Page 10 of The Unraveling

A small smile plays at the corner of his lips. He used to be able to smile like that and any anger I had would just evaporate.

Not tonight.

“What are you fucking smiling at?” I seethe.

“It’s just…you’re clearly not mad at me. This isn’t about me or ballet.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

I turn, my back to him again. I bite the filter of the cigarette and work on getting the bottle of wine open.

“Jocelyn, please don’t say fuck you to me. Don’t stomp around here calling me an idiot and saying fuck you. I get it, you’re mad. You’re upset. You just found out—”

“I can say whatever I want,” I say, my syllables muddy from the object in my mouth. His calm, sweet way of treating me makes me want to scream at him more. I want him to stop being so nice so I have something to yell at.

“Yeah, but could you not?” he implores.

“You’re treating me like I’m a fucking child. Or like I’m sick or dying or—ugh!” I struggle with the bottle and finally it pops open. “Every time I look at you, you’re staring at me, you watch me like I’m a—a—fuck, I don’t know, it’s like you’re waiting for me to explode. I feel like you want me to, you want me to break so you can clean me up.”

He’s not even acting like I’m a child. I’m acting like a child, and I’m afraid he knows it. I know he knows it.

I march out of the kitchen and into the living room.

There’s a light blue velvet sofa and a coffee table full of magazines and books we’re both halfway through. We used to light candles and pour wine, entangle our legs, and read together.

Massive canvases lean against every wall. And above the old, gorgeous mantel, there is a painting of me. Not that you’d know it if Jordan didn’t tell you, since his style is abstract.

It’s all done in tones of white, some with a tint of blue, some with a tint of red, some purple. He said the lines were gestural and that this painting is what it looks like to him when I dance. There’s an elegance and grace to it.

I love it. Or I did. Now I hate everything.

He stands across the room, leaning against the doorframe, still halfway between the kitchen and the living room.

“What?” I ask.

“This is just getting to be too much.” His lips form a tight line.

I pause, stunned. It feels like a searing hot poker going through my chest.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say, instead of finding contrition.

“It’s like this every night lately.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” I say, like he’s the crazy one. “You’re the one who can’t stop doing…” I gesture at him. “Whatever this is.”

“Honey, your mom died. You think that has nothing to do with all this? That I’m suddenly some monster making your life harder, instead of the fact that maybe you’re just not okay right now and things are harder because of it? Your mom died. It’s hard.”

I say nothing for a moment, unwilling to burst into tears, insistent upon staying on my angry, seething high horse. Then I say, “Yeah? I mean, I know that?”

He’s patient. “I think you might be feeling some guilt for not going to the hospital. I think it’s time to acknowledge what happened and start trying to address the pain instead of pretending—”

“What the fuck, Jordan. I hated my mom,” I say, angrily. “Or do you not remember that because you don’t listen?”

It’s actually impressive what a raging bitch I’m being. Some part of me inside is still sane and normal, hearing myself like I’m someone else. I would dump me, I mean, Jesus.

Even in my state, I can hear how ungodly nasty I’m being.

“Even if you hated her, it doesn’t mean it’s not painful. There are still feelings there, baby.”

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