You Deserve Each Other(83)

I hold it over my face again, flashing it from left to right to catch the blaze of the fire, and I see what he saw when he picked it out. I see my hand from his point of view, not mine. How it would glow with promise. I wonder what I feel like to him. What memories and possibilities run across his mind when he wants to touch me but feels that’s not his privilege anymore.

For the first time since he presented it to me, I study my ring and think it’s stunning. It’s exactly the ring he should have picked. I’ll never forgive myself for the moments I took it off.

He’s radiant, lying here. Scintillating and golden. Nicholas is a rare, wonderful man, and I’m going to be so sorry if I have to give his ring back.





In early December, Nicholas and I are still miraculously getting along. It’s hard to trust, but all my reasons for feeling detached and resentful in the past have crumbled in light of Nicholas’s newfound attentiveness. He’s putting me first. He’s been kind and reassuring. He stood up to Deborah on Thanksgiving, and the following night he literally banished her from the house.

I still can’t believe he did that.

When these truths sink in, he doesn’t feel like my adversary or the obstacle in my path to finding happiness. He feels like part of the path. Against all wisdom, I fall a little bit in love with pretending it won’t fall apart. And in the spirit of this, I do a very scary thing.

I open up a new password-protected document on my computer and jot down ideas for tokens of affection. If this isn’t a fluke, and if this is to work—if—I’ll need to consistently make Nicholas feel cherished in small but significant ways. The most important and most challenging element is typed at the top so that I won’t forget: Keep doing this even if he doesn’t reciprocate in an immediately obvious way. I have to give while expecting nothing in return; otherwise, the gestures are empty. I hope I won’t be the only one here trying.

One morning after Nicholas’s shower, I draw a heart in the steamy bathroom mirror. He ducks back into the bathroom to brush his teeth and after he’s left it again I find another heart he’s drawn, interlocked in mine.

It’s the world’s smallest start.

Inside his lunchbox, I leave a note. I hope you have a good day! I’m thinking about you.

Reflecting on it, I die a bit because we haven’t been genuinely sappy with each other in ages, so the barest of pleasantries is saccharine. We’re in a sap drought. We’ve been complete idiots when it comes to understanding when a partner needs something they won’t ask for.

At noon, he texts me. Thank you for the note. I’m thinking about you, too. When he comes home, he has a present for me: A plaid earflap hat to match his, because I’ve been wearing his so often that he thought I might like one of my own. It’s the color of champagne and soft as goose down. I give him a kiss on the cheek, and where my lips touch him the skin glows pink.

I might be onto something here, so the next day I slip another note into his lunchbox:

Good morning! I think you’re a terrific pancake maker and you always look and smell very nice. Thank you for supporting me. Have a great work day! Cavities everywhere are counting on you.

My nerves are this incredible mix of awkward Gahh and fluttery Eeeee, because what I’m saying is true. I hope to god he doesn’t find it corny. I also leave a bag of Skittles on his driver’s seat, which I’m less unsure about because Skittles are a home-run “just because” present and I know he’ll have the bag empty before he parks at Rise and Smile.

When noon hits, I’m one hundred percent certain my note was corny and I want to fall facedown into a bank of snow. It’s his lunch break, so he has to have seen it by now. I’m chewing my fingernails when my phone buzzes and I open a text message to see a picture of a piece of paper that I’m pretty sure is the one I wrote my note on. He’s flipped it to the blank side and drawn a stick figure of a man with scribbles on his cheeks. Stick Nicholas is wearing a big smile and there are three wavy lines coming off him that he explains with an arrow and a caption: My nice-smelling-ness. There’s a heart on his stick chest.

The next day, I leave this note for him: I love our house. It may not sound like much, but it’s a big deal. In those four words I’m validating his decision to buy it, and I don’t refer to it as his house. Apparently he checks his lunchbox an hour early, because he shoots me a text at eleven that says: I love living in our house with you. Look under your pillow.

I run upstairs and fling all my pillows off the bed. He’s hidden a note for me! My heart lights up like a Christmas tree and I scramble over my mattress to devour every letter of the short message. Nicholas wrote me a note and took the time to slip upstairs and slide it under my pillow. Every step of the action resonates.

Good morning! You have excellent taste in music. (And men.) I’m so glad we stayed in Morris. I believe in you! You can do anything you set your mind to and I know you will achieve all your dreams. You are, and will always be, the most beautiful person I’ve ever known.

My smile’s so wide it’s hurting my facial muscles, and I lie on the bed and kick my legs and squeal. I’m certain that the ghosts who are watching think I’m a lunatic, but I don’t care. I put the note back under my pillow and run a lap around the yard to work out my restless energy.

Beautiful! He thinks I’m beautiful. And he believes in me. Or so he says, the devil on my shoulder adds, but I flick the devil off. I’m going to let myself be happy about this.