If I Break (23 page)

I open the door to the penthouse. Everything looks the same, as if I never left.

“Cal,” I call out, putting my purse on the console table near the door. I didn’t think he’d beat me here; it seems I was right. I turn around and lock the door behind me. I head upstairs to our room, and I can tell it’s been cleaned since I left. I sit on my bed and look around, realizing that I have actually missed being here in the comfort of my own home. Who knew? I yawn and lay back, my body relishing the down comforter beneath it. This feels amazing after the cramped stay on Angela’s couch.

***

I open my eyes and first notice that the sunlight has vanished while I slept. I look at the clock on the table and see that it’s 8:14. I got here around six. Footsteps are coming down the hall, I jump up, only to get a head-rush, and I have to sit back down on the bed. The door opens and Cal steps in. He looks at me, the expression on his face set in a hard frown.
“You’re finally up,” he says, turning on the light.
“How long have you been here?” I ask, covering a yawn escaping from my mouth trying to fully wake myself up.
“About an hour,” he says, sitting in a chair across from the bed so we’re face to face. I wonder when he brought that in. It wasn’t here earlier.
“So what did you want to talk to me about?” I sigh, secretly scolding myself for wanting his arms around me, for missing him, for being ready to forgive him if he just asked. He pulls his chair closer towards me, and sits back down. I look at him curiously, and for the first time in forever, his eyes avoid mine. We sit in silence for what seems to be the longest seconds of my life.
“Cal,” I say softly, purposefully erasing the contempt that laced my voice earlier. His eyes are scaring me. I’ve always tried to tell what he was feeling from them, but they’re avoiding me. “ He’s looking in my direction, but he’s not making eye contact.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“I’ve never lied to you,” he says, his voice strong and unwavering. “And I’m not going to start now,” he sighs and drops his head down, running both hands through his hair.

My heart rate picks up. “Just say it,” I blurt out. My nerves are multiplying by the second.
He picks up my hand and holds it tightly in both of his. “I-I have to leave.”

“My expression hardens, and I pull my hand away. “You called me back for this?” I stand up, feeling my anger rise. He pulls me back down.
“Look, this is different,” his eyes widen and his tone higher.

“Everything is different with you, Cal. If you weren’t so different, maybe I wouldn’t feel so screwed up right now,” I snap, snatching away from him. I can’t believe how easily he'd fooled me? God, I was eating out of his hands. He frowns and stands up, walking towards the window; he looks out, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

“I don’t know
if
I’ll be back.” I search his tone for some hint of sarcasm, but I don’t find any. “What?” I say, hoping I didn’t hear him right. He doesn’t say anything. I walk in front of him.

“Would you mind repeating yourself?” I say sharply.
“I’m going to make sure that you’re taken of. I put sixty thousand in your personal account…” he starts. My heart is beating rapidly, and his eyes still won’t connect with mine.
“What? You don’t know if you’ll be back?” I ask him frantically, trying to get my words out. He’s leaving me money? Things are going so fast in my head that I can’t even say what I want.
“Why does it sound like you’re saying that you’re leaving me?” I ask, my stomach dropping. He doesn’t say anything, which makes my heart speed up even more. I have to be jumping to conclusions. I mean, no. Cal wouldn’t leave me. We argue, we fight, we make up. This isn’t right.
“I have to,” he says. His eyes finally fall on me, and the look in them scares me. He seems helpless, and I’m suddenly terrified. My throat is starting to burn.
“Is this about me, how I’ve been acting? Is this some kind of revenge thing?” I say, hearing my voice start to crack.
“This has nothing to do with you,” he says, almost in a whisper.
“Exactly, Cal! Look what you’re saying—I’m your wife. And your decision to leave has nothing to do with me?”
“I don’t have a choice.”

“What are you talking about? Cal! Talk to me, please?” I say frantically. “Look at me!” I yell. His eyes stare past me. “What is wrong with you? Why are you acting like this?” I plead, feeling tears start to fall down my face. This isn’t the man I know; he seems broken. “Tell me what the hell is going on! Tell me what’s going on with you for once!” I beg him.
“I can’t!” he yells back, and his expression hardens.

“This isn’t about me,” he says tensely, walking away from me to the other side of the room.

“Then who is it about?” I don’t understand this is not how this is supposed to happen.

He doesn’t say anything.
“You won’t tell me that either, huh?” I say quietly, unable to stop the stream of tears escaping from my eyes. I wipe them away angrily. “What am I supposed to say, Cal? What?” I yell.

“Am I just supposed to accept you leaving? No explanations except ‘you have to.’ Not that I’ve ever gotten one from you. This won’t be any different except who knows when you’ll come back? If you come back.”

“My stock dividends from the company will still be deposited in the account…” he continues.

Oh my God, he thinks I care about money that, that’s my main concern right now?

“I don’t care about the fucking money! I never cared about any of this—the trips, this house— I never needed this! All I wanted…” I’m screaming now. “All I wanted was you, can’t you see that?” my words get caught in my throat. “Say something,” my voice comes out in a whisper.

“Is there someone else?” I ask, trying to maintain what little composure I have left.

“I told you I’ve never cheated on you,” he insists, almost annoyed.

“Then why? People just don’t decide to leave out of nowhere. There has to be a reason, tell me you’re in love with someone else; that this isn’t working; that you’re in trouble; just tell me something,” I plead with him, begging for some type of explanation.

“There’s nothing I can tell you,” he says coldly, his eyes not even on me. I look at him, the person I’ve loved all these years; the man I’ve loved so much that my body ached. How many nights have I cried myself to sleep, missing him? How many times has my mind told me to walk away, and I stayed?

If it’s this easy for him, he doesn’t deserve a measure of what I’m feeling right now. He doesn’t deserve to know how much I love him. I don’t even know how to respond to this. How do you respond when your husband says he’s leaving you, and he can’t tell you why?

“What am I supposed to do?” I ask him, wanting some kind of response, some kind of answer.
“Helen and Dex will take care of anything you need…”
“Helen and Dexter?” I ask in disbelief.

“They know about this?” I yell. He looks away for the hundredth time today. “How long have you known that you were leaving me? Have you gotten bored with me, or is this just a spur of the moment thing?”
“It’s not like that,” he says, walking toward me.

I step away quickly. “Then what? Tell me what it’s like. Tell me something. Tell me why,” I say, as the burning in my throat mounts.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me!” I scream as loud as I can. My throat feels as if it’s on fire. My vision is so blurry I can’t even see him clearly. I walk over to the bed and rest my head in my hands. I’m completely drained. Every emotion inside of me is spilling over, and all I can do is cry. He walks toward me, reaching out. I get up to step away, but he pulls me into him. “Why? Why are you doing this to me?” I whimper, feeling too drained to push him away, and I don’t want to. I want to hold him and never let him go. I can feel myself completely breaking down.

“I’m sorry,” he says, stroking my hair. But instead of being endeared by it, I feel like a helpless puppy about to be put to sleep at the pound.
“No, you aren’t,” I tell him in a daze. I’m not even in this moment. I can only see past it. And I see nothing.
“Yes, I am,” he says softly in my ear. I don’t detect a hint of sarcasm or amusement in his voice, which makes me start to cry even more.

I wrap my arms around him tightly and look into his eyes. “Don’t make me ask you to stay.” I begin to cry harder. I can’t even control what I’m saying, what I’m feeling. I feel as if everything is crashing down around me.
“I wish I could,” he replies in a whisper.
“Don’t! Don’t you dare make this seem as if it's out of your control. If you wanted to stay, you would!”

It takes all my strength, but I remove myself from his arms. My vision is so blurred that all I see is a vague image of him. I feel his hands touch both sides of my waist, and his lips meet mine. I don’t even respond. I can’t. I want to kiss him back, wrap my arms around him, but I’m numb, too numb to react, too helpless to pull away. I can’t even register this; I won’t believe this is the last time he’ll kiss me, that this will be the last time he’ll touch me. I close my eyes, pretending that this is all a bad dream and that I’ll wake up any minute. But when his lips leave mine, I know I won’t wake up. This isn’t a bad dream; I’m living this.

I then feel his lips move to my cheek. “You’ll get through this,” he says after they leave it. “You’ll have to.”

I wipe my eyes and look at him quickly, before they blur again. “If you’re leaving, go!” I say, trying to hold onto the last thread of dignity I have, the one thing that’s keeping me from begging him not to leave me. I stand up angrily and face him.

“Leave.” I push him. “I hate you! I hate you, you fucking bastard!” I begin to hit his chest furiously, a hysterical, sobbing mess, and he stands there taking it, not even trying to stop it. He looks drained too, and I hate him for it.

I hate that, even at this moment, I hope that he’s okay. I hate the fact that his expression is soft, and he seems vulnerable. It’s all a trick; he’s trying to convey that he doesn’t really want to go. How could
he
do this to me and make me feel sorry for him? Why, in this moment, am I worried about him?

“Just go,” I whimper. I make my way to the floor, not wanting to feel anything, not even the comfort of the bed we once shared. It’s probably inaudible to him, but it doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t care. I can’t believe that he cares, not now. I have to believe he doesn’t. I won’t give away my anger. It’s all I can hold on to. The alternative is worse, but I feel it winning out. It’s about to take over and I silently pray that he leaves before it does, because I’m on the verge of it. It’s growing from the pit of my stomach—desperation. I squeeze my fists together and bury my head underneath my arms. His footsteps approach. His presence nears me and a moment later the steps grow distant, farther and farther away with each second. And then the door closes, and I feel like my heart has stopped. I lift my head and see that he’s gone. My imitation of a prayer granted, and that desperation that was welling in my stomach is now morphing into something else, something even more terrifying—complete and utter sorrow.

I close my eyes and my new prayer is for sleep. I want out of this moment, out of this life I’ve fallen into—that I’m now trapped in, alone. My only temporary freedom is sleep. I close my eyes, squeezing them shut, and wish more than anything that it comes and comes fast. But it doesn’t, not in the following minutes or even the following hour. I feel catatonic, staring up at the clock over my bed. When I hear the door open again, my heart rate goes into overdrive, but I close my eyes, almost afraid to see him, wondering if he left something behind--if he forgot his keys, or something important enough to take with him. I keep my eyes closed and try to slow down my breathing when I hear him move around me. I hope he’ll get what he needs quickly and leave me to my despair.

His footsteps near me again. I hold my breath, as if I hold it long enough he’ll disappear. But when his hands move underneath me and he lifts me into his arms, I lose my breath completely. I’m afraid to breathe and only do so when he lays me down on the bed. He lifts my legs, removing each of my shoes, and I don’t know what to do. Do I say something? Do I kick him away? A moment later, cool sheets cover me. Then his lips rest gently on my forehead and I feel frozen, knowing he thinks I’m asleep. His footsteps grow distant again, the light clicks off, the door opens, and that welling from earlier is coming up again, full force, and I shoot up from my zombie-like state.

“Can you stay?!” I blurt out and immediately regret it. He stops in his tracks, his

back toward me—there’s silence, and I remember I’m supposed to be asleep. But here I am, punishing him for his last act of decency toward me. “Just--just until I fall asleep,” I manage to squeak out without my voice breaking, my old self content that the words have been spoken, the jaded vindictive woman I’ve become the last few months cringe at the sound of them.

He doesn’t answer, but he walks back over toward the bed. I slowly release the sheets trapped between my fingers. He sits on the edge of the bed, still not facing me, resting his elbows on his thighs, his hands clasped together. I feel the burning sensation in my chest starting, followed by the stinging coming up in my throat. In the next few minutes, I’m not going to be able to stop crying.

I immediately regret asking him to stay. I tell myself he has to be here out of pity, or some fucked-up sense of duty, granting his desperate wife a last request. A wife who doesn’t even know where the fuck he’s going, and what’s causing him to sit so far away from me on our bed, like I’m disgusting? I changed my mind. I want him out, but I can’t tell him without unleashing what will be an uncontrollable, hideous whale. So I quickly force myself back onto the bed, pull the sheets over my face, and try my best to whimper as quietly as I can.

His weight shifts and I know he’s risen. I knew this would be too much for him. Why should he have to sit here and deal with this? He’s leaving anyway, and being here now isn’t going to make the resolution of this any better. He shouldn’t have come back in. He should have left me in my grief, lying on the floor, alone. After all, that’s what he’s ultimately going to do.

When the cover lifts off me, it’s like a splash of water on my face. When he climbs in beside me and pulls me toward him, it’s a comfort so conflicting it's almost giving me a headache. My mind tells me to push him away, overriding every other thought. I attempt to do it, placing my hands on his chest, but he pulls me toward him, wrapping his strong arms around me, and I don’t put up much more of a fight. He holds me tightly. I can feel his heart beating rapidly, but when I look at him his expression is calm. He stares past me, and I wonder if he’s here in this moment with me. I don’t know if I want him to be, but I do know what I want. I shift in his arms and he looks down at me. I bring my lips to his, pressing against them, holding my breath as I do. And when he pulls away, my heart drops, and I can’t face him. I quickly make a break from the bed, but he grabs my arm. He looks confused and conflicted and it’s just making things worse. One thing that Cal has never denied me is his kiss, his touch, his body—they were all mine, and it's breaking my spirit that he’s doing this now.