Page 19 of Missile Tow
I’d let it go, but that final night was worrying me. We hadn’t had sex for three weeks. That in itself was cause for worry. We were a sexual couple and never tired of physical contact. He rocked my world just by looking at him. I’d thought he felt the same way.
The next morning, he decided to stay home from the mercantile. I’d hoped the job was nearly done, and then he would get back to his usual self before Christmas Day. Even with me getting used to the change in personality I’d accepted for the previous few weeks, I missed the banter of our lives, the texts of ‘I love you’s,’ and the sexual innuendos we sent back and forth over our cell phones, even when we were in the same building. I was hurting and terrified that something was wrong.
That night, when I drove down the narrow gravel driveway to the cabin, I noticed the yard lights were on and the garage door was open. John’s Ford truck was backed up to the garage and had numerous boxes stacked in the bed. He was stretching a tarp over the load when I pulled up alongside his truck.
John froze when he saw me drive up. A feeling of total despair clenched my throat, and then I swallowed hard, thefear depositing straight into my gut. I was instantly sick to my stomach. I didn’t have to ask him what was in his truck bed because his face and body language conveyed all I needed to know.
I remained in my truck, staring through the windshield while he stared back. His eyes had glassed over as we were locked in a silent dance of pain. He didn’t have to speak, and I didn’t have to inquire about the load in his truck. John was leaving me.
After what seemed like an eternity, I turned the truck ignition off and trudged to the cabin’s front door, avoiding the garage and him. I sat at the kitchen table, my chin resting on my propped-up hands. The cabin was quiet while I prayed to a God I wasn’t sure existed. Surely John wouldn’t do this on Christmas Eve. Especially with Christmas—and my birthday—being the very next day.
I heard the garage door slowly closing, the opener groaning and screeching after a million uses. The wait for the door behind me to open was excruciating. If John didn’t come in the kitchen door from the garage, I wouldn’t have to hear the news. Perhaps we could live in that safe limbo of never knowing. Time could stand still. I could stay seated, trapped in the security of ignorance.
But that’s not how life works. Others make decisions about our lives, and then we adjust. But these decisions and the adjustments required were not of my choosing. I held my breath when the door opened.
John pulled a chair out from under the table, its legs making a high-pitched scraping sound on the wooden floor like a siren of doom. A weary sigh escaped his lungs.
“We need to talk.”
“It wasn’t a work project, was it?” I said, pretending I could be the bigger man and maintain a civil voice.
“No,” he admitted, laying both hands on the table in front of him.
His demeanor was calm and businesslike. I dared to look at the stranger beside me. This was not my John. This person had bad news and chose the direct, distant, efficient persona to deliver it.
“I’m leaving you, and I’m leaving Missile.”
“What’s his name?” I asked, dropping my hands from my chin and locking eyes with him.
He wanted to lie. I noted the hesitation on his face. But he didn’t lie. I had to respect him for that. He swallowed hard before clearing his throat. His tears proved to me he was having a difficult time voicing what had to be said.
“His name doesn’t matter, but Iamleaving you for someone else,” he finally announced.
I let the words sink in. Slowly, and with deadly accuracy, the declaration hit my heart. A thousand questions raced through my brain. Things I wanted to know. Truths I had to hear. Everything I feared had come true, and I required an explanation.
“His name doesn’t matter,” I parroted to no one in particular, checking my pulse with my right hand, making sure I didn’t stroke out from the harsh, relationship death sentence. “But you’re leaving me for an unidentified person.”
“And I’m truly sorry,” he added.
We sat in silence and let the news hang over the room like a funeral in full progress. He was moving on. Our relationship was dead. Our friendship was dead.Iwas dead. Every single thing I’d ever loved and wanted was dead. This was a funeral, all right. Mine, and I was acutely aware of my loss.
“Can I fix anything?” I asked. He remained silent. “Do I get the chance to change?”
“It’s not you,” he stated.
I laughed out loud. A sad outburst of realization. “It never is,” I agreed, seeing myself in a bad rom-com, receiving the standard break-up reason.
I had an awful thought cross my mind. “Did I interrupt your packing? Were you going to leave with just a note?”
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
“That was decent of you,” I admitted. “So,” I added. “When? Now? Tomorrow? After the holidays? Are we not going to your folks’ house tomorrow?”
“Now,” he said, standing from the table.
“What about Pooch?”
Inquiring about his dog was probably an odd thing to ask at that moment, considering the situation, but I was stalling for time so I could rally and come up with some colorful expletives. Or beg. I was unsure of the right approach by that point, but I knew I was capable of begging.
