Page 67 of Friends That Break Us
Here I am, overthinking again. I can’t seem to stop. My mind races with all the things that could be going wrong, but I decide to try and push it all aside. I force myself to focus onThe Devil Wears Pradaplaying on the TV.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Rya settles back into Ezra’s arms. They fit together like two puzzle pieces. Their closeness, the way they seem to be in their own world, makes a pang of longing for Zay. I can’t help but think of Zayn and us. How it used to be with him. The way he’d hold me, the way we’d fit together, like we were meant to be.
Ezra catches my gaze, and I shift my eyes back to the TV trying to avoid that I was staring at them.
The ache in my chest grows as I glance down at my hands, trying to ignore the quiet sadness that lingers. I miss the comfort I used to feel in his presence. I want that back. I want him back. But I’m not sure if that’s even possible, and I’m not sure why I would even want him if he is cheating on me. Maybe it’s the comfort of someone I’m used to—not the actual comfort of my husband.
The warmth of a blanket settles over me. A slight slit of my eyes opens. I watch as Ezra places a blanket over me, tucking me in. It’s comforting to know he didn’t just leave me down here with nothing. I watch as he turns the TV off and heads to his bedroom. I open my eyes wider, adjusting them to the dark. I’m all alone. Rya must have gone to bed. I don’t remember finishing the movie. I must have fallen asleep right as I started paying attention to it.
I want to look to see if I have any missed calls or text messages from Zayn. But I also don’t want to be disappointed if I see nothing. Even if he does call or text me, I don’t think I would tell him I'm here. I’ll let him worry for once.
The rich aroma of coffee drifts through the air, waking me from my sleep. The clinking of dishes echoes from the kitchen, making my eyes snap open as I remember I’m still at Rya and Ezra’s. I sit up and spot Ezra, already dressed for work, cooking something on the stove.
I grab my phone and stare at the empty screen. My chest tightens. The reality sets in that Zayn doesn’t care. He used to be the one who would have lost his mind if I didn’t come home or tell him where I was. It’s like I don’t even exist to him anymore. I could be lying in a ditch somewhere, and he wouldn’t bat an eye. The thought sends a wave of sadness crashing over me as I toss my phone aside and sink deeper into the couch.
“Hey, you’re awake.”
I look over at Ezra with a spatula in his hand, staring over at me with softness in his eyes.
“Yeah,” I say, standing up and stretching my body, feeling rested. At least I got some rest here. Usually when I sleep, I wake up through the night, but I don’t remember waking up once after seeing Ezra going to bed.
I walk over to the kitchen. “What are you making?”
“Some breakfast for you guys before I head into work,” he says, stirring the scrambled eggs.
I sit on the edge of the stool, watching him. It baffles me that he is cooking for us. I mean, Rya doesn’t work; I would think he would want her to cook for him. Am I wrong to think that way? Has my marriage made me think this way?
He works to provide for them and still finds the energy to wake up and make breakfast while his wife sleeps. He’s so thoughtful. It’s moments like these that make me question my own marriage because I can’t even get Zayn to warm me up something in the damn microwave.
“Did you wake up early to make us breakfast?” I ask, still baffled.
He shrugs. “I was up,” he says while he puts the cooked eggs on three separate plates. “I’m sure Zayn does the same for you,” he says, grabbing one of the plates and setting it down in front of me.
I sit there in silence, not knowing what to say because he actually wouldn’t. I don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t care to do something thoughtful like that or what. He’s thoughtful in other ways. Sometimes I wonder if those moments are thoughtful or if he just does it because it benefits him too.
Ez lifts his gaze to meet mine. Heat rushes to my cheeks as embarrassment floods through me.
He tilts his head and asks. “Would he not?”
I avoid his gaze and shrug.
“He doesn’t cook for you?” he asks, surprised.
“If he BBQs.”
Ezra runs a hand through his hair as if this is something new that he learned about his best friend.
“He thinks it’s a woman’s job to do all the cooking,” I blurt out.
“I don’t want to get in the middle of you two, but that’s not right of him to think that way. You both work and contribute financially; he should help with the household.”
“Does Rya help you?” I ask, a little defensive. I know he only cares, but being put on the spot, especially right now, hits harder than I expected.
Silence fills the room. I look up at him and catch his gaze. He looks as if he is questioning his own marriage.
“Rya helps in her own way,” he says, taking a drink of his coffee.
I nod, meeting his gaze. I’m not going to get in the middle of their marriage. I know he carries most of the load. Especially right now. Sometimes I feel as if Rya walks all over him because he’s such a nice guy. But who am I to think or say something like that about my best friend’s marriage? Look how mines going.
