“Sometimes, I feel like you and Cammie speak without speaking,” she says.
“Maybe we do.”
The rest of the ride is quiet. It reminds me of our drive back from the camping trip, when there was so much to say and no courage to say it. We’re so much older now, so much has happened. It shouldn’t be this hard.
I carry her bag upstairs. She holds the front door open for me when we get to her floor, so I step past her and walk into the foyer. Once again I feel Noah’s absence. It feels like she’s been living here on her own. The air is warm. I can smell traces of her perfume in certain spots. She turns on the air conditioner and we move into the kitchen.
“Tea?” she asks.
“Please.”
I can pretend for a few minutes that this is our house and she’s making me tea like she does every morning. I watch her put the kettle on and get the tea bags. She rubs the back of her neck and tucks a foot behind her knee while she waits for the water to boil. Then she carries a glass jar of sugar cubes and a small milk jug to the table and sets them down in front of me. I turn away and pretend I wasn’t watching her. This pierces my heart a little bit. We always said we’d have sugar cubes instead of plain sugar. She fetches two teacups from the cabinet, stretching on her tiptoes to reach them. I watch her face as she drops four cubes into my cup. She stirs it for me and pours in the milk. I reach for the cup before she pulls her hand away, and our fingers touch. Her eyes dart to mine. Dart away. She drinks her tea with only one cube of sugar. We find the tabletop increasingly interesting as the minutes pass. Finally, I set my cup down. It clinks against the saucer. There is a storm brewing between us. Maybe that’s why we are savoring the calm. I stand up and take both of our cups to the sink. I wash them and set them in the dry rack.
“I still want you,” I say. I surprise myself by saying this out loud. I don’t know if she’s having the same reaction because my back is to her.
“Fuck you.”
Surprise, surprise.
She can’t hide from me with her dirty mouth. I see how she looks at me. I feel the sting of regret when our skin accidentally touches.
“I built you that house,” I say, turning around. “I kept it even after I got married. I hired a landscaper and a pool guy. I’ve had a cleaning service go in once every two months. Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re a nostalgic fool who only lets go of the past long enough to marry another woman.”
“You’re right. I am a fool. But, as you can see, I’m a fool who never quite let go.”
“Let go.”
I shake my head. “Uh-uh. This time you found me, remember?”
She turns a little red.
“Tell me why you called me.”
“Who else do I know?”
“Your husband, for one.”
She looks away.
“Fine,” she finally says. “I was scared. You were the first one I thought to call.”
“Because…”
“Goddammit, Caleb!” She slams her fist on the table and the fruit bowl wobbles.
“Because…” I say again. Does she think she scares me with her little temper tantrums? She does a little.
“You’re always wanting to overtalk everything.”
“There is no such thing as overtalking something. Lack of communication is the problem.”
“You should have been a shrink.”
“I know. Don’t change the subject.”
She bites on her thumbnail.
“Because you’re my hiding place. I go to you when I’m messed up.”
My tongue twists, knots, freezes. What am I supposed to say to that? I never expected that. Maybe more swearing. More denial.
Then I go nuts. Really crazy. It’s the tension of wanting her and wanting her to admit that she wants me.
My hands are behind my neck as I pace her small kitchen. I want to hit something. Throw a chair through the glass box that is her condo. I stop suddenly and face her.
“You leave him, Olivia. You leave him or this is the end.”
“The. End. Of. WHAT?” She leans over the counter; her fingers splayed out like her anger. Her words punch. “We’ve never had a beginning, or a middle, or a f**king minute to be in love. You think I want this? He hasn’t done anything wrong!”
“Bullshit! He married you and he knew you were in love with me.”
She draws back, looks unsure. I watch her walk the length of her kitchen, one hand on top of her head, the other on her hip. When she stops and faces me, her face is contorted.
“I love him.”
I cross the kitchen in two seconds. I grab her upper arm so she can’t get away and lean down until I’m right in her face. She has to see truth. My voice sounds more animal than human; a growl.
“More than me?”
The light drains from her eyes and she tries to look away.
I shake her. “More than me?”
“I don’t love anything more than I love you.”
My fingers tighten on her arm. “Then why are we playing these stupid games?”
She rips her arm away from me, her eyes flashing.
“You left me in Rome!” She shoves me and I stumble back. “You left me for that redheaded bitch. Do you know how much that hurt? I came to tell you how I felt, and you walked away from me.”
Olivia rarely shows her hurt. It’s so unusual I’m not sure how to deal with it.
“She was unstable. Her sister shot herself. She swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills, for God’s sake! I was trying to save her. You didn’t need me. Ever. You made a point of showing me that you didn’t need me.”
She wanders over to the sink, picks up a glass, fills it with water, takes a sip and throws it at my head. I duck and it hits the wall, shattering into a thousand pieces. I glance at the wall where the glass struck, then back at Olivia.
“Giving me a concussion is not going to solve our problems.”
“You were a f**king coward. If you had just talked to me that day in the record store, without the lies, we wouldn’t be here.”
Her shoulders — which a second ago had been tensed in battle stance — go limp. A single sob escapes her lips. She reaches a hand up to catch it, but it’s too late.
“You got married … you had a baby…” Her tears are flowing freely, mingling with her mascara and tracking black across her cheeks. “You were supposed to marry me. That was supposed to be my baby.” She drops to the sofa behind her and wraps her arms around herself.
“Maybe we do.”
The rest of the ride is quiet. It reminds me of our drive back from the camping trip, when there was so much to say and no courage to say it. We’re so much older now, so much has happened. It shouldn’t be this hard.
I carry her bag upstairs. She holds the front door open for me when we get to her floor, so I step past her and walk into the foyer. Once again I feel Noah’s absence. It feels like she’s been living here on her own. The air is warm. I can smell traces of her perfume in certain spots. She turns on the air conditioner and we move into the kitchen.
“Tea?” she asks.
“Please.”
I can pretend for a few minutes that this is our house and she’s making me tea like she does every morning. I watch her put the kettle on and get the tea bags. She rubs the back of her neck and tucks a foot behind her knee while she waits for the water to boil. Then she carries a glass jar of sugar cubes and a small milk jug to the table and sets them down in front of me. I turn away and pretend I wasn’t watching her. This pierces my heart a little bit. We always said we’d have sugar cubes instead of plain sugar. She fetches two teacups from the cabinet, stretching on her tiptoes to reach them. I watch her face as she drops four cubes into my cup. She stirs it for me and pours in the milk. I reach for the cup before she pulls her hand away, and our fingers touch. Her eyes dart to mine. Dart away. She drinks her tea with only one cube of sugar. We find the tabletop increasingly interesting as the minutes pass. Finally, I set my cup down. It clinks against the saucer. There is a storm brewing between us. Maybe that’s why we are savoring the calm. I stand up and take both of our cups to the sink. I wash them and set them in the dry rack.
“I still want you,” I say. I surprise myself by saying this out loud. I don’t know if she’s having the same reaction because my back is to her.
“Fuck you.”
Surprise, surprise.
She can’t hide from me with her dirty mouth. I see how she looks at me. I feel the sting of regret when our skin accidentally touches.
“I built you that house,” I say, turning around. “I kept it even after I got married. I hired a landscaper and a pool guy. I’ve had a cleaning service go in once every two months. Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re a nostalgic fool who only lets go of the past long enough to marry another woman.”
“You’re right. I am a fool. But, as you can see, I’m a fool who never quite let go.”
“Let go.”
I shake my head. “Uh-uh. This time you found me, remember?”
She turns a little red.
“Tell me why you called me.”
“Who else do I know?”
“Your husband, for one.”
She looks away.
“Fine,” she finally says. “I was scared. You were the first one I thought to call.”
“Because…”
“Goddammit, Caleb!” She slams her fist on the table and the fruit bowl wobbles.
“Because…” I say again. Does she think she scares me with her little temper tantrums? She does a little.
“You’re always wanting to overtalk everything.”
“There is no such thing as overtalking something. Lack of communication is the problem.”
“You should have been a shrink.”
“I know. Don’t change the subject.”
She bites on her thumbnail.
“Because you’re my hiding place. I go to you when I’m messed up.”
My tongue twists, knots, freezes. What am I supposed to say to that? I never expected that. Maybe more swearing. More denial.
Then I go nuts. Really crazy. It’s the tension of wanting her and wanting her to admit that she wants me.
My hands are behind my neck as I pace her small kitchen. I want to hit something. Throw a chair through the glass box that is her condo. I stop suddenly and face her.
“You leave him, Olivia. You leave him or this is the end.”
“The. End. Of. WHAT?” She leans over the counter; her fingers splayed out like her anger. Her words punch. “We’ve never had a beginning, or a middle, or a f**king minute to be in love. You think I want this? He hasn’t done anything wrong!”
“Bullshit! He married you and he knew you were in love with me.”
She draws back, looks unsure. I watch her walk the length of her kitchen, one hand on top of her head, the other on her hip. When she stops and faces me, her face is contorted.
“I love him.”
I cross the kitchen in two seconds. I grab her upper arm so she can’t get away and lean down until I’m right in her face. She has to see truth. My voice sounds more animal than human; a growl.
“More than me?”
The light drains from her eyes and she tries to look away.
I shake her. “More than me?”
“I don’t love anything more than I love you.”
My fingers tighten on her arm. “Then why are we playing these stupid games?”
She rips her arm away from me, her eyes flashing.
“You left me in Rome!” She shoves me and I stumble back. “You left me for that redheaded bitch. Do you know how much that hurt? I came to tell you how I felt, and you walked away from me.”
Olivia rarely shows her hurt. It’s so unusual I’m not sure how to deal with it.
“She was unstable. Her sister shot herself. She swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills, for God’s sake! I was trying to save her. You didn’t need me. Ever. You made a point of showing me that you didn’t need me.”
She wanders over to the sink, picks up a glass, fills it with water, takes a sip and throws it at my head. I duck and it hits the wall, shattering into a thousand pieces. I glance at the wall where the glass struck, then back at Olivia.
“Giving me a concussion is not going to solve our problems.”
“You were a f**king coward. If you had just talked to me that day in the record store, without the lies, we wouldn’t be here.”
Her shoulders — which a second ago had been tensed in battle stance — go limp. A single sob escapes her lips. She reaches a hand up to catch it, but it’s too late.
“You got married … you had a baby…” Her tears are flowing freely, mingling with her mascara and tracking black across her cheeks. “You were supposed to marry me. That was supposed to be my baby.” She drops to the sofa behind her and wraps her arms around herself.
