He sits in the armchair facing me, his posture mirroring mine. He’s quiet for a minute, letting my confession sit until he decides what he wants to say. After some time, he settles with, “So why did you?”
“I don’t think I had a choice.” I think about our wedding vows. They weren’t flowery with an overabundance of words. They were simple and to the point. We were going to love each other for the rest of our lives. We were going to grow old, learn this thing called life. Together. It didn’t feel like a choice. It felt like our bodies were moving through life, and it walked us through our relationship. Through our wedding, through buying a house, having Sophia, and to now. And that’s what this feels like. There was no choice to be made. I wasn’t stuck between arock and a hard place, some heartbroken Sophie’s choice I was clawing my way out of. I was simply doing what I needed to do. I came for my family because it’s what I’m supposed to do.
And yet, I don’t know if duty is the equivalent of need. I have a responsibility to keep my marriage afloat. And not just treading through the deep end, but coasting. Bumping off the exciting waves as we ride off into the sunset. But knowing my job is to uphold this till death do us part—in sickness and in health—I can’t help but think it’s also what Iwant. Desperately. It wasn’t a choice, but this desire or demand, rattling my insides until I finally did something about it. And it brought me here.
“When did you start growing gray hair?” A jab at how long it’s been since we’ve seen each other. I finally look at him, and a smirk quirks at the corners of his mouth.
“Fuck you,” I respond with a chuckle. I run a hand along my temple, noticing a little gray along Tommy’s own hairline. It’s not just the smattering of salt and pepper I notice. It’s also the fine wrinkles around his eyes. The extra weight we both evidently started collecting around our midsection after hitting forty. I wonder if he keeps a bottle of Tums at his bedside like I do. Or if he’s starting to pull any reading material further away from him like a trombone before letting the words focus in front of him.
Our short but friendly taunting game is interrupted by the sounds of pitter-pattering just outside the door. I’m given about three seconds to compose myself before it swings open. Sylvia walks in, her face turned away from us, while she’s chatting a mile away. Shopping bags heavy with who knows what swing across the doorway and Katy and Sophia manage to squeeze themselves through like they’re competing to see who can get inside the fastest.
“Daddy!”
Sophia’s shriek brings everyone’s attention to me, and I catch Kendall’s eyes taking in the extra, unwelcome guest in the living room as she follows Sylvia inside. I don’t know how to read her expression. If she’s confused or scared or flat-out pissed off.
Sophia runs into my arms, and my focus is on her for the time being. “Hey, baby.”
“Mommy said you couldn’t come because of work,” she tells me. “Are you all finished with your work?”
“Yeah, Soph,” I answer, planting a kiss on her forehead. “I finished it all.”
“So, you can play with us now?”
“Yup.” I laugh at her delighted squeal as she squirms in my arms, wriggling from my grip. She turns to Katy. The two whisper something between them, and they skitter off up the stairs, disappearing as if she’s already forgotten about me.
“Let me take those into the kitchen,” Tommy says, reaching for the bursting nylon bags in Kendall’s hand.
“I’ll help you put everything away,” Sylvia says. She turns to me before adding a quick, “Hey, James.”
“Hey,” I respond. I smile awkwardly at her—and a little apologetically—before she turns toward the kitchen.
The two leave the room with more than just the groceries. They take with them the only buffer Kendall and I shared. And it’s just my wife and me. She stands by the door, still open as if left that way as a contingency plan in case she wants to bolt for it.
“What are you doing here?” Kendall asks. She finally closes the door behind her, moving slowly as if it’ll buy her some time. The lock clicks with a weighty clunk, and we both stand there. This considerable distance between us almost feels as symbolic as it is real.
I realize that Tommy asked me the same question. A little different context and with a less of an accusatory tone, but after having a few minutes to decide how to answer, I still don’thavethe answer. There are so many things I’m not sure of. I don’t know what Kendall wants. I don’t know if she wants to work things out, whether or not she wants to save what remains of our marriage. I don’t even knowifit’s worth salvaging at this point. But there are a lot of things Idoknow.
I know if it were up to me, there wouldn’t be anything to question. I’d have the answers to everything. I’d say our marriage is absolutely worth saving. That I want to be with her and keep the promise we made to grow old together. That I want to keep fighting forus.
With the right words still trying to find their footing, I decide to stick to the truth. The same answer I gave Tommy. “I don’t know.”
A furrow forms deep between her brows. Maybe it would be easier if she got mad at me, started yelling at me and accusing me of smothering her. Then I’d at least get a reaction out of her. But with the quiet trailing behind her like a wisp of smoke, I feel like I’ve made a huge mistake.
“Is…everything okay?” she manages as she starts picking up some of the mess that was already there. She scoops up the drawings in her arms, purposefully avoiding my vigilant gaze, and she moves around me.
“Uh, yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?”
She moves onto the markers. “I just thought that…maybe something happened, and that’s why you’re here.”
My jaw sets. A bubble of frustration starts to swell in my chest. Why can’t I just be here because I missed her? Because I was scared that by not coming here, it would be as if I’d given up on us. Like I didn’t fight as hard as I wanted to, her opinions be damned. “Nothing’s wrong.”
That’s a fucking lie. Everything’s wrong. My whole world feels like it’s off-kilter, and I don’t even know how to begin to set it back on course.
She shoves a fistful of markers into a large plastic Ziploc bag. Her back is hunched forward, angling her body toward the floor. She’s somehow managed to avoid me in a room where it’s just us two, putting up a wall she’s been tucking away somewhere only for her to whip it out at her convenience.
“Kendall, will you look at me?”
I see her shoulders tense, but she still doesn’t look at me. I reach for her hand, and she stops what she’s doing. When she finally looks at me, this wave of dread washes over me.
