His words are thumbtacks that prick into my skin. I bite the inside of my cheek, deciding a lie is better than telling him the actual truth. Lately, there’s only one person I can trust with the thoughts and fears that rest in the dark corners of my mind. “I have a headache, and the light was bothering my eyes.”
His shoulder presses against the door frame, so nonchalant in the way he stands, as if he doesn’t realize that our relationship is in turmoil and has been for a very long time. His hair is freshly cut—he must’ve stopped by the barber last night on the way home and I’m just realizing it now—and his skin is effortlessly bronzed from his time at the country club playing golf with his buddies from work.
“That doesn’t make sense, Em.”
His reply has me looking up at him. “Why not?”
He points a finger my way. “Because your face is two feet away from your computer screen. I’d like to think that if the sun bothered your eyes, the blue light would have the same effect.”
Shit.
My eyes lock onto the image of a sunset that takes up just about the whole screen, pinks and oranges fused together in its own special ombre.
Lance’s words sharpen, turning a lot less friendly when he says, “If you’re going to lie to me, at least make sure the lie makes sense.”
Instinct has me defending myself. “I’m not lying.”
I don’t know why I try to stick with being dishonest. It’s not something I typically do, but I don’t know how to talk to him in a way that my words will actually register.
He hums, and I’m sure it’s because he doesn’t believe me. Instead, he changes the subject, though I’m not necessarily sure it’s a good switch. “Mom has been trying to get ahold of you all afternoon. You have an appointment for the cake testing at the end of the week, and she was looking to confirm your attendance.”
I sigh quiet enough that he can’t hear it.
I got her message shortly after lunch. And then, I ignored it. Because the last thing I want to discuss is wedding plans when Lance and I can’t even get through an entire dinner together without some level of animosity or resentment pulling at one of us.
The last thing I need is his mother prying or acting as if everything is right in the world when mine feels as if it’s a trembling house of cards.
“I need space right now,” I say.
“Isolating yourself isn’t going to help you get through this.”
I twist my lips to the side and finally look at him. Even with irritation brimming just below the surface, he’s still as handsome as can be. Part of me hates that I notice how well his shirt clings to his lean muscle. But then the other side of me, the broken parts, see past all of that and wonder what happened tothe man who proposed to me, the person I fell in love with years ago.
He used to lie on the couch with me and binge-watch silly romcoms when my period cramps made me feel incapable. He used to bring me flowers, look at me like he couldn’t wait to get me alone, and made me feel like the most important person in his world.
When did that stop? When did it change? When did I drop down on his list of priorities?
“I don’t need you micromanaging me, Lance. I’m not your assistant or one of your other work colleagues.”
“Do you think I like having to leave work early to check on you? I had to cancel a showing this afternoon because my mother wouldn’t stop texting me over your whereabouts and you confirming your plans together.” He uncrosses his arms and pops the clip on his watch, pulling it off before he walks across the room and deposits it on the dresser. “You’re so goddamn stubborn that you can’t even see how you’re affecting those around you. I’ve been trying like hell to get through to you, but I don’t know how much longer I can circle you when you keep turning your back to me.”
This is exactly why I no longer feel like an equal to him but a burden. Like a hindrance he’s responsible for each day.
I snap my computer shut and haul it close to my chest. “You know, you really have a way with words,” I say, getting up from the bed. “I didn’t text your mother back because I don’t want to be smothered right now. Excuse me if I’m not in the mood to plan a wedding. And as far as we’re concerned, don’t act like you’ve sat with me and listened to my sorrows and fears. Don’t pretend like you’ve put your all into something that you’re largely half-assing.” My voice is almost a whisper when I say, “The second you could go back to work, you did. You didn’t even ask me if I needed you.”
He lets out a humorless laugh, his back still to me, when he says, “I can’t just not work and sit in dark bedrooms with you every day. You’re isolating yourselfandlashing out. You might want to discuss both with your therapist the next time you see her.”
I don’t correct his assumption that my therapist is a woman. If I weren’t so irritated with him, maybe I would, but I don’t even want to be in the same room as him currently.
“What I discuss during my appointments is my business.”
He does that little hum thing again, and it crawls under my skin and makes me vibrate with annoyance. Then, he walks over to the closet, grabs a polo, and tosses it onto the bed.
My eyes cut to the orange fabric. The upset that was just there turns into heartbreak, and time almost slows as I watch him unbutton his work shirt and slip out of it. My heart leaps, but not in a good way.
If roles were reversed and he was acting how I am, I wouldn’t be running in the opposite direction. I’d stay. I’d silently sit and wait for him to open up to me, to feel comfortable with that.
“So, what, you come home to check on me, and now you’re leaving?”
