Page 3 of The Gathered Fragments of Us
"Felicity, come on. You're overreacting—"
I stopped on the third step, looking back at him standing in our mess of a kitchen. "You know what? That's the problem. You think my feelings are an overreaction," I sighed. "Honestly, I think I've run out of words at this point, Caden. I honestly don't know how else to help you understand. And I can't figure out why I have to try so hard. I can't for the life of me figure out how—you know what? In the last fifteen minutes of us arguing, you haven't even apologized. Not even once."
"I'm sorry, Felicity."
"Don't bother. Too little, too late. Loses its effect if I have to bring it to your attention."
I went to turn away and paused. I looked at my husband. Really looked at him. In my staring, he started to shift his feet, uncomfortably fidgeting. "Do me a favor, Caden. My birthday is in just about a week. Tell me how old I'll be."
The silence stretched between us. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish. Pathetic. Finally, he replied, "Of course I know how old you'll be. It's insulting you'd even ask."
"Forty," I said with a sigh. "I'll be forty. Can you make sure you tell Lauren it's a milestone birthday?" With as much sarcasm as I could muster up, I continued, "That way, when she goes out to panic-buy whatever she has to pick for my birthday this year, she'll get me something just super great."
I climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last. The crinkle of wrappers sounding with every step. I heard him call my name. But I didn't turn back. There was nothing else to say tonight.
Sitting on the guest bed, I looked around the room. Cold and impersonal. Finally, I let the tears fall. It wasn't about the purse. It had never been about the purse. It was about being invisible in my own marriage.
Chapter 2: Reckoning
~Caden~
I sat back in my chair, staring at the screen in my home office but not even seeing the words. I'd come downstairs hours ago when, at around three in the morning, I finally gave up on sleep.
I watched the clock tick over to seven a.m. While I'd hoped work would be a distraction, it wasn't.
Forty. She was turning forty.
Shit. Where had the time gone? Why didn't I realize it was this year?
I stood there like an idiot, unable to answer the simplest question about my wife. How could I not remember her age—as much as I tried to play it off when we were talking, we both knew I didn't know. Instead, I sat there and tried to do the math—useless.
My wife. The woman I love. The woman I swore to cherish. FUCK. Forty is a big fucking deal.
And I forgot.
How? When did I become this man? I knew I wasn't exactly detail-oriented in our marriage, but how had it gotten this bad?
My phone lit up.
Jessica:Caden! The bag you got Macy is amazing. She showed me last night when she got home and won't stop talking about it! She's planning her whole first-day outfit around it.
I stared at the screen, nausea rolling through me.
The Dior bag had been perfect—for once, I'd actually gotten it right. I'd saved the screenshots Felicity had sent. Gone to the boutique myself. Spent an hour making sure it matched the one she wanted. The saleswoman had smiled like I was some kind of hero when I went in a couple weeks later to pick up the final customized product. "Someone's very lucky," she said in that singsong way while carefully wrapping it up.
Felicity told me once she didn't want perfect. Just effort. I'd forgotten that. This time when I got her gift, I felt proud. In reality though, I shouldn't have. What kind of asshole gets proud that he knows how to follow directions? I put zero effort into her gift aside from the minimum of getting what she asked for.
Then, when Macy found it—I hate even thinking about the memory, but the whole scene kept replaying in my head.
I'd been sitting in my office, dealing with final things in preparation for the week ahead. Felicity was at the store, and Macy was upstairs in her room.
I looked up from my work when I heard her come into my office, and I froze when she asked, "Daddy, what's this?"
She held up the exquisite gift bag from Dior.
"Where'd you get that, honey?" Dumb question—I knew where she found it. Even remembering it now, I hung my head in shame.
"It was in the back of my closet! I was looking for my old ballet shoes and found it." Before I knew it, she was pulling the purse out of the gift bag. She gasped, saying, "I love it!"
