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It only took one direct message to sabotage my peace of mind.
I don’t know what I’m running from or running to. I just need to run. I’ve run from one end of the beach to the other. One side is bordered by harrowing steep cliffs and the other by rocks and tall dunes that disperse into dense jungle. Where am I going?
If a cruise ship would come by, I would signal for help. If I had any energy to care anymore, that is.
No one wants to be greeted with terrible news when checking a silly social media account. But the source of that news was…simply the wrong person.
People always say don’t shoot the messenger, but have you ever had a messenger shoot at you?
Gods, I’m so mixed up now, I can’t see straight.
The run doesn’t help; it only makes me angry.
“You still look like something is bothering you,” Etienne says, catching up to me on my tenth lap of the beach.
“It’s nothing.”
I’m not talking to him about this when he’s been drinking.
“What have I said wrong now?”
I want to stop in my tracks and let him have it. But I’m still upset and not thinking straight. I need him to be sober before I talk to him again. I like the attentive Etienne, but not while he’s drunk. It was fun in the car after our wedding when he’d moved heaven and earth to buy me cake. But that was one occasion.
Here is where the rubber hits the road in marriage and friendship—and I don’t think either of us is mature enough to handle it.
I need him to leave me alone, and with that in mind, I say something that comes out much more hurtful than intended.
“Not every one of my grievances revolves around you, Etienne. Sometimes I think about my own problems.”
I instantly regret it, but his reaction is surprisingly amused.
“You have problems other than being married to me? Do tell.”
He’s having trouble keeping up with my pace. There’s one way to sober him up; I can run him ragged.
“Oh, please. You don’t want to hear about it.”
“Try me.”
As I approach, a family of birds skitter away from me on the hard-packed sand.
“Please, darling.”
Do I really want to tell him?
Yes, I suppose I do.
For once, other than while in bed—his use of “darling” feels sincere.
I hesitate a moment longer, wondering if Etienne will remember anything I tell him tomorrow.
Would that be so bad? If he remembered nothing?
So I find myself spilling all of it.
“Have you ever been told some horrible news by the wrong person? And you find yourself so incensed that you can’t process the horrible news?”
I pause, knowing how nuts I sound.
