Page 83 of The Gathered Fragments of Us
She looked at me. Really looked at me. "I believe you. I believe you are going to try. I don't know how, but I believe you will put the effort in."
"I will. And therapy is still happening. But I know I have to do work before our appointment next week. I know I can't just rely on someone else telling me where I went wrong. I know it's up to me to help you see my heart."
She reached for my hands and started to play with my fingers. It was a nervous habit—one that I realize we haven't done in a long time. She used to do this, almost like the itsy-bitsy-spider, moving finger to finger with hers. It made me smile that we could still have this moment in the midst of all this uncertainty.
"Okay," she said quietly.
"Tomorrow, starts my apology tour."
"Apology tour?"
"Yup."
"What does that mean?"
"Well, when you were in Miami, I talked to Cash."
"Ooooookaaaaay… about, what?"
"About my complete fuck up."
"Seriously."
I smirked. "Seriously. I talked to him about what an absolute shit husband I had been. He made me think about how I need to show you my heart and help you see my love for you. So, I began the work of figuring out how to bring together something that would really demonstrate that, and show you how I heard you."
She sat up. Looked at me critically. "What does that mean?"
"That, my love, will have to wait for tomorrow. And the following days ahead. This is not a one-and-done. It's the start of a life with us where I remind you daily how deeply rooted you are in my heart." I cleared my throat, unable to help myself, I continued, "and that's the only hint you'll get from me."
"Wait! What was the hint? Say it again!"
"Nope! You're going to have to just wait and see!"
"That's crap! I hate waiting!"
"I know." I smiled at her. "But I love you so much that I'm going to help you with that waiting."
She looked at me quizzically. "What do you mean?"
"Why don't you wait here for a bit. If you'll let me, I'd like to go get a bath ready for you. I know it's always been one of your favorite things to decompress with. So, how would you feel about a bath with your favorite salt stuff that you drop in—you know, the pink thing—and a glass of wine?"
While I saw a light in her eyes, I still rushed on, wanting to make an important point, "and before you think anything differently—this is not me avoiding. I meant what I said. We are going to work through things, and I have a lot of work to do. But in the meantime, while I do that work, I'm going to also do the work of showing you—actionsandwords.
She looked at me softly, "yeah. Okay—andit's called a bath bomb, not a pink thing."
I smiled. "Duly noted."
"Honestly," she said, while stretching. "I could really freaking use a bath. It's always been one of my favorite things."
"Babe, I know—you had me pipe in speakers to the bathroom, along with a massive renovation, when we first moved in—including the giant jacuzzi tub. Believe me, I know you love it." I smiled, remembering our discussions about what would be best in the bathroom. It was at the beginning of our marriage, and we'd gone back and forth on decisions.
Then, one day she dropped a printout of all the things she wanted in the bathroom, gave me the puppy-dog eyes, and told me how much it would mean to have the giant list of things tomake the 'best bathroom of all time.'" So, of course, I ripped out the whole bathroom—redoing the whole thing.
From the Venetian plaster on the bathroom walls that reminded her of her father, to the double sinks, linen closet, standing shower that overlooked the jacuzzi tub—it was a major job and came out awesome. She was so happy with everything that I can almost feel the memory imprinted in my soul.
"I know you do," she acknowledged. "And I love my bathroom that came out of it. Isn't it so much better now?"
"Yes, love. Sooooo much better." I winked at her.
