So I keep talking. “All my life—from childhood straight through my marriage—I’ve felt like a disappointment. Like an irritation everyone else had to learn to live with. I’m the grit in the bottom of their shoe they can’t shake out. I could say my marriage to Clive ended because of the ectopic pregnancy or because he cheated, but neither of those is the whole picture. The truth is, I annoyed him. The person I really am—the flibbertigibbet with ADHD—irritated him. I spent a lot of time trying to be the person he wanted me to be instead of the person I really am. It was exhausting. I won’t ever do that to myself again.”
And I won’t do it to you.
I don’t say that part out loud, because if I do, he’ll just argue with me about it.
When I asked Clive for a divorce, he gave it to me, not just because he felt guilty for cheating on me, but also because he was relieved. He was as tired of all my annoying traits as I was of trying to hide them. I think we both wanted the excuse to end things.
“I’ve seen your life. I’ve seen your house.” I gesture to the clean room on the other side of the lab. “I’ve seen your clean room. I don’t have any place in this. And I can’t imagine why you would think I do.”
For a moment, I think he might argue with me about that. Just the smallest instant when I think he might tell me what I want to hear. That I could fit in his life. That maybe we could make it work.
But instead, he says, “You should get to have kids if you want them.”
“Yeah. I agree. And maybe someday a judge will too.”
“But if we got married—” he starts to protest again.
“Can I ask you a question?”
He blinks as if surprised I would dare interrupt him, because, after all, he is still Dr. Maximillian Ramsey, rising star of soil restoration research. He’s not used to being interrupted.
I don’t wait for him to answer, but instead cross to the spot by his computer where his cane rests against the desk—a good twenty feet away from where he is now.
I pick up the cane, looking pointedly at it and then at the distance to where he sits.
“Why do you have a cane?”
“Because I was in a car accident when I was twelve. It’s how I got this damn scar.” He jerks his hand up to his check. “My hip was shattered and—”
“Yes, and now you walk with a limp and a cane.” I nod. “But you don’t actually use it that often. You don’t seem to need the cane. Oh, you stomp around with it when you’re upset. You wave it around at me when I’ve irritated you, but how often do youneedit?”
His frown turns into an outright scowl, but I’m not sure if it’s my line of questioning that’s annoyed him or the fact that I reminded him how irritating he finds me.
“I need it if I’ve been on my feet all day. If I overexert myself.”
“So not that often.”
“No. Not often. Exercise helps.” His scowl deepens. “Are you implying I don't really need my cane?”
“Areyouimplying you don’t really need it?”
“Even if I don’t need it that often, I’d rather have it with me and not need it than go through the fucking embarrassment of not having it when my leg spasms.”
“That’s fair.”
“But you think I don’t need it,” he accuses, sounding like a petulant boy.
“I didn’t say that.” I set the cane back down where I found it. “I don’t know what your muscles or joints are feeling. I can’t tell you whether or not you’re in pain. Only you know that. I’m just observing that I haven’t seen you actually use your cane. I think your cane is a crutch.”
“Of course my cane is a crutch,” he snaps. “That’s the very definition of a cane.”
“Okay, then, I think your physical crutch is an emotional crutch as well.” I have to fight back a smile as I say it, but oh, God, it’s a bittersweet smile. Because I am going to miss how cute he is when he’s being obtuse. “I think you carry it because it brings you comfort, knowing that it’s nearby if you need it.”
“Do you have a point?” he practically growls.
“When we first met, you were terrified of giving these speeches.”
“You make me sound like I was being irrational.”
