I follow him into the kitchen, trying not to sound as wary as I feel. Nothing specific has happened today to make me feel any kind of way, but I also don’t know if I have the emotional fortitude to fight with Cade about food.
“Sonic,” he says as he throws the bag on the counter and my heart sinks into my stomach.
“Cade.”
I don’t like the whiny tone in my voice. I don’t. I don’t want to be this person. But not being this person makes everything in me feel frayed and disoriented, like I’m made of carpet that’s so worn out the slightest touch will make it disintegrate underfoot.
He doesn’t hear me, though, because he’s busy rummaging in the brown paper bag and pulling out a chili-cheese Coney dog wrapped in foil. I already know it’s not his first, because he would have eaten at least one on the ten-minute trip back from the drive-thru.
Once the wrapper’s off, he unhinges his jaw to inhale about a third of the damn thing into his mouth, tearing it off with a smear of chili on his chin and chewing while he makes an audible, orgasmic little noise. He rummages in the bag again, grabbing something else wrapped in foil before turning around to thrust it into my hands.
“Here you go, baby,” he mumbles around his mouthful of food. “Chicken sandwich.”
My stomach tightens even more, and nausea begins to creep in. I turn the sandwich over in my hands a couple of times, trying to figure out what I want to do with it. There’s a thin film of grease on the outside of the foil wrapper, and the texture of it on my fingers makes me want to gag a little, even though I immediately smash that thought down as an overreaction.
“Cade,” I say again, my voice practically a sigh right now.
He must notice the down-turned expression on my face, because as soon as he does, his entire body sags. A frustrated, impotent kind of sadness settles over us, and I hate that it’s becoming more and more familiar with every passing week.
Cade swallows his bite before putting down the remaining chili dog on the counter.
Directly on the counter, of course.
I ignore it, focusing on the weight of this stupid sandwich in my hands.
He sighs, like he knows what I’m going to say before I say it, because he probably does.
“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want, Silas. I’ll eat it if you want something else.”
He reaches for it, which makes me flinch and pull the sandwich away from him on instinct. “No!”
I don’t want to eat it. I know he likes this shit, but as much as I try to shift my mindset, and even though neither of us isa professional athlete anymore or ever will be, it still feels like putting poison in your body.
Cade holds up both hands then, wide and open, keeping himself still while I cycle through whatever conflicting thoughts are bombarding me.
“I’m not trying to make you do anything you don’t want to, Silas. Sometimes you like these. If you want to eat something else, let me have the sandwich and I’ll help you cook.”
“I’m just going to throw it out,” I say, moving towards the trash can, the twist in my stomach getting worse.
That’s when Cade’s expression shifts from patient to irritated.
“Why would you waste food? I’ll eat it. I’ve been on my feet for over twelve hours, I’m tired and hungry and I need a fucking carbohydrate. Just give it to me and we can cook something else together that you want.”
“I can cook for you, too.”
I keep inching towards the trash can, but Cade sighs loudly, obviously not fooled.
“Silas, baby, I told you. I’m tired. I can’t with the rabbit food today. I’m sorry I brought this home without telling you, I texted earlier but you didn’t answer. I didn’t think it would bother you this much. Can you please let it go before this turns into a giant thing for no reason? I will destroy the evidence of my poor judgment and we can both move on with our lives.”
Now it’s my turn to sigh. I know I’m being unreasonable. I hand him the sandwich, but turn around to disappear into the living room so I don’t have to watch him. I can feel his gaze trail me as I leave.
As soon as I hit the living room, I drop onto the couch. I think I intended to sit on it, or maybe keep cleaning, but instead I end up lying across it curled up on my side, battling a sudden familiar sense of exhaustion.
This is probably something I should deal with. I should probably do some of my DBT skills, but I can’t think of any right now.
I liked the DBT stuff I did–dialectical behavior therapy–way more than CBT–cognitive behavioral therapy. And not just because CBT apparently also stands for ‘cock and ball torture’, which Cade couldn’t stop laughing at.
It’s a shame it worked out that way, because the DBT was fucking expensive and not covered by insurance. But it was the only thing that seemed to help me when I started the whole meds-and-therapy monstrosity that Cade was so insistent on, so he busted his ass to make sure we could afford it. Barely. Once I was committed, and he’d thrown so much of himself into the process, I knew I couldn’t let him down by not finishing.
