Just My Type(2)

“The dinner with his douchebag co-workers went just as you’d imagine it would.” I sigh, grabbing the dishwashing detergent from under the sink. “I made a bunch of expensive, over-the-top food, and they all bragged about what famous chef they hired for the last party they threw before spending the remainder of the evening talking about how much money they make and what new toys they’re going to buy, to prove to everyone how big their dicks are. It would have been much more enjoyable if they’d just whipped out their penises and flopped them down on the table before I served dessert. At least then I would have had something to laugh at.”

“So, just another Tuesday night with a houseful of pharmaceutical reps,” Brooklyn responds, and I can practically hear her shrugging all the way in White Timber.

God, I miss home.

I miss my best friend’s sarcasm and her special way of bringing out my snarky attitude. It’s just not the same talking on the phone with her almost every day instead of seeing her in person. With each moment I spend here in Chicago being miserable with no one to talk to about it, I feel myself slipping away. I’ve had to turn myself from the wife of a small town pharmacist, with an attitude, and opinions, and a life, and a job outside of the home, into the showpiece of a pharmaceutical rep, only brought out for fancy functions to be polite and meek, then left alone the rest of the time to flounder in this foreign city with too much noise and too many people. I’ve lost my voice. I’ve lost who I am as a person, and I hate it. I hate that Brandon doesn’t see it. I hate that he just continues living his life each day like there isn’t something seriously wrong in our marriage, and with me. But I’m to blame too. It’s not like I’ve exactly sat him down and told him how miserable I am trying to be someone I’m not in a strange city where I feel completely alone. Sure, we’ve had discussions here and there about the distance between us and how much I miss home, but they always end with Brandon making promises to spend more time with me so we can work on things, and those promises never resulting in actions. He still works fifteen hours a day, seven days a week, traveling around the state constantly, never taking a break or even one day to relax and enjoy his family. I’ve become complacent, because I don’t want to rock the boat. I don’t want to make things worse, and that’s not who I am.

Ember Hastings-Hudson is not a doormat, dammit.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

As soon as I hear Brandon’s voice behind me in the kitchen, Brooklyn also hears it through the phone and lets out a loud snort. “I told you the fitted sheet would be asking too much. Tell him to suck your dick and get back upstairs and finish making your bed.”

Brooklyn’s right. I mean, I won’t tell Brandon to suck my dick… probably, but it’s time I stop keeping my mouth shut. We need to talk. And we need to fix this pronto, before it gets any worse and we can’t repair anything.

Quickly telling Brooklyn I’ll talk to her tomorrow and ending the call, I set the phone on the counter next to the sink and slowly turn around to face my husband.

Brandon isn’t exactly what some would call hot. But he’s adorable in a suit-wearing, always-put-together way. He’s a science and math nerd, and he was the exact opposite of every guy I’d ever dated. I was always attracted to hot, muscly jocks who treated me like shit. Brandon was polite, quiet, and shy, and didn’t know the difference between a touchdown or a goal. We were polar opposites, and that’s what drew me to him. Sure, we started drifting apart long before we moved here to Chicago, but I know if we would have stayed in White Timber, we would have been able to fix things. This new job making three times as much as he made in White Timber, surrounded by people who are used to flaunting their money and trying to one-up each other, and the pressure of trying to do better than everyone else at work changed him. But we can fix this. I know we can. I just have to dig deep and find the old Ember. The one who didn’t take anyone’s shit. The one who stood up for herself and her family. The one who wouldn’t go down without a fight.

“Did you hear me? I said I can’t do this any—”

“Yes, I heard you the first time,” I cut Brandon off. “It’s a fitted sheet, not brain surgery. It’s one little thing I asked you to help me with while I cleaned up after dinner.”

I wince a little at the bitchiness in my voice, and then curse myself for feeling bad. Even after three months, I still haven’t gotten the hang of being a stay-at-home mom. In White Timber, I worked for my family’s huge pumpkin farm. I had a job and responsibilities outside the home, and Brandon and I did everything fifty-fifty. Cooking, cleaning, driving our son Lincoln to and from school, laundry, etcetera, etcetera. It was all split down the middle, as it should be.

Everyone thinks stay-at-home moms have it so easy. That is complete horseshit. There are not enough hours in the day to get everything accomplished, even when your son is seven and in school all day. Brandon is never home, so everything is up to me to handle. And when he is home, he’s constantly on his phone or his laptop, and still, everything is up to me to handle. Asking him to help out with one little thing while I clean up the dinner dishes shouldn’t give me this big of a headache.

“I’m not talking about the sheet,” Brandon admits quietly, while I try and come up with a way to start this conversation we need to have about fixing things between us, without screaming at him about the stupid fitted sheet.