Breathe (Songs of Submission #10)(6)

“I wasn’t trying to insult you. And who’s Ian?” I felt out of touch. She’d mentioned the name as if I should know, and I didn’t. Too much travel. Too much work.

“He’s the real thing.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

Her spaceship exploded, and she whacked the red ball of the joystick. “I haven’t seen you in three months unless you’re on TMZ or something. So first you tell me what’s eating you, and I’ll tell you who’s eating me.” She waggled her brows.

How was I supposed to explain this? I’m so f*cking mad at him because I feel rejected and stupid and fake and Jonathan didn’t hurt me when I asked him to. Breaking me is his responsibility as a husband and he refused and it is not cool.

That wasn’t going to fly.

Her spaceship regenerated, and she was back at the game, her dark skin shining blue from the screen.

“Nothing,” I said. “Maybe hormones.”

“Girl, you got a face from here to Jerusalem, and it’s got Jonathan spray-painted all over it.”

“You’re not even looking at me.”

“I got peripheral vision for this shit.” She held two fingers in a V and pointed them at me with one hand while her other hand worked the joystick.

The fact that she wasn’t looking at me made it easier to broach the subject.

“I have needs,” I said.

“Yeah.” She threaded a needle between bombs, jacking the stick back and forth.

“And he’s responsible for them.”

“Yeah.”

“And I can’t sing. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Star-Spangled-Fucking-Banner, and I can’t find the notes.”

Boom . She lost her spaceship. Game over. She slapped the console and turned to me. “Did you ever hear Whitney Houston’s version? Holy hell, I get tears in my eyes.”

I imagined gold mascara running down her dark-skinned cheeks.

“She eased up on the phrasing,” I said defensively. “I have to do it the hard way.”

She smirked. “Oh, so you’re that good, huh? Hardest song in the world shouldn’t be anything for Mrs. Perfectopants.”

She’d nailed me. I mean, right to the matte black wall. She’d caught my ego midair and held it still so I could see it twitching in her palm.

“I’ll beat you at Galaga.” I changed the subject like a real pro.

“Girl, you got nothing on me.”

“Right here. Right now.”

“One game, then I have to go home to the boy.”

Galaga was something I was perfectly comfortable losing at. I would play my heart out and take my lumps and not even care. I reached into my bag for two quarters and saw my phone in the pocket, lit up like a Christmas tree.

Jonathan.

The sight of his name was like a little empty place in my chest. I still felt rejected. I still felt like a fraud in every aspect of my life. And I was still mad, because there were so many things I couldn’t bear to lose at, and he was one of them.

“You playing or what?” Yvonne asked after she’d put her money in and hit the two-player button.

“Phone’s almost out of juice.” I slipped it back into my bag. “Tell me about this Ian person.”

“I don’t want to distract you.”

“Distract me. I’m going to lose anyway.”

The game started with a wheep whoop erp erp, and my feelings of unworthiness and rage got stuffed away for later.

seven.

MONICA

When I got home, it was dark outside. I walked through the empty house, and found him on the back deck, reading with his feet braced on the table in front of him and his sleeves rolled up to reveal his magnificent forearms.

“Hi,” I said.

He put down his book.

“I’m sorry,” I continued. “I was being a baby. I trust you. You know how to keep me safe, even from what I want.”

“I’m a little torn about apologizing myself. I didn’t feel comfortable, but I have a responsibility to give you what you need.”

“You wouldn’t make me do something I wasn’t comfortable with.”

“Yes, I would.”

“Yeah,” I said ruefully.

“If you told me what you were bawling about, that might help.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

He laughed. Motherf*cker. It wasn’t even a chuckle but a real laugh, as if I’d told a whopper of a joke.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“I tie you up and beat your ass raw until you beg me to f*ck you. I can’t even imagine what this big embarrassing thing is.”

I took a deep breath and sat across from him, my knees pressed together, elbows on them as if I was trying to defend my heart by curling into a ball. “It’s not embarrassing because it’s embarrassing. It’s embarrassing because of my reaction to it.”

“Tell me how you’re reacting, then tell me the thing.”

I nodded, unscrambling the words in my head, tapping my fingertips together. “I’m acting like a f*cking egomaniac. Like I’m perfect. Like I have this fragile shell around myself and someone comes and, like, taps on it—doesn’t even break it—just threatens it the slightest bit, and I fall apart. Not just that—I asked them to come tap on it. But I didn’t really want them to. I just wanted them to admire my shell and say how wonderful it was.”