Page 5 of A World Without You
I just stare at him, my heart tangled in a web of confusion. I’d like to blame his behavior on us getting a divorce, but the truth is he behaved this way an entire year before I knew we were over.
Gone are the days when he scoops me in his arms at just the sight of me. Gone are the days of him cooking me elaborate meals. Gone are the moments where he simply worries about leaving me alone for minutes because he doesn’t want to miss the sound of my laugh.
He said that once. That he wants to hear every laugh that escapes my mouth for the rest of his life. When was the last time he even heard me laugh?
I think back to our quick and hot romance. I think of how the mountain pass was closed for days. Plows couldn’t get through. And the threat of avalanche guaranteed I wouldn’t be making it home to Seattle.
I remember the pass closed as I was approaching it, and I was stuck on I-5 for two hours before the Department of Transportation forced everyone off the freeway, saying it wouldn’t be open until the following day. I slipped back on I-90 going East until I stumbled upon a small town called Roslyn. The small lodge had only one room left, and I took it feeling like Mary and Joseph from the Bible—a very fitting scenario, considering it was five days before Christmas.
I figured I’d be on the road by noon the next day. Long story short, I wasn’t.
It took Graham and me five days to fall in love.
And five years to fall out.
I stare at the man I changed my whole life for, standing in our kitchen, rummaging through our refrigerator, taking off the beanie I bought for him, and wondering what it all was for. I take note of the fact that I haven’t stood to greet him either. I haven’t walked across the room to pour him a glass of wine. I haven’t run my lips over his jaw, whispering I love you. I haven’t gripped the waist of his pants, hungry and eager for him to love me.
I haven’t.
Because gone are the days.
It’s no surprise the divorce papers are sitting on the counter.
I used to be someone. People respected me. I had a career and a skyrise apartment. I had a boyfriend who loved me for years. He worked an unimaginable amount, but now I realize he was wise beyond his years, setting us up for a future of smooth sailing, not chopping wood and budgeting. Not second mortgages being taken out to pay for yet another failed IVF treatment. Not tasked sex and negative pregnancy tests. Motherhood always seemed likeeventuallyto me, but with Graham it felt like now or never.We quickly learned it wasneverfor us.
I swallow my resentment and rise from the couch, letting the throw blanket fall from my sweatpants. Graham glances at me but fixes his eyes back on his phone to order a pizza.
“Great,” I say, stepping closer to him as his back rests against the countertop. “Well, tomorrow is my last day at the lodge and then I’ll be heading to the west side...”
My words linger, because this is his chance to tell me the last five years weren’t a complete waste.Remember you loved me once. Remind me it will all be okay. There’s a small portion of me wanting to be reminded of why I chose this life. Why I chose him. But when I look at him, I know the reminders live in the past, not here in this home hitched to an idea and not reality.
Sometimes, marriages get sick. It’s normal. You check its temperature and give it medicine, and sometimes it’s better in a few hours, or days, or months, or years.
Other times, after the same fight and the same hurts keep resurfacing, the illness just gets worse until you know the marriage is dead.
I watch his tongue slowly glide over his teeth. His chest moves up and down with each breath, filling and deflating his olive-green t-shirt under his flannel. His eyes are greener when he wears this color. I’ve always loved it. In fact, it’s exactly what drew me to him when I met him on the sidewalk outside of the pub all those years ago.
“Well, everything is settled here,” I say, sliding the papers over the granite. “Just need you to sign it.”
“Olivia...” he says, grasping my elbow as I turn to walk away.
“Don’t.” I keep my tone short, shaking him off.It’s too late.
A line creases between his eyebrows as he stares at me. I watch him swallow, his Adam’s apple dropping and disappearing in his throat. “The tree looks good.”
I freeze, carefully picking my next words. Not because he would hurt me. Graham would never, but because I know he hates it. The tree, I mean. It’s a faux nine-foot tree decked out with golden, red, and green ornaments. The twinkling white lights warm the room, making it feel magical even if both of us know the magic between us disappeared years ago.
“Sorry I decorated before Thanksgiving and sorry it’s fake,” I mutter, placing my right foot on the first step of the staircase.
“You know it’s not about that,” he responds, stopping me cold.
“Right,” I snap with smug aversion as I turn and stomp toward him. A year of counseling and screaming fights at three in the morning and he still doesn’t get it. I tried to hold it in. I tried to believe there was a world where this works. But every time he throws his sad shoulders and broken-hearted eyes at me like I’m the problem and he’s being blindsided makes the tether holding back all these emotions snap in half with the lick of a leather whip.
“It’s not. It’s about you not giving a damn about what I love or want or care about. It’s about you realizing a simple, fucking Christmas tree four days before Thanksgiving isn’t that big of a deal.”
He practically throws his phone on the counter and holds up his hands. “Whoa, whoa. Did you have hard guests at the lodge this weekend?”
I seethe through my teeth. “No, you’re just still hard to be married to.”
