“Oh, something’s going on. You’ve been acting weird for months. You’re gone all the time. You got a tattoo. You sleep in the guest room. And now you’re picking a fight over chicken.”
“I am not picking a fight. I am just suggesting that you could participate in the feeding of yourself.”
“See, that right there,” Greg pointed at her. “That tone. You never used to talk to me like that.”
Claire felt something rising up in her chest like lava. She recognized it as the thing she’d been counting to three to avoid. Not anger, exactly, but something bigger than that. What was bigger than anger? Something that had been sitting in the basement of her marriage for so long, it felt like it had grown roots.
“You’re right,” she said. “I didn’t used to talk to you like that. I used to count to three and then say something nice. I’ve been counting to three and saying nice things since the millennium, Greg. Do you know how many times I’ve counted to three in this marriage?”
He stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that I’ve spent all of our marriage making everything in this house work. The cooking, the cleaning, the kids’ school, the holidays, the birthday parties, thank-you notes, groceries, appointments, all of it. Every single piece of life I’ve managed. And you’ve sat in that den, put an indentation in a ratty old recliner from your butt cheeks, and watched the Braves, assuming that everything would just keep happening.”
The kitchen went quiet. She could hear the refrigerator humming. She could feel the napkin hanging on the fridge, as if it were watching her, a witness. How had this all started with a napkin?
“I work too, Claire,” Greg said. His voice had gone careful, like he was navigating land he had never been to. “I’ve worked this whole time. I’ve provided for this family.”
“Yes, you have. You’ve worked, and you’ve provided. You’ve been a good father and a reliable human. I’m not saying you haven’t done those things.”
“Then what are you saying?”
She looked at him, the man she’d been married to. He had been steady and kind, making her feel safe when she was twenty-four years old. He’d held her hand in the delivery room twice. He had built a bookshelf for their daughter’s room and mowed the lawn every Saturday. He’d paid the mortgage on time every month for all twenty-six years. He was not a bad man. He was not a cruel man. He was a man who had done everything he’d been taught that a husband should do and just could not understand why that wasn’t enough.
“I’m saying that you gave me a gift card for my fiftieth birthday.”
He blinked. “What?”
“You gave me a gift card. Not even one to a specific store that you know I like, a universal one that I could use at the gas station, the grocery store, or to buy adult diapers. You couldn’t be bothered to choose a store, Greg. I turned fifty, and you gave me a piece of plastic that said, ‘Hey, here’s something worth thirty dollars at any participating retailer,’ and you thought that was fine.”
“You said you liked it.”
“I say I like everything! That’s what I do to survive. I say I like things. I say I’m fine. I say, ‘Oh, no big deal.’ I’ve been saying that for so long that you actually believe me, and I don’t know if it’s your fault or mine, but I just can’t do it anymore.”
Greg sat still. Claire could see him trying to process all the words she was saying. The moment he realized that the woman sitting across from him was not the woman he’d been eating chicken with for the past couple of decades, she could see it on his face.
“Are you saying you want to divorce?” he asked. His voice was quiet and a little scared.
“No,” Claire said. “I’m not saying that. I’m saying I want you to see me. I want you to ask me where I’m going, not when I’m coming back. I want you to notice when I’m wearing a new dress. I want you to know I’ve been drawing again, and I want you to ask to see what I’ve drawn. I want you to wonder about me, Greg, on your own, without me telling you to. I want you to be curious about this person you’re married to.”
The kitchen was so quiet now that Claire could hear the clock on the wall. It was one she’d bought at a craft fair in Beaufort twelve years ago.
Greg looked at his hands. They were resting on either side of his plate. She could see them clearly, his wedding ring, the calluses from yard work, the shape of his fingers that she’d know anywhere, the hands that had held hers thousands of times. He looked older than she usually let herself notice. He had gray at his temples now, lines around his eyes. She did, too. There was a slight heaviness in his shoulders that hadn’t been there when they were young.
“I had no idea you were drawing again.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I didn’t know to ask.”
“That’s the problem, Greg. You don’t know because you stopped looking at me a long time ago.”
He was quiet. The chicken cooled on their plates. The lighthouse salt shaker stood there, witnessing all of it.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said finally.
“I think we need help,” she said. “Professional help. Somebody we can talk to.”
“You mean counseling?”
