I storm into our tent—still empty, even though I came back the long way—and zip it closed behind me.
If they want to record us, fine.But there’s nothing in my contract that says I have to let them film usinsideour tent, and there’s only so much audio they’re going to be able to use without video to go with it, so this should somewhat limit how front and center they’re able to make our story.
I check the seams of the tent for hidden cameras, just in case, then lie there and fume up at the rain cover. I pick up the lava lamp and punch it on, even though Emily isn’t here to see. A moment later, I turn it off again.
If I had done that when I got angry, would we have been able to work it out?
Probably not. It’s just a fucking lava lamp. It doesn’t have magical powers.
The light outside is starting to get dim when Emily finally unzips the tent. She looks in at me sadly. “Hey.”
“Hey.”The long walk worked, because now I don’t feel angry. Just embarrassed and deflated.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. And I definitely should have turned on the lava lamp when I started getting angry. When I did that, it went better.”
“Huh.” Emily studies the lamp, which leans against the side of the tent. “Was it the lava lamp we were missing all along?”
I smile and she smiles, and I hope that means I haven’t completely destroyed our relationship by being an idiot.
I want to try to talk about it again, but it doesn’t do a lot of good to get time on our own if we’re just going to recap for the cameras when we get back. She doesn’t want our personal business on television, and neither do I, as much as we can avoid it.
“You want to grab dinner from the catering trailer?” she asks.
“Sure,” I tell her, but I don’t move, and neither does she. I sigh. “We used our time to fight. We didn’t even have sex.”
Emily smiles sadly. “I know, right? We suck at this.”
“We do. At least we suck at it together.”
She makes a small whimpering sound. I want to throw my arms around her, but I stay where I am. “Do you still want to suck at this with me?” she asks.
“There’s no one I would rather suck at this with.”There’s this little stab to my heart, because I’m not sure if being with me is what’s best for her.
But I want it more than anything, and I’m obviously too selfish to let her go.
Ten
Emily
The next day, while the Not-Wives are on a “communal nature walk” (because “group hike” is too lowbrow? “Forced march” too literal?) Jason and his guys head over to the part of the canyon where the Not-Wives are going to have their big end-of-week rappelling adventure.They’re doing the rappelling themselves first as a safety measure, making notes of anything on the cliff-face that could possibly be dangerous or cause problems for the very amateur climbing divorcées. I could have gone with, of course, but I decided to stay back at camp. Jason and his crew don’t need me to troubleshoot their rappelling routes, and I think he could probably use some climbing time with his friends away from the stress of our problems.
It doesn’t hurt, too, that if we’re apart, we’re way less likely to have cameras in our faces.They sure as hell aren’t bothering to record me while I’m sitting in a camp chair in the shade of a fat pinyon pine, reading a book.
The thriller I brought isn’t exactly relaxing me, though. Not because of the book being super tense—though it is, and that might be the problem if I was actually able to read it—but because my brain is shuttling back and forth between our fight and the increasingly awful realization that I have the communication skills of your average kindergartner. At least when it comes to asking someone how they feel, apparently.
Probably kindergartners are better than me. I don’t know; for all that I love kids and definitely want a bunch of my own someday—a day I’ve been wishing for awhile now wasn’t so far off in some hypothetical future—I don’t have a ton of opportunities in my life to interact with them. But I’m pretty sure a five-year-old can ask “How do you feel?” without triggering a huge misunderstanding and the need for a Lava Lamp of Anger.
Then again, Jason did open up about his dad, which has to be a good thing. I just wish we could figure out how to do that without losing our shit at each other.
I sigh and close the book. Probably I should do some actual work, maybe start drafting thatTwitter campaign for Su-Lin and Brendan to promo the next season of their show. I don’t need to do that for another couple weeks, but . . .
There’s a flurry of movement toward the Not-Wives section of camp that catches my eye. A few PAs are lugging out that pink couch again, but more alarmingly, another several are carrying plastic tubs full of . . . props?Toys? I see what looks like croquet mallets, a tub of blocks, dolls, easels, and god knows what else.
I know Jason and I are supposed to have another round of therapy, but what the fresh hell isthis?
Rich strides over to me, and from the smug look on his face, I can tell that whatever it is, it involves us.
