You Love Me(You #3)(75)
“Em, the guys are only here one night.”
“Right. Same way they were here last month. And the month before.”
“But they’re playing.”
“And tonight you’re busy. As a lot of married men are every once in a fucking while.”
“See, I try to talk and you get nasty.”
“You think this is nasty? You call this talking?”
You throw your pen at the window and thank God you didn’t throw it at my door. You lay into him and you call him out on his bullshit—yes—and you remind him that you are there for him. You take care of him. “My whole life, I go to things alone. Open houses at school because you’re sleeping or birthday parties at night because of your show. And do I complain? No. And I want one night from you and this is how it is.”
“Hey now, gimme a little credit. I’m on hiatus. Layla said it, Em. You wanted me to take a break from the show and what did I do? I took a break.”
“Right. And that’s how you want to spend your hiatus. With the guys.”
You’re crying now. You miss me so much and you can’t take it anymore. You’re trying so hard and he’s not trying at all, patting you on the back, literally, like you’re a dog. He’s walking now. He picks up the pen and he signs the little unnotarized contract. “I will go to the movie thing and I will do the dresser so you don’t have to keep asking me to do to the dresser.”
You sigh, pleased. I think you touch him. “See,” you say. “We got this, we do.”
No, you fucking don’t and he is not going to that movie night—contracts are like promises, made to be broken—and he grabs his coat so aggressively that he nearly takes down a chair. “Okay,” he says. “I gotta split. I gotta go to a meeting…” The manipulation, Mary Kay. What he really means is My addiction is all your fault, just like my life. And it’s bullshit. He’s the luckiest man on the fucking planet.
You blow your nose—probably on a harsh napkin, no Kleenex on your table—and you tell him you’re sorry. “But, Phil, sometimes it’s like you don’t remember any of the good stuff. I mean come on. You know why I chose this movie…”
He makes a noise and whistles and this is TMI. It’s obvious that a hundred years ago you went down on him in a theater and Alanis Morissette would be disgusted—I’m sorry but he’s just not a very attractive man—but I am a good guy. It’s ancient history and I forgive you. You were young and look at you trying so hard to spice up your bland marriage. You really are a fighter and it’s your right to try to save your marriage. I will allow it. I do allow it. Because in our relationship, we give each other space to breathe. Like now, you’re pushing Phil to leave so that he can go to the hardware store to get a wrench before his meeting as if you know I need him outta here. You have to get back to the library—you told them you needed to run errands and your marriage is an errand—and the front door opens and the front door closes and finally both of you are gone.
I turn on the light and breathe and what a different kind of world it is with you, Mary Kay. In my old world, I left the mug of urine behind and it drove me to the brink, to Los Angeles. But in our world, I take the mug with me and the mug is made of paper. It will disintegrate. And Bainbridge is showing off today—gray skies turning blue—and I am safe and there is no urine in this cup. There never was. It’s just coffee, and I pour the coffee on the damp ground—always damp, permanently moist—and I recycle the cup and I like our world. I do. I like the squirrel that sits nearby and I like the woman in a North Face jacket and I like her happy black Lab and I am beaming. Smiling ear to ear and this is why people love horror stories: It’s not for the gore. It’s for the moment when the good guy escapes just like you wanted him to because it means that for once on this unjust, dying planet, the good guy wins.
I feel inspired. I text your rat: Hey man, I got a buddy in town. HUGE FAN. We’re up at Dock Street and if THE Phil DiMarco showed up unannounced. Just sayin’…
* * *
Two hours later, I’m sitting on a picnic table in the woods by the dock when your rat’s jalopy comes into view. He gets out of the car, more puffed up than he’s been in a while.
“Jay,” he says. “It’s your lucky day. Where’s your buddy at?”
“Oh shit,” I say. “I should have texted you but my buddy had to go meet up with some chick he met in the airport.”
He is a deflated balloon—the poor fucker just tweeted about how much he loves to surprise his Philistans. He lights a Marlboro Red. “No big whoop,” he says. “Good to get out of the house.” He leans against a tree by my table. That’s Phil. Always leaning. “You been good?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Some shit went down with my mom, but it’s all good.”
Phil feels so sorry for himself right now. He drove here ready to dazzle a fan and now he has to listen to me talk about my mother. Ha. He has no choice but to ask me what happened.
“Oh shit,” I say. “I don’t know where to begin…”
“Women stuff?”
I nod and he snorts. “Try living with one.”
Bingo. “Hard times with the wife?”
“I’m in a fight for my life. It’s the kinda shit you can only understand if you’ve been married for twenty years…” Typical narcissist. “We’re doing it, ya know, we’re in counseling, we’ve both made some mistakes but tonight… tonight my boys are in town.”