“I am happy,” I lie, forcing a smile to try and end the conversation, but no one knows me better than she does. I'm like an open book toher.
“You're not living life to its fullest,” sheargues.
“Mom, Dad left you fifteen years ago, and you've been living alone ever since. How is that happiness? Are you living life to itsfullest?”
“You are my happiness,Emma.”
Sometimes the guilt is overwhelming, and I think she knowsit.
The momentI slip back into my car, my phone buzzes in my bag, and I silently curse. Between work calls, Mom's calls, and Mike's calls, which have increased to an irritatingly excessive level as of late, I rarely have a moment to breathe. I pull out my phone and see Mike’s name on the display. I do not want to talk to him right now, but the calls will continue until I pick up, so I exhale heavily andanswer.
“Hi,” I say cordially, as I pull out of the parkinglot.
“Do you have a minute?” he asks, then clears his throat. That’s what he does when he’s nervous aboutsomething.
“Sure,” I tell him, though I don't want to hear what he plans to say. Sorry doesn't work for me anymore, and I'm worn out from the endlessarguments.
“Em, I'm sorry for what I said last night,” he begins, sounding nearly robotic, or like he’s on auto-repeat. I’ve heard the same spiel a million timesnow.
“Okay,” Ireply.
“What's going on with us?” he asks? The remorse in his voice deliberate, verging on the line of fake. Things are never about us, they’re abouthim.
“I don't think this is an issue between us,Mike.”
“Why is it always me?” As usual, he immediately initiates an argument. What else could I possibly want to do at two in the afternoon during my lunchbreak?
“I wasn't the one who came home in a drunken rage last night,” I remindhim.
He grunts indignantly and says, “I wasn'tdrunk.”
“I could smell the whiskey from across the room, Mike. Why do you lie about it? I've been very understanding of you going out several nights a week with your friends, even when you come home smelling like weed and perfume. I keep telling myself that you're just a little immature and you'll grow up eventually, but we’re in our thirties and I’m getting tired of waiting.” My life consists of hopping from one Starbucks to another while seeking work-day scenery changes, meeting Mom for lunch, and checking on Grams, while I dread going home each night to the small, desolate house I share with Mike. “On top of that, the house is always a disaster with your socks tossed in every corner, dirty underwear and towels in the entryway of the hall bathroom, and empty pizza boxes stacked up on top of the full trash can—all strategically placed so I have something to clean when I get home at night.” How can I see myself living like thatforever?
“So, what, we’re breaking up for the fourth time this month?” he asks as if it doesn’t faze him. It doesn’t mean anything to Mike because I haven’t been able to keep my word when I tell him we’re done. The worst part is, he’s told me so many times before that I don't have the “balls” to leave him, reminding me I have nowhere to go and that being a freelance designer doesn’t offer me a dependablesalary.
“I don't know if I can be with you,” I tell him honestly. I don't love him like I thought I once did, and despite having to admit that Mom might be right, this isn't the life Iwant.
My current state of calmness is unusual for how I typically come off during one of our arguments, because I'm passionate about what I believe in, so I become overheated easily, but now, I feel nothing. “Fine, then move out. I don't care,” he tellsme.
That should have hurt me, but I still feel nothing. I don't know what to say, but I know this is the closest I've come to walking away from Mike. I just need to keep going without looking back this time. “I'll come get my stuff tonight,” I tellhim.
“Whatever,” he says. “You'll be back tomorrow, telling me how much you love and need me. We've been through this crap a million times,Emma.”
I pull into Grams's driveway knowing that I need to end this conversation with Mike before I go inside. Her feelings on Mike mimic Mom’s thoughts. “Are you going to be home tonight?” I ask him with a tone of finality to rush thisalong.
“I had plans to go out with the guys. Devin is leaving for a month sabbatical tomorrow, so we're havingdrinks.”
“Okay then, I'll probably be gone by the time you gethome.”
“Right,” he snickers. “You'll be asleep in my bed. This drama is unnecessary, Emma, so just stop. I have to get back to work now that I've wasted my entire lunch break listening to your emptythreats.”
You’re the one who called me; I want to tell him. “Okay,” I calmly say again. “Have a good day?” I hang up the phone and wish I could erase Mike from my life as easily as I could delete him from my phone contacts. Whatever the case, I need to remove that man from my thoughts for a bit so I can put on a smile for Grams. She can always tell something is wrong by the way Iblink.
I let myself into her house, finding her leaning against an end table in her living room. “Grams, what's wrong?” Iask.
She appears startled as she jumps and clutches at the collar of her blouse. “Emma,” she huffs. “I wasn’t expectingyou.”
I look past her, toward the microwave. “It's two fifteen on the dot,” I say. It's the same time I come by most days. Mom checks in on her in the morning before she goes to work, I usually check on her midday, and Aunt Annie checks on her just before dinner time. Thankfully, we all live in a closevicinity.
