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Alex folds his arms in front of his chest, hands sliding over his biceps. Then he deliberately turns his head away and mumbles something.
He knows that drives me crazy.
“What?” It's like talking to a kid. “Did you say something?”
He shrugs. “Doesn't matter.”
I'm nothing if not persistent. “What did you say?” I demand.
A long, deep sigh. “What I said, Lara, is that you're the one with the personality disorder.”
What the hell?
I sit there for a moment, stunned. I know he's drunk, and high, but that's not a free pass to being an asshole. I can't deny there's a part of me that is really hurt by his comment, by the tiny truth inside that stings. Yes, I have changed since having Max. I found it really bloody hard at first, and suffered from the baby blues. But who doesn't change? Babies are supposed to do that to you.
Not that Alex has got the memo. His life has gone on pretty much in the way it always has. Work, the band, drinking, smoking. I'm struggling to think of one thing he's had to give up since becoming a dad.
“Fuck you.” It comes out louder than I intend it to. “I can't believe you said that.”
“If the cap fits, baby.”
I want to shove the cap up his behind. “Rather than criticise me, maybe you should take a good look at yourself. Twenty-nine years old yet still a big bloody kid. Your mum has a lot to answer for.”
“Leave my mum out of it,” he warns. “She's been nothing but nice to you.”
“If she was nice she'd have taught you how to cook, or iron, or told you that a toilet doesn't magically clean itself. But no, she pampers you and makes your tea and thinks the sun shines out of your arse.” Oh, I'm on a roll now. All those little things we swallow down when things are good have a tendency to rise up when the water gets murky. Tiny irritations, mini-judgements, they're all stewing in my thoughts.
“I can cook a fucking meal. Stop moaning about how hard you have it; what the fuck do you do at home all day anyway? While I'm bringing home the money so you can put your fucking feet up?” He's leaning forward, elbows on his knees. There's a mean twist to his lips that both frightens and exhilarates me.
“I'm bringing home maternity pay. And I'll be back at work in a couple of weeks, leaving our baby in a nursery for someone else to look after. Because I can't afford to do anything else.” Angry tears sting at my eyes. “So don't you ever have a go at me about money; I'm bringing in more than my share.” I hate the way I can feel my lip trembling. Not because I'm sad but because I'm angry. Fury has always made my eyes water.
“It's all my fucking fault is it? Poor Lara, having to get a bloody job because her husband's inadequate. Did you ever think that if weren’t for you and Max I might actually be out there making something of myself? That we could really make a go of the band if I didn't have to work on some shitty building yard all day so we can afford our bloody rent?” He's actually shouting now.
“Well, I'm so fucking sorry we're holding you back.” I don't swear that much, but it slips out, lubricated by ire. “Max is your baby too, you know.”
“You're the one who wanted him in the first place, not me.”
I'm breathless. Stunned. What a truly horrible thing to say. The tears that fall down my cheeks aren't from anger anymore. Shock, maybe, sadness for sure. I close my eyes and more tears squeeze out, hot and fat as they roll. And though I cover my dry mouth with the palm of my hand, a sob still manages to escape.
“Lara?” His voice is quieter, anxious. “Babe? I didn't mean it. You know I love Maxie. I'd kill for him. He's the love of my life, apart from you.” My eyes are still squeezed shut, but I hear him approach, the thud of the floorboards as he kneels beside me. He takes the hand that isn't clutching my mouth and sandwiches it between his own. “I'm sorry, I'm such a wanker. I know how hard going back to work is for you. It's killing me to see you so upset.” He cups my face, wiping away my tears. “Please don't cry, baby.”
How can my mouth be so dry when my face is soaked? I take a deep breath, opening my eyes, and through the blurry haze I see his concerned expression. He leans closer, kissing the tears from my cheeks, his lips soft against my skin. “I love you, and I love Max,” he murmurs against me. “You know that, right?”
Shakily, I nod my head. I do know that. I'm also grown up enough to understand we don't always mean the words we say in anger. But, I can't help feeling there's a small kernel of truth there, a festering resentment that we are a burden he has to carry. I hate the way motherhood has made me feel so vulnerable. I'm able to take it when people hurt and attack me, but not my baby. Not Max.
“I'll lay off the joints, I promise.” More kisses. “I know it annoys you so I'll try not to do it.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, my voice croaky.
He kisses me again, this time on the mouth, his hands pressed to my cheeks. My lips are cracked, but moistened by tears, and when I kiss him back I taste their saltiness. It mingles with the flavour of beer and smoke, the mixture filling my head with memories of our argument, of the way we both hurt each other.
“I'm sorry.”
“I'm so fucking sorry, baby.”
We say it in tandem,
lips moving as we whisper into each other's mouths. My whole body relaxes, the tension disappearing from my muscles, and I melt into him as he holds me. Though his kisses are hard and fast, that's all they are, kisses. Not a prelude to making-up sex, or an angry roll, simply soft and sweet and everything I need.
