A line forms between his eyebrows, and even though I’m feeling all kinds of things toward him at the moment, I’m tempted to run my finger down it. Tempted to know what that small groove would feel like against my skin.
Instead, I press on. “How do you think it felt to be the only one falling apart? The one who was always struggling. Always taking. Always needingsomething.” A rush of breath leaves my lungs, and my next words are quieter. Small and resigned. “I couldn’t do it anymore. I needed you to need me too.”
He takes a step back, and I barely register his thunderstruck expression before I push the bathroom door shut.
—
Our marriage lasted exactly one year. I guess legally it’s lasted about seven years, but we had only one real year of living together. One year of calling each other husband and wife. One year of trying to make it work.
It’s not hard to pinpoint the exact moment things went wrong. That conversation—that fight—was an explosion, razing everything in its path. Burning whatever love existed between us into ash.
In the time that followed, I blamed everything on that moment.I picked apart the words I’d used. The words he’d used. I imagined different phrases. Different tones. Even different locations for that conversation. I wondered for months if a different approach would have rendered a different result.
But with time and distance I’ve been able to examine that entire year under a microscope. I see the fault lines that existed before that moment. The tiny cracks that made the ultimate fracture inevitable. Nikhil and I were always doomed to fail.
There was the honeymoon phase, of course. But that wasn’t enough to sustain us. It wouldn’t be enough to sustain anyone. I was always supposed to move to D.C. And Nikhil’s job was here in Houston. I was supposed to be doing things, achieving things, and instead my failure forced me to stay still. Stay home and study. While Nikhil left the house every day and worked. From morning to evening. He took on extra shifts. Extra responsibilities. Working Saturdays and Sundays too. I knew he was miserable. It was clear he was miserable. But when I asked, he always hid it, covered it up with that pained smile I grew to hate, until I stopped asking. Even when the loneliness grew and grew and grew, and his expression grew darker and sadder and more withdrawn, I stopped pushing because I knew why he was doing it. Why he stayed at a job he clearly hated. I wasn’t bringing any money in. I had student debt and meager savings. I couldn’t help much with the rent. Or the bills. Or anything. Nikhil had to provide.
It felt so regressive. So backwards. So wrong.
I’d told him I’d find a part-time job. Find some way to contribute, but he’d refused. He knew how much time I’d spent studying for the bar exam the first time around. He knew it was basically a full-time gig. That I wouldn’t have the time for anything else. He’d reassured me. Told me that he understood.
He’d had dreams of his own, but nothing that he’d ever share indetail. He talked once about creating something of his own. Maybe opening an interior design company. Maybe branching into something else altogether. But whenever I tried to bring it up, he’d say that none of that mattered right now. That he didn’t mind putting that on hold.
But he’d said all of that with the assumption that this was a temporary phase. He’d been so sure that I’d pass the bar the next time. That I’d get my job offer back. That I’d get back on track and get everything I always wanted. And he’d said that he’d wait to pursue his dreams until I’d achieved mine.
At first it had been sweet. His faith in me. His belief that I could do it.
And then it had felt heavy. Suffocating. This expectation. This pressure. This weight. Pressing in on all sides.
Ihadto pass. Ihadto do this. Ihadto make this marriage work. Ihadto do it all.
I had no other option.
Because he was supportive, he was willing to put his dreams on holdfor now,but what would happen in the future? I knew he loved menow,but I wasn’t sure if that love could withstand another failure.
I don’t know when the spiral began, but by the time I realized it was happening, I was too deep in it to know what to do. And it didn’t help that Nikhil was always…fine. Smiling through every setback. Working twice as hard to make sure we were okay. While I was just a crumpled mess, crying on the floor. I’d tried to tell him how I felt, and he’d comforted me, reassured me that everything would be fine, but my vulnerability was never reciprocated. He refused to lean on me, refused to look to me for support the same way I looked to him, and it made everything feel so unbalanced.
I was taking, and he was giving, and I didn’t want it to all build up. For him to resent me, or leave me, so, after some time, I stoppedsharing. Started wiping my tears when I heard the garage door open. Started pretending things were okay as soon as he got home.
Just like I’m pretending now. I exit the bathroom, my chin lifted high. No hint of how I’m really feeling on my face. Not that my charade is even necessary. Nikhil doesn’t look at me as he passes by, barreling into the bathroom as soon as I exit. He doesn’t say a word. Though at the last moment he reaches in my direction quickly, discreetly tucking something in the palm of my hand.
I wait until the door shuts to examine it closely. It’s some kind of tube. I squint, angling my flashlight toward it.
1% Hydrocortisone Anti-Itch Cream.The generic Walgreens version.
I’m not sure why that part sticks out to me. Maybe because I’m almost positive I know the Walgreens Nikhil bought this from. It’s just up the road. It’s the same one where he bought all those reading glasses. And where we’d run if we needed just a little bit of milk. Or shampoo. Or something small that didn’t warrant a longer drive to the closest Target or H-E-B.
I squeeze a generous dollop on my finger and start rubbing it across my itchy skin. Relief floods through me within minutes.
I open the door to the closet, more than ready to finally get some rest, but the king-size bed in the middle of the bedroom catches my eye. It’s so tempting. Large and lush and inviting. It’s not the same bed frame we had when I lived here. This one’s a rich dark wood. Maybe something like mahogany. The comforter isn’t one of the bright chaotic patterns I’d picked out either. It’s all one solid color. Kind of between a blue and a gray. I run a hand over it and almost shiver. It’s so soft. I can just imagine how it would feel against my skin.
I shoot a wary glance toward the boarded-up windows. Outside it had seemed like the storm was moving on. Even from in here I cantell that the wind has lessened. That the rain’s lighter. There’s no more terrifying snap and crackle of branches breaking or trees hurtling to the ground.
But we’ve come this far. There’s no point taking any unnecessary chances now. My father’s voice echoes in my head. Something he taught me when I was learning how to drive: “Most accidents happen close to home.” He’d explained that when drivers start to get within five miles of their house, they let their guard down. They get too comfortable once they’re in the homestretch. Toward the end of their journey.
He’d drilled that into my brain. Along with a million other instructions about not taking unnecessary risks. About following the rules. About not deviating from the straight and narrow. Though he’d never said it directly, I’d always known what his lessons were actually about. The undercurrent of fear in his voice had made it abundantly clear.
My sister was a junior in college when she got pregnant with Ritu. I’d been only twelve at the time, but I vividly remember the fallout. My sister having to drop out of college, having to abandon her dreams of medical school. My parents being utterly distraught. Disillusioned. Dismayed. Ultimately, they supported my sister. When Ritu’s father made it clear he wouldn’t be involved, my parents stepped up. They were at every doctor’s appointment. They stayed with my sister at the hospital. And when Ritu was born, they showered so much love on their new granddaughter. But as loving as they were, there was always a lingering sense of sadness. And the community’s reaction certainly didn’t help. Snide comments and constant judgment and whispers about how my sister not only wasn’t married but also had no plans togetmarried, from the aunties and uncles who were supposed to be my parents’ friends. I’ve alwayssuspected that part of the reason for my parents’ move up north was to escape some of that shame.
