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Even worse, I can feel my anger reflecting back at him. It’s in the set of my mouth, in the furrow of my brow. We stand here, more combatants than lovers, each waiting for the other to strike the final blow. I don’t even know if I have it in me anymore. There’s nothing I want more than to curl up into a ball and pull a blanket over me, hiding until the storm passes. But it’s too late to batten down the hatches, the rain’s already flooding in.
“Sometimes I don’t know you at all.” His voice is calm, maybe too calm. “I’m looking at you and wondering who the hell you are. Because you sure as hell aren't the girl I married.”
It hurts as much as the first time he said it; more, probably. Because now I know he really means it. The rejection slaps me right in the face, stinging me. I have to bite at my lips to stifle another sob, but my chest hitches anyway.
“Fuck you.” Though I say it quietly, I’m screaming inside. “Even if I’ve changed it doesn’t make me wrong.”
“It makes you selfish, though.” With these final words he slays me.
I close in on myself, trying to dry my tears with angry hands. Then I turn away, because it hurts too much to look at him anymore.
“Then piss off and leave me alone. I’m clearly holding you back and making you miserable.” I turn and leave, holding onto a thin layer of sanity with my fingernails. It hurts to talk, to blink, to breathe. Every movement is excruciating. Yet somehow I walk away.
“Lara?” He sounds uncertain. I wait for him to say something else. I’m still waiting when I walk into our bedroom, and when I throw myself on the bed. Still listening as I curl myself up into a tight, anxious ball.
I wait and nothing comes. Only the sound of a guitar case being zipped, followed by loud footsteps across the living room floor. When I hear the front door slam shut, my whole body stiffens, my mouth falling open into a single, silent scream.
* * *
I hardly sleep that night. As soon as I start to doze off, Max wakes himself up coughing, the hacking turning into throaty sobs as he realises how poorly he feels. So I end up bringing him into bed with me, letting him settle on my chest, his s
kin hot and clammy as it touches mine. Even when he falls back to sleep he cries softly, and I bend into him, sobbing too.
I don't think I've cried this much since my mum died seven years ago. That's how it feels, as if I'm mourning something. Not the death of my marriage, that's taking it too far; I'm mourning the life I thought I'd have, the slow suffocation of my dreams, as the hopeless optimism inside me takes it's final, rattling breath.
It was meant to be easy, it was Alex and me against the world. When two turned into three we were supposed to become this perfect little unit, walking hand in hand towards a peachy-orange horizon, confident in our happily ever after.
But it doesn't work that way. Instead, I'm alone with a poorly baby, the bed noticeably empty on Alex's side. He hasn't called or texted to tell me where he is. Not that I've tried calling him, either. Because as sad as I am, I'm still angry, too, and the two emotions have fused together, planting ugly thoughts in my mind. Ones where he doesn't give a shit, just disappears and pursues his dreams, leaving Max and me behind like rubbish blowing in the breeze.
The anxiety leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I've had insomnia before, I know the crippling effects of free-floating anxiety, yet I'm still unable to rationalise the fears that wrap around my chest.
No matter how angry I am, I still miss him and the reassuring cadence of his breath close to my ear as I feel the warmth spread over my skin. I wonder where he is, if he's sleeping now. Whether he is feeling the slightest bit guilty about leaving Max and me.
Simply thinking about him again makes me cry harder, so I bury my face in Max's soft, chubby neck, comforting him, taking comfort in return. That's how we pass the night, in a miserable cocoon, our faces wet, and our throats dry.
* * *
“Are you okay?” Holly, Max's nursery care worker, asks as I hand him over, dropping his bag and dummy in the process. I scramble around the floor, trying not to catch her eye, coughing loudly as if to fool her.
“I think I might have caught Max's cold. My eyes have been watering all night.” It's a lie, of course, but there's no way I'm going to break down and admit everything in the middle of Rainbow Nursery. Even at my lowest, I have some standards.
“Oh no, poor you.” She swings Max onto her hip, and miracle of miracles he doesn't start crying. He seems so much better than last night, which is good, because I feel ten times worse. “There's definitely something going round. Make sure you drink lots of fluids.”
I'm five years older than Holly, but I find myself agreeing as if she's a kindly aunt. “I'll slump in my chair and hope for the best,” I tell her. Today I plan on being a listener. A really good listener. And maybe if I'm lucky, I'll be able to put my problems into perspective. Other people's tragedies tend to have that effect on me.
By the time I get to work that morning, my limbs feel achy and sore. And though I'm lightheaded, my body feels weighed down, as if I'm trying to wade through a river full of mud. On top of everything else, I'm still on the edge of tears. As much as I try not to, I can't help thinking of Alex and the way he left last night. Our argument replays in my head on a loop, making me question my perceptions and wonder why I was so antagonistic.
It isn't him. It isn't me. It's us. Somehow we've got into this spiral of shouting first and thinking second. The red mist descends and blinds us both.
“Lara?” I hear Elaine calling me from her office. She's standing by the door, running a hand through her frizzy grey bob, making it puff up even more than usual. When I catch her eye, her forehead creases like an accordion and I'm thinking don't ask, don't ask, don't ask.
“Are you okay?”
Ugh, of course she asks anyway. Of all people, Elaine should know the effect that question has. It melts away the tenuous hold I had on my emotions, allowing them to gush out, drowning me in their wake.
“I’m fi...” That's all I get out before everything collapses. The next thing I know she's gently guiding me into her office, her arm around my waist. She smells like coffee and roses, and for some reason that makes me cry harder. When she pulls out her chair, I sit down automatically, my head dropping.
She doesn't ask questions, she doesn't say anything. Instead she leaves the room, leaving me be for five minutes, coming back with a mug of steaming tea. Lifting it with a shaky hand, I let the brown liquid scald my lips. It's sweet, much more so than I'd normally like.
