That stings. “You’re taking his side?”
“Babe, I’malwayson your side. You know that.”
I do know that.
“But,” she continues, “you vent about him, too.”
“Not like that.”
“Actually, just like that. Last week, you bitched about him, called him a son of a bitch, and said you’d rather be alone than lonely.”
I sigh. I did say that.
“You tell me you’re exhausted. You tell me he doesn’t show up. You tell me you want to throttle him and also climb him like a tree.”
I chuckle.
“We’re friends…best friends,” I argue. “You’re not trying to sleep with me.”
“Well, not with that attitude,” she quips dryly, then adds, “But hear me out. The Tory part? That’s notgreat. She has a crush, and he likes the ego boost. I’m not going to sugarcoat that. But the venting part?”
“What about it?” I ask, but I know what she’s going to say. It’s what I’m thinking as well. We talk to our friends about our spouses; who else would we talk to?
“That’s what people do when they’re drowning,” Iris croons, soothing even as she whips me into shape. “They drive in on their BMW. You know, bitch, moan, and whine. It’s human.”
I bite my lower lip. “So, I overreacted?”
“No,” she says emphatically. “You reacted like a woman who’s been bleeding out slowly for a long time and just realized the surgeon holding the clamp isn’t actually paying attention.”
Iris is a marketing writer who works at an ad agency. She has a way with words.
“I’m so tired, Iris.” I sink further into my pillow, my body heavier with the heartache I carry. “He thinks I don’t appreciate him. That I’ve turned our home into hell. He doesn’t see anything I do. It’s like I’m invisible until he needs something.”
“I know. But I’m going to say something you’re not going to like.”
I make a face in the dark. “Of course you are.”
“You don’t tell him what you need. You tend to keep things to?—"
“I do tell him.” The protest comes out hot. “I ask him to help. I ask him to pick up Finn. I?—”
“Tend to keep things inside,” she talks right overme. “Remember the time when you didn’t tell him that he hurt your feelings because he didn’t congratulate you on your promotion?”
“I….”
“Then the time when he made plans for Thanksgiving as a surprise, but you’d made plans, too?”
I never even told him. I just canceled mine.
“You make requests,” she persists. “You negotiate logistics.”
“What am I supposed to do? Make demands?” I ask sourly.
“Hell, yeah!” Iris exclaims. “You need to tell him, straight up, ‘I can’t carry this alone, Rhys. I needyouand not just your damn paycheck.’”
My mind flips through more scenes, more times where I smoothed things over, when I chose to make jokes and swallow my resentment to avoid conflict. And the result isthis—everything is boiling over and spilling, making a damn mess.
“I don’t want to nag.” The excuse is feeble.
