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“Do you really think so little of me?” His insistence appears almost genuine, like I’ve actually hurt his feelings. I won’t be fooled. We’ve been down this road several times. I hold my ground without answering him. He sighs. “I told you before; I’m done with other girls. You’re it for me, but I’m under a ton of pressure at the firm to be the best attorney. I’ve had five new cases dumped in my lap. Being an associate sucks. If I want to make partner, I have to devote every second of my life to my cases, and it’s not fair to you.”
I stare at him for a moment unsure of how to respond. All this pressure he feels comes from his father. Wyatt wasn’t even sure if he wanted to be an attorney. I’m not convinced he actually wants to make partner. What he wants is to please his daddy, but none of that is relevant to my feelings. He’s deflecting.
I thrust my hands onto my hips to avoid talking with them. Wyatt hates it when I do. There I go again, making an effort to please him. To behave as he expects. I huff, gesturing wildly with my hands for effect, which feels surprisingly liberating.
“Did you ever think I can decide what’s fair for me?”
He shakes head with an earnest expression. “No, I guess I didn’t.”
His answer, although expected, makes me feel small. My boyfriend blatantly admitted he doesn’t consider my feelings. Yet, I’m still woefully hoping to salvage our relationship.
Am I so brainwashed by my parents that I can’t see I deserve more? That I deserve to feel beautiful, and cherished by the man I want to spend my life with? Or am I desperately holding on to what we used to have?
The idea of ending our relationship for good scares me. I struggle with the is the grass greener concept.
What if I leave Wyatt, only to end up with someone who treats me much worse? What if I’m miserable without him?
Thinking about not being with him twists my stomach into a tight knot. I peer up at him, trying not to show how much he’s hurt me. “What’s fair to me is not havin’ my boyfriend ask for a break once a month.”
He reaches for my hand, but the look on his face makes me back up before he touches me. The condescending sneer always appears when he thinks I’m being ridiculous. He usually follows with a comment about me being psycho or crazy, which I loathe, mostly because there have been times when I’ve questioned my sanity. Times he’s made me feel crazy.
Right on cue, he says, “Faye, you’re actin’ crazy. I have to go to Chicago for a few weeks to work on a case, and I leave in the mornin’. Please, you need to understand before I go.”
I silently repeat, “I’m not crazy,” several times before I speak. “Wait. I thought your trip wasn’t until next week?”
“It was pushed up. My flight leaves at five forty-five tomorrow mornin’.” This time when he reaches for my hand, I let him take it, seeking some kind of reassurance that our relationship isn’t completely broken. He brings my hand to his chest, holding it tenderly as I cling to the hope that he’ll change his mind. “Look, I know it’s selfish, but I need a break. This case could launch my career. I have to win, and I can’t be distracted.”
“So now I’m a distraction? Wow!” I shout, ripping my hand away as my hope for our future diminishes.
That’s a new one. Not that I haven’t felt confused about his feelings. Most days, I feel like I’m more a means of entertainment than his girlfriend—a recreational activity he enjoys one day a weekend. Hearing the words spoken by him hurts much worse than it did when I only assumed he felt preoccupied by me.
A frustrated growl erupts from his chest as he throws his hands up. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Maybe not, but you said it.” I stop myself from adding, “And it hurt like hell.”
“I’m sorry,” he sighs, his eyes lowering to the floor. “I need to put my career first while I’m young.”
“Not helpin’,” I say calmly, turning my back to him. I want him to put me first. I want to feel like I’m a priority in his life. I want him to need me. Why can’t he see that? And why can’t I see he doesn’t want to?
When he yanks on my arm, I spin back around with my head down to avoid the chance his puppy-dog eyes will coerce me. His fingers push up on the bottom of my chin, coaxing me to make eye contact. The anger flowing through my veins provides me with the strength I need to refuse him. I won’t cave. No this time.
“Someday you’re gonna be my wife. We’re gonna have kids. I want a solid foundation before we’re married, so I can provide for my family, take vacations, and spend time with you. If we sacrifice now, it’s better for our future. Can’t you see that?”
I lift my head, trying to smile, but my lips press flat as I realize he said exactly what I wanted to hear, like he always does. “I can see clear as day, but I’m not sure I can believe it. A wife is someone who can be there to get you through the struggles. I can be there. If you let me.”
“Please try to understand. I’m under immense pressure. I feel like I’m gonna snap. Give me a little time.”
The guilt I usually feel after he turns the tables on me begins to surface. Only with it comes a sense of dread, an overwhelming feeling that if I don’t stand my ground, I’m doomed to be miserable for the rest of my life. No. I’m done. I stuff the contrition down, determined to keep it buried.
“I’m not gonna sit around and have no life until you decide you’re ready to start our life together. I’ve put up with a lot, but I’m not a complete pushover.”
“I’m not askin’ for a long time.”
“But you are askin’?”
He frowns, before walking quietly to the door. “I’ll call you later.”
I don’t want a phone call. I want love and commitment, and all of his promises. I want actions over words. The time has come when I can no longer pretend I’m happy. I have to be a stronger person for my own sanity.
