Roman Crazy
Page 61

“I realize that,” he said calmly. “But if we could just—”
“If we could just nothing! I saw you having sex with another woman, Daniel! You think I can ever get that image out of my brain? You think that I can just sit across from you at dinner, or open a birthday present, or sing Christmas carols with our parents, and not constantly be thinking about the image burned into my brain of you having sex with another woman?” I crossed my leg so hard I might have sprained it. “What the hell is wrong with you? What circuit has come undone inside your mind that made you think I’d be able to get past that?”
“I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry,” he said, getting up to kneel in front of me, taking my hands in his. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you.”
He was in pain. He felt bad, I knew he did.
“What if you walked in on me? Hmm?” I volleyed, fuming that I was forced to think about it again. To rehash it all when I finally smothered the image of them together.
“Think about it, if you saw my legs over the landscaper’s shoulders, how would you feel? Maybe my trainer was bending me over the free weights. No, I know, maybe I finally let your boss up my skirt. What do you think about that?”
“Avery, this isn’t fair.” His fists were clenched at his sides. Good. I wanted him to have the visual.
“When I walked into that office and saw what was going on, do you know the first thing that came to my mind?” I asked quietly. “It wasn’t anger, or hatred, or fear. It was sadness.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Sadness because I couldn’t remember the last time you fucked me like that.”
“I’m so, so . . . what?”
“Then the sadness changed to . . . static. Like white noise. I watched you plow into that girl with such passion and fire and excitement and good old-fashioned dirty, raw sex . . . and I felt nothing.” I took his confused face into my hands. “Because I didn’t care.”
“But the baseball bat, you tried to—”
“Well, sure—then I was pissed,” I replied, with a smile he looked afraid of. “Because then embarrassment kicked in, and the shame of what was to come.”
“I’m really trying hard to understand what’s happening here,” he said, and for the first time, I actually felt a little bit sorry for the guy. The guy, my husband.
“I know you are,” I said, smoothing his hair back from his forehead, then taking the time to slap him twice, lightly. “I don’t love you anymore.”
His face deflated, looked a little lost. “You don’t love me anymore?” he echoed quietly.
“Daniel, do you love me anymore? And don’t say what you think I want to hear right now. Really and truly think about this. Do you really, truly, love me? Are you in love with me?”
He thought. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Then he did that again.
“No,” he said, blinking. “No, I don’t.” He stood up. “I really don’t think I do. Of course I love you, but I’m not in love with you anymore. But that doesn’t mean we have to divorce, does it?”
Unbelievable. I scrubbed my face with my hands, trying to figure out what I could say to make him see this, to make him understand. “Don’t you want more? Don’t we both deserve more?”
“I want you.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“No,” I finally snapped, “you don’t. A man in love with his wife doesn’t do what you did.”
“Actually, several of my friends have, and they’re still married.”
I started for the door. “You should go.”
“Wait, no—let’s talk about this.”
“There’s nothing more to talk about.”
He followed me through the apartment. “Do you have any idea how many of our friends are in marriage counseling, going through the same thing we are, and they’re all sticking it out? Staying together. Figuring out how to make their marriage work—how can that be a bad thing?”
I whirled around. “You just said you’re not in love with me anymore! How could we possibly stay married? I don’t love you, you don’t love me. I won’t apologize for wanting that from my husband.” I pushed my curls back from my face. “Don’t you see, Daniel? This is bad. And it’d be much worse if we don’t get out now.”
“But I don’t want to be that guy—divorced guy.”
“I say this with all the love I once had for you, Daniel. I just don’t care.” I shook my head. “Besides, you wouldn’t want me back now. I’ve changed over here, and you wouldn’t like this Avery. I’ve got something pretty great going here, and I’m staying in Rome for I don’t know how long, but it’s exciting as shit and I love it!”
I took a deep breath and continued. “And it wouldn’t be fair to you, either. You need to really think about what you want—because if you’re really honest with yourself, it’s not me.”
I watched as the realization came over his face and the reality of what this meant, what this might mean to us, began to dawn. He looked old and young all at the same time, and actually quite vulnerable.
“I need to ask you something, Daniel. And you need to really listen.”
He nodded, still looking a bit stunned at what had just transpired.
“If I hadn’t gotten pregnant would you have married me?” I let my question hang in the air. The question, the one that had plagued me for years. The question that crept in late at night, twisting and turning into the darkest part of my mind, the part that questioned everything and always wondered what if, what would have, what could I . . . had things been different.