My throat tightens. Younger me would have pushed back against Elizabeth a bit. I would have said it wasn’t delusional at all, that I really believed that the law, that the whole system could change. That we could make it change.
But years of working in D.C. have dulled some of that shiny, youthful enthusiasm. I’ve seen just how much harm the law can do. How inherently flawed the whole system is. How quickly fundamental rights can be stripped and how things can go from bad to even worse in an instant, making people throughout this country—and especially this state—suffer as a result.
“I like to think I am,” I finally respond.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Nikhil frown, the corners of his lips pulling taut.
“It’s a hard road,” Elizabeth continues. “And it’s certainly not the only avenue by which to pursue change. But I feel like it’s work worth doing. Even here, where it feels like there’s a lot more losses than there are victories, where every day is an uphill battle, there’s nothing else I’d rather do. Texas is my home. My wife’s home. And we’re not going to give it up without a fight.” She reaches for a water bottle and takes a sip. “If you feel even a fraction of that, I hope you do run for office one day.”
“Thanks,” I say, my brain trying to catch up with how I feel. What Elizabeth’s said has ignited something in me, and it’s a rush of sensation. One that’s not entirely pleasant. It’s almost like pins and needles, as if something that’s been sleeping is slowly coming back to life. “I appreciate that,” I tell her. “I appreciate everything you’ve said.”
I reach for a water bottle of my own and catch Nikhil watching me, his face thoughtful and open. A mix of recognition and something else. Like he’s sayingThere you areandWho are you?all in one single glance.
And as I look back at him, our gazes locked, I know my eyes tell him the same things too.
—
“How many bites did you get?” Nikhil asks, after we’ve dropped off the canoe in the garage and entered the house. He’s twisting his arms, scanning both of them. The raised red bumps are clear even from a couple feet away.
“I can’t count them all. Feels like a thousand. You?”
“Same.”
My clothes, my shoes, my jacket—all fully soaked now—didn’t prevent any of the tiny ants from getting inside. My skin itches. Everywhere. My torso, my back, the spaces between my toes.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I say. I walk toward the stairs but stop right at the foot of them. The idea of trudging up the steps zaps whatever remaining energy I’d had right out of me. I’ve been running on a cocktail of too little sleep, adrenaline, and a will to survive, and I’ve pushed my body past its limits over and over during these last few hours. Now it’s rebelling. Insisting that we get some rest and shut it all down.
“You want a piggyback ride?” Nikhil asks, standing next to me, a small, tired smile on his face.
Sudden memories flash through my mind. Nikhil carrying me on his back when I twisted my ankle on a walk. Hoisting me onto his shoulders for chicken fights in the pool. Cradling me in his arms and carrying me to bed whenever I fell asleep at my desk.
“No, no. I’ve got this.” I wrap a hand around the railing, and force myself forward. One step at a time.
He huffs, following my slow ascent up the stairs. “It’s not a crime to accept help, you know.”
I almost roll my eyes. “I know. I’m not the one who needs to learn that lesson.”
He’s quiet for a beat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The words gather on my tongue, but I stop, and shake my head.
Nikhil is an island. A self-sufficient little island. He was like that during our marriage and he’s like that now. I tried to get past his defenses once. Tried to get him to let me in. I tried over and over. And I’m done. It’s not my problem anymore. It hasn’t been my problem for a long time.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him breezily.
“You think I don’t ask for help?”
“I said don’t worry about it.” Trying to sound light and carefree takes a bit more effort this time.
“This is ridiculous,” he mutters.
I pretend I don’t hear him even though I’m tempted to say that I agree. This whole situation is ridiculous, though not for the reasons he thinks. But it’s not worth getting into right now. My priorities are shower and sleep. And then whenever I wake up, food. And after I’ve achieved everything on the bottom level of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, I can work my way to the highest point of my pyramid: the divorce papers.
We finally reach the top of the stairs, and I feel as if I’ve climbed a mountain. I’m slightly winded, but I keep my eyes on the prize,hurrying to the bedroom. I steal a clean shirt and some gym shorts out of Nikhil’s drawer and stroll confidently into the bathroom, claiming the shower first. But before I can close the door, Nikhil’s hand shoots out, stopping it.
“You’re the one who never accepted my help,” he says, his neutral tone betrayed by the fire in his eyes. “You’re the one who never needed me.”
I shake my head. I should just let this go, but the words escape me before I can help it. “I needed you, Nikhil. I did. That was the problem.”
