“What,” she says. I almost see the white flag she tosses alongside the word. Or maybe I imagine it, wondering if she’s really giving up or merely considering it.
We look at each other. Her hand still sits in mine. It’s gone limp with no push or pull. Without even thinking, I run my thumb along the inside of her palm. A silent plea. A request to hear me out, to not give up on us quite yet. To remember how things used to be when we both realized we loved each other. Without conditions or restrictions. Freely.
“If there’s something you need to tell me, then tell me.” She omits the request to “get it over with,” but I can feel it in her voice. This rush, this urgency for me to just get out what I want to say so she can shut it down.
“There’s nothing specifically I need to say to?—”
“I came here to get some space, and you’re here,” she interrupts.
“I just thought after we talked last week, maybe it would be okay to come here and see you and Sophia.”
“You didn’t even call,” she argues. “You didn’t even warn me or anything.”
“Would you have told me to come?” I ask. “Would you have been okay with it?”
She doesn’t answer me, and somehow, that’s her answer.
Footsteps tumble down the stairs like an avalanche of large bumpy rocks, and Kendall finally pulls her hand out of grip. My hold on her was growing tighter, letting my fingers press into her flesh in an attempt to keep her there for even a second longer. When she lets go, I notice the emptiness she leaves behind. The indents I’m sure I left on her own skin. The hole she’s left in mine, forcing my fist to squeeze until my knuckles go white.
Sophia and Katy run past us as if we aren’t standing in this blizzard of unsaid words and rush right into the kitchen. Chatter that was muted is joined by higher-pitched squeals. Kendall looks in the direction of the noise.
“I should go help Syl with dinner.” She doesn’t wait for me to respond.
I look at my bag still near the entryway, wondering how quickly I could make a getaway while everyone is in the kitchen making dinner. But Tommy walks back into the room, souring my disappearing act in the making.
“Sylvia forgot the wine,” he announces. “Let’s go pick some up.”
It could be a lie, this ruse to get me out of this fractious space, but I don’t even care. I don’t fucking care if they have a fully stocked wine cellar in the basement. I think I need some time to…think. I had a three-hour flight, but apparently it wasn’t enough. I need a moment to reconvene with my own thoughts before making another attempt to talk to my wife. Maybe I can come back with a better game plan, something other than my taciturn attempts to communicate with her. I don’t know how many more times I can say “I don’t know” without her wanting to splash a glass of wine in my face at dinner.
I nod, following him out the door.
The ride to the store is filled with a lot of small talk. Mostly from Tommy. Things he’s doing to the house, work, Katy’s school and the shitty PTA. I catch some of it, like that a parent atKaty’s school demanded that none of the kids in her class watch TV at home because they don’t allow their own child any screen time. He goes on about a nasty text from that specific parent sent through the school’s messaging app, complaining about how their child comes home whining about watching TV because all the kids at school are talking about some demon hunting movie with Korean pop music and large blue tigers.
At the store, we pick up a bottle of chardonnay and chianti, a red and a white to choose from. When we’re back in the car, the chatty side of Tommy has slipped away.
“So, what’s the plan?” We’ve come to a stop at a light. He taps his thumb along the steering wheel, his gaze stern and preoccupied. He hadn’t said a word since he pulled out of the parking lot, and now that we’re nearing his house, we’re out of time.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m assuming you didn’t come here without thinking about what to do or say,” he explains. “So, what’s the plan?”
I consider his question. I hadn’t realized I came with a game plan until he asked. It may not be a decent plan, but I didn’t come here without all the possible scenarios playing out in my head.
The one plan that’s been coming to the forefront of my mind is to talk to Kendall.
Just talk to her. That’s all I can do. I can get on my knees and beg for her forgiveness. I can buy her a hundred dozen roses or send a barbershop quartet, but none of that will do any good. We need to talk. Yell at each other, cry with each other, maybe even throw things at each other. I don’t know. We need to communicate in some way or form. And I need to listen.
“I think I’m going to talk to her.”
He nods. Somewhere in the back of his hatchback trunk, I hear the wine bottles clink, rolling along the felt lined surface.The radio wanes into another song, the end of one I wasn’t even paying attention to going silent. The engine purrs with a low chug as he slows to make a turn, the final one before we finally see his house. “Yeah, I think that might be a good idea.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Kendall
THEN
I rememberwhen I started first grade, my mom braided my hair into two pigtails and tied purple ribbons at the end. I had a somewhat concerning obsession with the color purple from the ages of six to eight, and I remember how excited I was that she got them for me. We went to some accessory store the weekend before the first day of school—the kind that sells those BFF necklaces with a crack down the middle, and you and your best friend each get one side of the heart—and I begged her for those purple bows. Apparently, I had zero interest in forming a bond with a friend through metallic jewelry made with epoxy paint. But purple bows? That was all the rage. When she obliged, I told her she was the best mom in the whole world.
