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“You grew up in that church. You and I know what the people want. That’s all it takes,” he pleaded as we stood next to the car. “And we can pay for you to go to graduate school again—get an MBA this time.”
“It’s a big undertaking.”
“You ever think maybe you got more to offer the world than just teaching some badass kids how to sing? Like maybe there was something else out there for you?”
In true Jethro, Jr style, he was tunneling into me now. Digging so deep that his insults rang with a kind of honesty that made me second-guess my own feelings.
“Your place is in the church, Journey,” he added. “Don’t forget it.”
Chapter Five
The ride home from my dinner celebration was so quiet that I could hear the loose gravel on the road skeet beneath the tires and pop up against the bottom of the car as Evan and I drove along. The grainy bursts reminded me of the hits I’d been taking all evening at my birthday celebration.
I was no fool. I knew Jr was just trying to twist up my thoughts to get his way, but I kept thinking maybe in his errors there was something correct. Maybe he was right. Maybe I couldn’t sing because I hadn’t been singing. Not outside of my classroom. Then I started thinking about why I’d left the choir in the first place. I said I wanted to focus on my students. It was true, but really, right before I left, I just kept feeling like I’d done everything I could do for the choir. It had been twenty years. I was ready to move on. But to what? Shifting things around in my purse, my eyes went from the empty passport to the empty notepad. Even thinking I could make up the next step hadn’t helped me find one.
It might’ve helped if I could talk to someone about these questions that were pitching against my brain, but Billie was so busy getting over Clyde and sometimes talking to my mother seemed impossible—she was so caught up in the things she wanted for my life. Then there was my perfect husband—the other person I was taking hits from all night, who was sitting next to me in silence.
I was still reeling from what he told my parents at dinner and I had nothing to say to him.
Evan hadn’t necessarily been in rare form. His desire to be in the good favor of my father usually led to him agreeing with my father’s constant hovering and dictation over my life. But he’d had some nerve twisting my words in front of my parents and making it seem as if we’d discussed and agreed to something he knew full well I said I needed more time with.
By the time we neared our house and Evan turned onto the dark, winding half-mile road that led to the driveway, I realized that my silence wasn’t being refuted. In fact, it was becoming clear that Evan wasn’t speaking to me either. As we swung into the driveway, I noticed that he hadn’t turned on the radio, opened the windows, or even let down the top—as he usually did during these warmer spring nights. Disgusted that he could be playing upset when I was the one with reason to be on edge, I rolled my eyes and looked to him as he turned off the car. His face was tight and dismissive. He saw my glare, but he only slid the key from the ignition and opened his door, letting out an exaggerated groan.
“Okay, then,” I said, still sitting in my seat as I waited for him to dare not come open my door. I was ready to fight. Not only had he discounted my feelings, but now he had the nerve to downplay my position by having his own. This was typical Evan. In any situation, he had to be the center of attention. Even the attention he gave on his own seemed to come with a price tag.
I sat and watched as he walked slowly and methodically from his door and then over to mine, taking his time as if helping me had now become a chore.
“So, you didn’t want to open the door for me?” I asked.
“Don’t start,” he said gruffly. “I just want to get in the house and go to bed. I don’t want to argue.”
He slammed the door behind me and headed quickly toward the house. I knew what he was doing. He wanted to let my anger roll away in the middle of the night and then wake up in the morning cheeryfaced and smiling, as if nothing had happened. Like my brother and any other man who ever tried to close a conversation by saying, “I don’t want to argue,” he meant he wanted to avoid a confrontation and quietly get his way. But it was too late for that. My birthday had already been ruined and I was ready to fight.
“I want to talk about what happened.”
“Journey, I’m tired and if I was slow opening your door, I’m sorry.”
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about how you acted in front of my parents,” I blurted out, charging behind him into the house. “You spoke for me like ... like ... it’s the Middle Ages or something.”
“Don’t overreact. No one was trying to speak for you. I was just answering their questions.” His voice sounded more pained and stressed with each word. He was trying to make developing an explanation for my questions seem like work, so I would appear more ridiculous. Like I was being irrational.
“Don’t patronize me. You know what I mean, Evan. You know I never said I was ready to have a baby. I said we could talk about it this summer. Not go ahead and get pregnant. That’s a big step. We need to figure it out.”
“A big step? Figure it out?” His voice grew loud and echoed up and down the stairs in the middle of the vestibule. “Do you see this?” He raised his hands and turned around, looking at the house. “Do you see our lives? We’re married. Are you going somewhere? Do you plan on going somewhere? What do you think is out there? Somebody else? Something better?” He walked over to me and stared into my eyes. “’Cause I know ain’t no man gonna love you like I can. I’m not going anywhere and if you’re not”—he put his arms around my waist—“there’s nothing else to figure out. Let’s not fight about it.”
I heard everything Evan was saying and it made perfect sense, but I wanted more time and I couldn’t find another way of explaining it to him.
“It’s more than that,” I said.
Evan dropped his hands and turned his back to me. He was quiet and he raised his hand to wipe his face.
“What more do you want from me?” he asked, his voice helpless and broken. “I’m a good husband. A good provider.” He turned to face me. “I come home every night. I don’t cheat on you. Never have. Not in twenty-five years. Never.” He came closer and I could see tears in his eyes. “I haven’t tried to do anything but love you and make you happy. Provide a life for us. I waited ten years just to be your husband. I promised you I’d give you everything and you have it. Why can’t you just do this for me?”
He looked at me and as we stood there quietly, motionless, I watched as his chest just sank in. Seemingly crushed, he slowly pulled off his tie and walked up the spiral staircase to our bedroom.
Lying in bed beside Evan, his back twisted tight and his face pointed away from me, I struggled hard to keep my position. But I was hurting now. The anger inside of me began to lessen as I suffered Evan’s pain. My feelings aside, I knew Evan was a good man. He was right. He was a great husband and I didn’t want to hurt him.
From my side of our king-sized, four-poster bed, my thoughts drifted to the beginning of my relationship with Evan. Before the pressure and everybody’s opinions. Before we could even imagine sleeping in a bed together, in a house that was our own, in a town that we’d sworn was too small to ever consider for forever.
