Page 29 of The Marriage Game

“Dear, I spent over three hours on an airplane with you and during that time I observed you tell the stewardess that she had a stray piece of hair crossing the part of her hair, fiddle with the clasp of your tray table until it was perfectly straight, and use the lint roller that you brought in your purse on yourself not once, not twice, but three times. Not to mention, when you got out said lint roller I caught a glimpse of the inside of your purse and Marie Kondo would’ve been jealous of the level of organization in there. I study people for a living—therapists are sociologists in many ways, you know—and you, my dear, are aperfectionist.” She concludes this speech with a nod to my hands which somehow folded themselves in my lap.

I honestly don’t remember putting them there.

But, you know, when someone is speaking itispolite to give them your undivided attention.

Even if they are striking nerves you’d very much prefer not to have stricken…or struck. Gosh, how annoying that struck is the grammatically correct choice but stricken sounds far more dramatic and satisfying. Still, grammar is more important than drama.

“I know you think you have me all figured out,” I say slowly, “but I am 40-years-old. I don’t think talking about my childhood is relevant.”

“I didn’t say anything about your childhood,” Dorothy muses.

“Oh. Right.” I flounder. The childhood stuff was all me and my chaotic inner dialogue. “Well, good, because none of it relates to my life now, or my marriage, for that matter.” I clear my throat and get to my feet. “Speaking of which—thank you for the use of your room, but now I need to go find my husband and fix this before we have to be a happy couple at the welcome reception.”

Dorothy’s subtle eyebrow raise at my words irks me as I head to the door, making me regret my phrasing. Obviously I want to make up with Max for reasons other than our public persona, the reception is just the reason for the time crunch.

I fumble through the door, annoyed that moving all of our rolling suitcases and personal items makes my exit lengthy.

Mercifully Dorothy and Mick don’t say anything more to me. Mick just comes and holds the door so I can get everything out.

“Thank you,” I say primly once I’m in the hallway. Mick nods then I whirl around and wheel everything across the hall to our actual room. 313, instead of 312.

Once I’ve gotten everything inside I lean back against the door and take a few deep breaths. Max is gone. I take out my phone and call him.

No answer.

Tears spark my eyes once again as fear grips my heart. He’s going to forgive me—isn’t he? We’ll get through this. It’s not like he’s off somewhere googling divorce lawyers just because I don’t want him to run for attorney general…and was going to purposefully see to it that he lost. Yikes.

But the point is: I never actually did anything to sabotage him.

And sure Jesus said that to look at someone with lust is to commit adultery with them in your heart, and by that logic my plans for sabotage are as bad as actions—but then again, I think it was only a couple of verses later that he said to gouge your right eye out if it causes you to sin. And there are a lot of men walking around with both eyes intact who I’m guessing have had a lustful thought or two, that’s all I’m saying. Jesus knew how to use hyperbole to drive a point home.

Also Jesus was not big on divorce. Another important point. One Max and I have always felt strongly about. Surely Max isn’t going to abandon his religious convictions because of one fight. Or all of the other smaller fights that led up to it. Or the feelings of resentment and irritation that seem to constantly be brewing beneath the surface between us of late. Or the complete lack of romance in our relationship.

Yeah, how could he ever think about divorcing me when we have all of that going for us?

A rhetorical question if ever there was one.

Some wicked part of my brain takes over then, and before I can grab hold of the thoughts and take them captive to Christ they slither elusively through me.What would it be like to divorce Max? No more fighting or resentment or anger. I’d only be accountable to myself.

I snap out of the thoughts as quickly as they came on, shock reverberating through me. How could I ever think such things?

I yank the door of our room open and hurry out into the hallway. I just need to go find Max, that’s all.

Once I see him we can fix this. Fixus.

Only twenty minutes later I still haven’t found him. I’ve looked in the restaurant, the gift shop, walked multiple loops around the lodge, and called him about ten times. It’s almost 4 o’clock, which is when the welcome reception starts. Is he even going to show up? My throat grows thick at the idea of him leaving me to go alone.

I know he’s mad at me, but to ignore my calls and leave me hanging for a social function where my lovey-dovey sisters will be with their husbands is a low blow. Especially considering the number of functions I’ve attended for him over the years. I put on a cocktail dress for his firm’s Christmas party when I was only two-weeks postpartum for goodness’ sake! I once attended a political event only hours after spraining my ankle. Now he can’t even show up to one thing for me!

I get that it was bad that I was even thinking about sabotaging his campaign, and that I should’ve just been honest, but this level of retaliation is uncalled for.

My feelings of remorse and repentance are quickly fading; replaced by indignation and anger.

I can sense the Holy Spirit nudging me back towards repentance and forgiveness, but I ignore the nudge. I just want to be mad.

Chapter 11

Max

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