Page 20 of The Marriage Game

“Don’t bring it on my account.” I pull a pair of silk pajama pants from a drawer, slamming it a little too hard on the close. “I really couldn’t care less whether you bring the hat or not. If you want to come home with a wicked sunburn because you didn’t shade your face from the sun, that’s your call.”

“Okay well if you really don’t care, then I won’t bring it. I brought sunscreen, so I’m covered there. There’s no way I could fit that hat in my carryon anyway.”

I repress a groan. Max and his insistence on never checking bags. Heaven forbid we have to waste ten minutes of our lives going down to baggage claim. Drat. I’m definitely going to have to reconfigure some things to downsize my own luggage to a carryon.

“It’s settled then,” I inject as much breeziness into my voice as possible, “you’re not bringing your hat and boots.”

“Boots? You got boots too?”

I whirl around in exasperation. “Yes, I got boots, Max. Didn’t you look at the list I made you? Cowboy boots were on the list.” My voice rises in tandem with my irritation; irritation thatI can privately admit may have more to do with Max’s lack of appreciation for my cowgirl flirting than his disinterest in wearing a cowboy hat of his own.

But I will never admit this out loud.

He should be smart enough to figure it out by himself.

“Wow, sorry.” Max holds his hands up like I’ve got a gun aimed at him or something. “I figured since we decided to go so last minute we’d have to forego the matching western wear.”

“I never said your boots and hats match mine,” I protest.

“But they do,” he counters.

Honestly, the gall of the man. I hate that he knows me so well. Maybe if we weren’t fighting it would be sweet that he can predict my behavior, but as things stand I just feel boring. Like a book he’s read so many times there’s not a single plot twist left to uncover. Worse, he may soon start to spot some plotholes.

“Fine,” I huff, “they do match. You caught me.”

Max sighs, taking a hand through his hair. Despite being 45, he still has a thick head of dark hair. Sure it’s graying a bit around the edges, but I like the way this looks on him. Aging suits him so much better than it does me.

“Look, Jill, I love you, but c’mon, can we please be done with the matching stuff? I’ll bring the boots this time, but seriously—do we have to do matching Christmas pajamas and coordinated Halloween costumes and have the color of my ties match your dresses at all black tie functions?”

I bristle. His words sting me far more than I want to let on, so I cling to anger hoping it hides my hurt.

“Well excuse me for trying to present us as a united front to your constituency, Max,” I seethe. “I promise for your attorney general campaign I’ll take a more laid back approach. Perhaps forego the formal wear entirely. Tell me, is it a problem if your tie matches my pajamas?” I yank demonstratively on the fabric of my pants.

“If you’re going to be irrational, then I’m not going to have this conversation.”

“Irrational? Irrational?” I repeat the word at a high-pitched volume that unfortunately undermines my attempt to seem very rational. “You think I’m irrational?”

“No,” Max says slowly, like I’m an idiot. “I said you werebeingirrational, not that youareirrational.”

“I’m flattered by the distinction,” I say dryly.

“Jill.” Max sounds tired and a spasm of guilt shutters through me. I’m being too hard on him. He did just rearrange his entire work schedule so he could go on this retreat with me. So he doesn’t want to wear the boots and the hat. Nor does he seem interested in me wearing them. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me or that he’s not attracted to me. Maybe cowgirls just aren’t his thing. He’s certainly never given me any indication that they are. Even when I was in my prime beauty years, he used to always say his favorite look of mine was jeans and a t-shirt. So why am I trying to upset the status quo?

Because, a small voice whispers,I’m afraid the status quo isn’t enough anymore. Where did all the romance go? That wild, intense can’t-live-without-you feeling that so heavily marked the beginning of our relationship?

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly before I can get lost in dwelling on everything our marriage is lacking. For the second time in as many days I’m left wondering how we went from me feeling flirty with Max to the two of us fighting. “Let’s just forget about this whole conversation, okay? I started my period today—I think it’s making me irritable.”

“Oh.” Understanding dawns on Max’s face, just like I knew it would. Guess I’m not the only predictable one. Max is always more forgiving if I mention anything about my period. “Right. Your period. Yeah, let’s just forget about it. Wipe the slate clean.”He makes a circular erasing motion with his hand. “I’d better get back to work,” he adds and I nod.

“Sure, go ahead.” He steps forward and kisses me softly on the forehead before exiting the closet.

I watch him go, unable to shake the despair that settles over me at the way my husband just kissed me like I was a child he was putting to bed.

Chapter 8

Jill

Sofarthistripis not going well. First, we got to the airport late because Max was up so late working that he had trouble getting out of bed. Or at least that’s what he said. I know the truth: Max hates getting to the airport early. He says it’s a waste of time. We almost missed our flight to Hawaii for our honeymoon because of this, which was fine then because we were newlyweds and delusional enough to think getting stuck in an airport together would be romantic. Everything was romantic back then.

---