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“I think it’s not nothing.”
“It indeed is very much nothing.”
“I think it indeed is very much not.”
“For the love of god,” he growls. “It’s nothing.”
“For the love of god, it’s something,” I push.
“It’s going to be something if you don’t stop with this.”
I clamp my mouth shut. Okay, so maybe I don’t want to make things worse. There’s an art to arguing with one’s spouse, and I’m pretty sure my parents would tell me it involves tact and admitting defeat once in a while.
We’re silent until we get out onto the highway, and then I notice for sure that Leon’s eyes are squinted, and his brows are drawing further and further inward. It’s not just his jaw that’s clenched now. There are several veins in his forehead trying to extricate themselves from his body, leaping violently just under the skin.
“I think you should pull over. I can drive.”
“No.”
“I think that…that I…have to pee. And I need to pee now.”
“Jesus.” Leon looks panicked. His eyes scan the flashing countryside, which is basically just ditch and a lot of nothing at this point. “There aren’t any service stations for miles.”
“Yeah, that’s why the side of the road is fine.”
“I’m not going to let you pee at the side of the road. It’s the highway! We could get sideswiped. It’s dangerous! Why didn’t you go before you left the house?”
Instead of sassing him with ayes,momstatement, I cross my arms and come clean. “Fine. I don’t actually have to pee. But you do need to pull over and let me drive. You’re not okay, and whatever’s going on, it’s hurting you. You can sit back and close your eyes for the rest of the drive, and I’ll get us there just fine. I promise. I know the way since I’ve been there a thousand times. You haven’t. It’s safer if I drive. And also, I know all about the gravel back roads and how to navigate them to minimize stone chip damage. Your car has a very nice paint job. It would really suck to mess with that.”
Silence. It’s so thick and oppressive that it might as well have grown eight legs and turned into a really creepy silence spider that is going to jump at us and swallow us whole.
“You know what they say about pride,” I push, pressing my luck big time.
“That it comes before a fall,” he snorts, clearly beyond annoyed now.
“No. That it comes before driving us off the road to a certain ball of flaming, fiery death.”
“Fine!” Leon slows down when there isn’t anyone behind us and pulls the car over. He turns on the hazards, and I’m a little astounded that he agreed. I’m not even going to think about that. He must be in serious pain if he’s letting me do this.
Why can’t he just tell me? I know a lot of people think the person they married is a stranger, but in this case, it’s true. I might have worked with him for a year, but I really don’t know anything about him. I didn’t even know he had a sister or that his house was all nice, cozy, and normal with pretty paintings and comfortable-looking furniture in it.
I’m pretty sure I kept the glimmer of hope out of my eyes this morning when it came to us getting fake married and the kiss the bride part, but I can’t keep the hope out of my eyes now. After we switch seats and are back on the road, Leon calls me out on it.
“Your eyes look funny.”
Takes one to know one. Maybe. Does this apply? His eyes don’t really look that funny. Not all the time. He’s too good at hiding it.“Funny how?” I actually check the rearview mirror quickly to see what he might see, but there’s nothing there. No smudged mascara or anything.
“They have something glowing in them.”
“That’s just…the reflection of cars passing. And what’s up with yours? As your wife, shouldn’t I know these things? Also, as your assistant, shouldn’t I know these things?”
“No.” And that’s the end of that discussion.
Bum stick one. Darby zero.
It stays that way for the rest of the drive. Honestly, I’m more worried about making good on what I said and taking care of the paint job on the shiny, cherry apply red car than I am about trying to find the right thing to say. We have a week here. A whole week.Together. I’m sure it will come to me during that time, and no, I don’t have a bunch of silly butterflies in the pit of my stomach or lights shining in my eyes or whatever. I know this isn’t real. Leon isn’t really my husband. Okay, well, maybe he legally is, but he doesn’t want to be. He’s not in this marriage by choice, and he doesn’t think I am either.
Except he’d be wrong. He’d be so freaking wrong.
