I do as he says, closing the door behind me. Inside is just as peaceful as it is outside. Things are simple here. Not much clutter like our home, most likely due to the fact that a single divorced man lives here and no overactive child has taken over his living space, and things appear fairly neat. I’ve never been here. He moved in a few years ago, and we’ve only seen each other a handful of times, and it was always somewhere else. And usually with a buffer like my sister or Sadie.
“Do you want some pizza?” he offers.
“I—” I’m about to tell him I’m okay, but then I realize I don’t have any other plans than to go home and possibly snack on a bag of BBQ potato chips. Maybe add a beer to my sodium-filled dinner. “Yeah, sure.”
He walks into the kitchen where a small dining area is positioned right next to the tiled counter. A pizza box sits there, the lid closed haphazardly, and he reaches inside and whips out a piece. He walks it over to me at the dinner table on a paper plate, and we both sort of eat in silence.
“How are Sophia and Kendall?” he asks. He sets his plate down and walks to the fridge. He shows me an amber bottle of beer, and I nod.
“They’re good,” I answer, twisting open the cap. “They’re in Washington visiting some of our friends.”
“Kendall’s on summer break?”
I nod through a full mouth.
“I bet they miss you,” he comments, completely unaware of the tornado swirling in my head.
“Uh, I don’t know.”
That earns me a perplexed and confused look. “They don’t miss you?” He asks the question with a laugh, as if it’s completely impossible that my wife and daughter wouldn’t miss me while they’re away.
“Not really sure.”
He sets down his beer, what’s left of it swishing against the glass. “Is everything okay?”
This time, I shake my head. I don’t nod through a lie, passing this off as surface-level conversations with a friend. I’m too weary to lie.
“Do…you want to talk?” Men don’t generally do this. We don’t splay out our personal problems so we can sift through them and somehow piece together a solution. We bottle it up, put on a brave face, and pretend like everything is just fine. But maybe that’s the problem. I talk to my sister and sometimes my mom about these things. Maybe it’s time to get some male perspective. In particular from one who’s paid for his past choices.
“I think she’s leaving me.”
His brow furrows, and he pushes a rough swallow down his throat. “Did she say that?”
“She left. She barely wanted to tell me she was leaving. I think if she had the choice, she would’ve snuck out without having to face me. She said she wanted to get some space, and I didn’t even get a say. She just packed up and left. Took Sophia with her.”
“But…she’s coming back,” he deduces. Because what else is there? She’s my wife. Her home is with me. Of course she’ll come back.
But I’m not too sure if that’s the case anymore. “I don’t know.”
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t expect you to tell me. We don’t need to get into the nitty-gritty,” he tells me. His voice is hoarse and grim. “But do you want to be with her?”
“Of course I do,” I answer. An exasperated sigh leaves my lips because why wouldn’t I want to be with my wife? I love her. But it’s not that simple. Obviously, or I wouldn’t be here.
“Then don’t give up. If you don’t want to lose her, don’t fuck it up. Like I did.”
It’s the first time he’s really talked about it like this, so open and candidly. Owning up to his mistakes and taking accountability. I look at him, and I notice how he’s aged. He’s no longer the twenty-something kid I walked to our Intro to Psychology class with. He’s an adult, living with his mistakes and paying for them in this lonely, dismal bachelor pad.
“I’m trying,” I confess. “I just don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t think she even wants to talk to me. Or maybe she does, but I keep saying the wrong shit, and we just argue, and she shuts down. I even went to therapy.”
“You did?”
“Yeah,” I say, listening to myself speak what almost feels like a confession. But there’s nothing wrong with it, talking to someone to see if they can help me and my marriage. I just wish I knew if it’s going to even help. “Kendall’s going to therapy, and Teeny suggested it. Thought it might help me understand her better, but this therapist…all she wants to do is talk about me and my problems.”
“Maybe that’s part of the reason for going to therapy,” he suggests. “Maybe you need to work on yourself a little bit before you can go around helping Kendall.”
“Maybe.” I tilt my head in his direction.
“Have you thought about going to couple’s therapy?”
