“Well, I have no idea how much you make.”
“Forty-five thousand and change. Before taxes.”
“Am I supposed to feel bad about that?”
“No! But you need to understand the huge difference between your reality and mine.”
Resting one hand on the side of his face, he plunks his elbow in his other hand and rubs his ring finger against his lower lip. “I hate talking about money; it makes me uncomfortable. Money has nothing to do with my wanting to marry you.”
“Well, it has a fair bit to do with why I’m not ready to marry you.”
He drops his hands to his sides and thrusts his upper body forward. “Because I’m too rich? That’s idiotic.”
“Thanks.”
“You already called me stupid for spending so much on your ring.”
“That’s not my ring. Which is what I’ve been trying to explain, if you’ll let me.”
With a quick poke of his finger, he closes the Tiffany box with a thwack, nudging it away from us, toward the other side of the table. Then he crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m waiting. Again. As usual.”
With extreme effort, I ignore that dig and go back to my original point. “You think you know me, but that ring proves you don’t. I could never wear that ring.”
“Fine! I’ll get you a different ring. I’ll get you a glass piece of shit from a gumball machine, if that will make you happy. What do you want from me, Maura? Because all I want is to make you happy.”
I fish my shoes out from under the table and slip my feet into them. Standing, I say, “You’re hurt and upset, and I’m not going to be able to get you to understand where I’m coming from tonight.”
“I do understand, more than you do,” he says hotly, standing too. “You’re rejecting me out of habit. You can’t control how you feel about me, and since it scares you, you run away any time there’s talk of making us permanent.”
“You’re wrong.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are! I don’t think it’s possible to make us permanent. That’s what scares me, okay? This… this relationship is unsustainable in so many ways, most of all because you don’t see that.”
He blinks, opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, and finally says in a near-whisper, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I droop. “That’s part of what I love so much about you. You think anything is possible. That’s amazing. But it’s also incredibly frustrating. And intimidating.”
“So I can’t win.”
Exasperated, I drop my chin to my chest and shake my head. “It’s not about winning.”
“And you’re also not saying ‘not yet.’ You’re really saying, ‘never.’ You just don’t have the guts to say it to me right now.”
As my blood pressure rises, so does my chin. “Don’t have the guts, huh?”
“No.” He jabs his fists against his hips, his elbows sticking out from his sides. “I don’t think you do.”
I chuckle mirthlessly. “Hm. Let’s see if I can find the guts to tell you how I’m really feeling, then.”
He smacks himself on the chest. “Lay it on me, babe. I’m a big boy. I can take it.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, for a start, maybe I don’t want to be married to someone who’s gone all the time. Maybe I don’t want to live here at Fort Knox, rattling around the empty rooms. Maybe I don’t want to be the CEO of the Jet Knox ‘brand.’ Maybe I don’t want my appearance to be criticized every time I leave my house. Maybe I don’t want to be married to a titty baby who pouts every time he doesn’t get his way. Maybe I don’t want to go without sex for four months straight because my husband thinks it’s bad juju to ejaculate during the football season!”
My heart pounds while I wait for him to react, but he simply gapes, nostrils flared. Finally, he blinks rapidly, but he still says nothing.
Already regretting ninety percent of what I’ve said, I rub my temples. “Jet. I’m sorr—”
“Whatever.” He turns away from me and starts clearing our congealing plates from the table.
“No, I—”
“You should go home. I want to be alone.”
“But—”
“Just leave, Maura!”
Even though I was ready to go voluntarily a few minutes ago, it hurts to be kicked out. Tears stinging my nose, throat, and eyes, I say, “Okay, but I’m sorr—”
“No.” He closes his eyes. “Don’t. I don’t want to hear any apologies or see your pity.”
With that, he exits the room and begins loudly and not-so-gently “doing” the dishes.
I let myself out.
Twenty-Five
Bridesmaid Blues
I’ve been dreading this day since Greg and Deirdre announced their engagement two years ago and asked me to be one of Deirdre’s bridesmaids. Their wedding has been every bit as tedious as I feared. The only person having a worse day than I am is Deirdre’s sister, the matron of honor, who has to wait on the demanding bride, God help her.
Detachment is what I need, but that tends to make me stare off into space and incur the Wrath of D, so I’ve tried to strike a balance between awareness and indifference. I’m living for the moment when the happy couple drives to the airport to catch the plane to their honeymoon, and I’m free to go home, soak in the tub, and take all of these pins out of my hair, releasing the elaborate updo that’s been giving me a headache all day.
Just a few more hours.
Jet informed me via text the day after I rejected his proposal that he suddenly had a scheduling conflict with today’s ceremony. In the week since then, there’s been absolutely no contact from him. I’ve been afraid to initiate communication, because what if I call him or text him, and that opens the door for him to officially break up with me? Not knowing for sure what’s going on has been horrible; knowing for sure—if he’s decided I’m a waste of his time—would be worse.
So I’ve tried to
