So Much More(54)

My heart has squashed the synthetic excitement and is beating rationally again. “It’s sad you had to ask that question,” I mutter as I turn and walk into my bedroom. He trails behind, both of us weighted by the uneasiness of our f*cked up situation. Two adults, three children, one housekeeper: all living separate lives under one giant, dividing roof.

I walk to my bed, prop the pillows up, shed my robe, not in an attempt to seduce, but in an attempt to return to my prior comfy state, and crawl back into bed. With the covers pulled up to my chin, and everything else hidden underneath, I look at him sitting in the antique wingback chair in the corner. “What do we need to talk about, Loren?” His name is an abrasive exclamation point.

He’s sitting forward, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped. He’s still wearing his dress pants and shirt, but his tie is gone, and the top several buttons are undone. “This isn’t working. You know this isn’t working. I know this isn’t working.”

I nod. This isn’t working. I thought forcing my way into his life would make things perfect.

It’s not.

It’s far from perfect.

It’s miserably imperfect.

“You’re depressed,” he states.

I don’t answer. I’ve been on medication to treat it for weeks now. It’s not helping.

“You need help.” I meet his eyes across the room. They’re tired. Both from lack of sleep and…me.

I smile. It feels hollow and the corners of my mouth refuse to rise. “I swallow sixty milligrams of help every morning when I wake up. It coats my insides with pipedreams of saccharin happiness. I’ve got help covered. Thanks.” Sarcasm blends maliciously with melancholy.

“They’re not working. Talk to your doctor,” he implores.

I look away defiantly. I don’t want to talk about medication. I don’t want him to look at me like I’m a pile of ragged instability. I want to talk about us. The fact that there isn’t, and probably never was, an us. “Do you love me?” When he doesn’t answer, I look at him and prod, “Did you ever love me, Loren? Before everything went to hell?”

“Do you want me to lie and make you feel better, or do you want the truth?” he asks. I already know his answer. His words formed a question, but all I heard was no.

I want him to lie to me. “I want the truth.” Please lie to me.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “No.”

I nod.

He feels sorry. I can see it in the set of his shoulders. They’ve dropped under the weight of his admission. “Did you ever love me?” he asks.

Years ago I did. I lie, “No,” and then I follow it up with the truth, “Yes.”

His eyes drop to the floor and he whispers, “What are we doing?” The darkness of the hour and the truth filling the room make his question feel substantial, its veracity smothering me.

Denial is rising in me. It’s the gentle boil of failure, bubbling in my stomach, up through my chest, until it clogs my throat and I’m blinking back tears. Fearing what’s going to happen next. “I don’t know.”

“Where do you go every day when you leave for work?”

It’s a loaded question, I know that by the way it was posed, but I lie anyway because it’s what I do. “I go to work.”

He takes a deep breath, both to calm and instill patience, and he continues, “Just be straight with me, Miranda. You haven’t worked since I fired you. Why aren’t you working? Where do you go?”

“Truth?” I don’t know if he really wants to hear or he’s just going to use it against me. We play games. This conversation feels different. It feels honest. We don’t do honest, so I’m skeptical.

“The truth. Please.” He really wants to hear it.

“I have a suite at the Hilton downtown. I don’t have a job. No one would hire me,” I admit. “It seems your HR department didn’t paint me in a flattering light when potential employers called. It was all true, of course, but damning, nonetheless.” The time for embarrassment is over. I worked with a headhunter early on but was turned down for VP positions. It felt like a punch to the gut and my confidence, and accepting any title beneath vice president was unacceptable, so I gave up. And lied. Again.

“What do you do all day in a hotel room?” He’s a workaholic and looks mystified as if the thought of lounging around all day is inconceivable. I used to be him.

I study his eyes. They’re still tired and sympathetic and sad—the kind of eyes that used to make me salivate and pounce on my prey, but now they just make me want to wave the white flag and give up. When my balled up nerves say f*ck it and begin to unravel in an unceremonious surrender, I decide to let the truth out. No more lies tonight. “I binge watch bad TV, I order room service, I work out in their gym, I get massages, I f*ck lonely businessmen I pick up in the lobby bar.” I shrug. “You know, the usual.” My recent usual is a usual I never thought I’d submit to. My time in Seattle, depression, failure, and rejection have slowly transformed me into someone unrecognizable to the Miranda of old. My master plan has been trampled to dust. I no longer go out and take what’s mine, and what’s not mine—I merely survive my self-created hell.

He sighs and runs his hands through his hair. I don’t know if it’s an act of aggravation or pity. “Really?” It sounds like a little of both.