh, do you remember when their downstairs bathroom flooded a few months back?”
This is probably the longest conversation we’ve had this week, and even though we changed topics, it’s still somehow about bathrooms. “Yeah,” I say.
“Well, as a Christmas gift, my dad is going to get it redone.”
“That’s nice of him.”
“Yeah, I thought so, too. They didn’t ask me to do the redesign, but—” He slants his body away from mine, clearly not wanting my sympathy, even if I can see the color drain from his features. He shakes his head as if he can erase the emotion like a drawing on his iPad. “Their contractor wants to start right away—barring work on Christmas Day—which means the bathroom is going to be off-limits and the house will be a mess, so they can’t host.” Patrick’s voice keeps going up at the ends of his sentences, which gives me pause.
“Okay, so what? Should we see what restaurants are open and reserve a table so we can plan to meet there?” I ask.
“It’s so late. Everything is all booked up.” Patrick smiles weakly. “I told her we’d host it here.”
I gape at him. “You told herwhat? Without asking me? This place isn’t any better than theirs, even with the renovation happening. They could be jackhammering there while we eat, and it would still be better.”
“Come on,” Patrick protests. “You know that’s not true.”
Patrick would’ve told you as much five months ago before we settled on this place and signed our lives away. It was Patrick’s dream to design us an English-inspired farmhouse from scratch—someplace secluded, close to nature. Somewhere we could go on hikes and read books while drinking coffee on a charming porch. We’d each have our own office. The master bedroom would overlook a forest. But porches and master bedrooms with views evenon already-built houses are expensive, so we shelved that dream for at least another decade.
“Are your parents still going to cook dinner at least?” I ask.
Patrick worries his bottom lip. “I sort of said we could handle that, too.”
That anger from earlier? Oh, it’s back. “And when exactly was the last time you touched an appliance in our kitchen that wasn’t the microwave, the fridge, or the toaster oven?”
“Does the air fryer count?” he asks, obviously trying to defuse the tension with a joke.
“Jesus, Pat. Would it have killed you to run it by me first?”
“It’s Christmas. You know how much Christmas means to my mom. I couldn’t be the reason it was canceled,” he says.
“Canceled? Your brother makes six figures and has a massive New York City apartment. Why couldn’t he host?” I ask, arms folded, foot tapping. The anger comes out in all the clichéd ways with Patrick because I love the guy, but otherwise, he’s largely oblivious.
“You know my parents would never drive into the city on Christmas. Besides, they’d never ask Bradley,” he says.
“Because?”
“You know because. Because he’s single. That’s because.” He huffs at me. “We’re married now. We have a house now. This is what people who are married and have a house do. They host holidays. Why is this so surprising to you?”
I shake my head, thinking back on all the conversations we had about never being a typical married couple. About doing things our way. Only being in this for the tax breaks and the joint health insurance and the yes-you-have-legal-claim-over-this-human-being in life-or-death scenarios. What happened to that? “Hosting a holiday is not surprising to me. What’s surprising to me is that my husband agreed to clean our house and cook an entire Christmas meal when he can’t even pull himself away from his work for two hours to watch a Christmas movie with me.” I wish I didn’t soundso pathetic right now, but it’s too late to gobble the words back up. Frankly, it was easier said than “I miss you” because it’s impossible to miss someone sitting under the same roof as you every night, isn’t it?
“Quinn, I didn’t know it meant that much to you,” he says, voice softening. “Just give me ten minutes, I’ll bring all of this downstairs. I’ll work in front of the TV.”
I shake my head again, stopping him and feeling stupid this time. Work is more important. I could stand to have a little perspective. “No, that’s silly. I’m being dramatic. Please forget I said anything. We’ll make it work.”
“We will,” he agrees, offering me a conciliatory smile. “But right now, let’s not worry about how and let’s go watchElf.”
“I already watched half of it,” I say, gently waving his idea off. Not feeling so argumentative. It’s the holidays. Tensions are high. I don’t want to be like my parents. Iwon’tend up like my parents, that much is certain. Which means putting on a good face and being agreeable. Good spouses don’t make unnecessary drama. “You keep working. Enjoy your snacks. I’m going to get into bed and google how to cook a ham.”
“Are you sure?” Patrick asks.
