Page 61 of The Thinnest Air
I need to talk to someone and figure out what to do from here. Do I stay? Do I go? Am I overreacting? If I call my sister, she’ll lecture me, pressure me to leave him, and she’ll detest him even more than she already does. If I call Allison, she’ll think of this moment every time she sees us together, and with her being my only friend, that could get awkward. My mother gives the worst advice and can’t keep a secret to save her life.
I need an unbiased opinion, someone who will listen and not tell me what they think I want to hear and not judge me because they’re too invested in me to be objective.
I’m tossing and turning when Harris comes to mind.
He doesn’t particularly care for me, which means he’s not biased, and he’s never afraid to be blunt.
I need blunt right now.
I need brutal honesty.
Scrolling through my contacts, I find his name. The number of times I’ve called him in my life, I can probably count on two hands, but right now he’s my best option.
My only option.
It’s almost eight o’clock in New York. He may not even be home from work yet since New Yorkers tend to drink coffee all hours of the day, but I’ll leave him a message. If he doesn’t call me back, that means he doesn’t want to talk to me, and that’s fine, but I’m going to try.
My thumb presses his name. The phone rings twice. He answers.
“Harris,” I say, breath caught in my chest. “Wasn’t expecting you to answer.”
“What’s up?” He sounds casual for once. Not like he loathes me.
“Do you have a sec to talk?”
“If this is about Greer, no,” he says.
“It’s not about Greer.”
He’s quiet.
“I need some advice,” I say.
The clinking of pans in the background layered over jazz music tells me he’s at home, probably making himself dinner.
“Are you alone?” I ask, which is my way of asking, “Is she with you?”
“I’m alone.” The faucet runs in the background for a few seconds.
“I have all these things I need to get off my chest, and I don’t have anyone to talk to,” I say.
“Can I be blunt with you for a second?” he asks over the clicking of a gas burner in the background. “You’ve never been a good judge of character, Meredith. Your relationships have always been superficial at best. There’s no depth to them, and that’s why they’re so short-lived. How many friendships have you made in Glacier Park?”
“One.”
“My point exactly. And why aren’t you calling that friend right now instead of me?”
“I’m not comfortable talking to her about this.”
“Right, right.” His condescending tone is nearly impossible to ignore, but I try. “So anyway, what can I help you with? What harsh reality do I have the honor of bestowing upon you tonight?”
Sighing, I lay it on him, thickening my skin and bracing my ego. “I’m having issues in my marriage.”
He’s quiet. Then, “Continue.”
“He’s changed,” I say. “He’s not the same person I married.”
“No one ever is, Meredith. He probably feels the same way about you.”
