Real Bad Things(60)
“You know how, Georgia Lee!”
“You’re making that abundantly clear.”
He threw his cap behind her. She flinched. “Have you seen her recently?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God.” He pushed away from the table and gripped the kitchen counter, away from her. “Did anyone see you?”
“Probably.” No need to lie. “We went for pizza.”
“For pizza?” He practically screamed the words at her. “You went for pizza with a murderer?”
“Are you worried that I went to pizza with a murderer or a lesbian?”
He thrust his hands every which way, like he was trying to find the words. “Both!”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re so old fashioned.”
“Well forgive me if I don’t want my friends seeing my wife out with that woman.”
“Your wife? I have a name. And let me remind you that none of this has anything to do with you or your friends.”
He slammed the table with a hand. She jumped in response. “It has everything to do with me and the kids.”
“You said friends, not kids.” Maybe everything coming out was good. Maybe it was just the thing she needed. Maybe a change would come over her. Like when she was younger. Right before she met Jane. Maybe she couldn’t wish the past away. But maybe she could alter what happened next. “This is why we have a problem, Rusty. This is why I need space.”
“I’m sorry.” He sat down at the table and tried to clasp her hand, but she crossed her arms. “You know I would never hurt you. But I shouldn’t have raised my voice. And I shouldn’t have hit the table.”
“You don’t get to dictate my life.”
“I know. You’re right.”
“I think I need a break. From us.”
That rendered him into a puddle. She’d mentioned it in the past. She’d mentioned it more in recent years. She’d felt bad about it, looking for good reasons for feeling the way she did. But all she came up with was Because I’m bored. I’m tired. I need something different. At last year’s holiday gift swap at work, someone had given her a copy of Tiny Beautiful Things, a book of advice on love and life. Probably one of the girls. Probably meant it as a lark. A big joke on Georgia Lee, ha ha, Miss Cheesy Advice Book Target Audience. But she’d read it. And it wasn’t cheesy. It was beautiful and funny and it’d almost made her cry. She’d learned that wanting to leave is enough. That’s all that was required to separate, to divorce, to leave.
She solidified herself against her desire to comfort him. Comfort would not be useful. She grew impatient and coughed. He pulled himself together.
“We can fix this,” he said, pointing back and forth between them.
“Can we?” There were all the things he didn’t know. All the things she barely knew herself. Confusing thoughts in her mind about that night and what she’d done. She wasn’t sure she wanted to tackle them with him. She doubted he would understand. His life was simple. Hers only looked it. It hadn’t been simple since she walked out the school doors and spoke with Jane Mooney for the first time.
“What are you saying?” he asked.
“I don’t know if I want to fix it.” Her hands and voice shook as the words she’d been wanting to say wrestled their way onto her tongue. “I just want to be alone.”
“You’ve had nothing but time alone this past—”
“No,” she said and reached for his hand.
“You’re just reacting. With everything going on—”
“No.” She gripped his hand.
He slumped into his chair. “Is this about Jane? Did you—”
“Did I what?”
“My God, Georgia Lee. Don’t make me beg you to tell me if you and her . . .”
She gathered more air into her lungs. “There’s no one else,” Georgia Lee said. “There’s only me.”
“Then why would you . . .” He let the question trail off. But she knew what he was thinking: Why would you leave this if not for someone else?
If there was no one else, they would have no one to blame but themselves.
She had loved Rusty. She had not settled for him after Jane. There had been other boyfriends, even other girls in college. He was not bad. He was not “Not Jane.” She hadn’t put Jane on a pedestal after she’d left. She hadn’t compared every lover to her. She and Rusty had simply grown apart. That was the hardest part.
When anyone she’d known had mentioned they were getting a divorce, she’d immediately wondered who had cheated on whom and what nefarious activities might have led to their demise. Now she knew that in most cases there was nothing as sinister as that. They were simply people, flawed but still loved and loving.
“I guess I can’t be surprised,” he said and wiped his eyes and nose with his sleeve. “I know you haven’t been happy.” You. She bit down on a response. Many of her friends had not questioned their own happiness even as they outlined all the ways in which they hated everything about their lives. She didn’t want to be that woman for whom her husband was the butt of jokes, the target for her disdain while out drinking with friends. There was more. She wanted more. For her, and for him. He deserved more, even as she broke his heart.