Элисон Скотч - The Theory of Opposites

“So you’re disappointed in me?”

He smiles at this, a sad smile, like I really don’t get it at all.

“It’s funny, we had the same question for each other: why you didn’t say yes.” He gestures to the waitress for the check. “But I think I always knew the answer anyway.”

“And what was that?”

Because he didn’t believe in marriage!, I think. But then: No. It was more than that. A lot more than that: fear and inertia and total lack of guts. But I can’t bring myself to acknowledge this all just yet, not with him, not even with myself. It would be so much easier if he just told me why I said no, and then we could let it be.

He shakes his head: “There you go again, hoping someone else will fill in your blanks.” He looks at me now. “You can fill in your blanks, you know, Willa. You might not believe that, but it’s true.”

“Oh,” I say. “All right.”

Then he says: “Do you ever think about what would have happened if you hadn’t been allergic to truffles?”

All the time, I think.

I glance away and say, “Yes.”

Nothing else needs to be said, so we both stare out the window at the passersby scampering hurriedly underneath their umbrellas. I wonder about the lives they lead, if they’re mostly happy, if they’re mostly fulfilled, if they know how to get themselves to Y.E.S. in ways that I do not and that Theo most certainly does. The waitress wordlessly slips the check next to him, and he digs into his back pocket for his wallet. Finally, he states:

“Look, Willa, I’m pretty sure I’ve made it clear how I feel, what I want. But…like…I don’t want to be caught in the in-between. I’m not an in-between type of guy. That’s just not who I am.”

“Okay.” I nod, like this is good news.

“You need to figure out who you are, too. What really matters to you. And when you do, and if it’s me, you’ll know how to find me.”

“Facebook?” I try to play the joke again.

“Here,” he replies back, touching his heart — the human heart that gives us life, and also so easily takes it away.

And then he stands. And then he’s gone.

Text from: Shawn Golden

To: Willa Chandler-Golden

Almost done in Palo A. Back soon. Will b in touch.

I can’t sleep again so Ollie kicks me out of the room. I make myself a cup of tea and then wander into the den, flipping on the TV, pulling a blanket over my legs to ward off the chill of the air-conditioning.

At this time of night, the pickings are slim — bad infomercials for juicers and cellulite reducers and mouth guards that promise to put an end to your husband’s snoring. There are old reruns of shows like CHiPs!, and Law and Order, and if you’re lucky, maybe you’ll catch a decent episode of Seinfeld . But I’m not that lucky.

I keep flipping until I land on the Game Show Network, and discover that Dare You! has made it into syndication. I cradle my tea in my palms and tug the blanket closer.

It’s the episode that Shawn and I watched the very last time we watched: the one with the vipers and the woman who simply couldn’t control her fear. Knowing what I know now — that she’ll tremble until the snakes attack — I want to reach through the television and save her. Stick my hands straight in, throw my entire body through, and rescue her. But I can’t. We all know that. There’s nothing to be done for those who can’t rescue themselves. So I sit, rapt, well aware of the doom that is careening toward her, and right at the point when Shawn let out a whoop and a “Holy shit!,” I start crying.

Real, hard, purging, exhausting, swollen-eyed sort of tears.

By the time I’m done, the episode is over. The woman is off to the medic, her wounds being treated, an antidote being served.

I flip the television off and sit in the darkness, the silence cocooning me, offering peace.

Why is it so hard to save myself? It’s not as if I couldn’t see incoming disaster, it’s not as if I didn’t know better.

Some people , I think, are probably just lost causes. And then I have another thought too:

Maybe it’s time to write my own map.

My key still works in our old apartment, which I almost wasn’t expecting. The latch turns easily, and the door gives way, and then I’m inside. It looks different now, barren, with no furniture, no artwork, none of Shawn’s computer crap or that looming TV in the living room or all of the egg splatter in the kitchen from when he made eggs all the time.

The landlord, Mr. Dubrovsky, has given us a day’s notice. Eviction. Just like that, we’re out. Raina texted me this morning to let me know.

When we moved in, I wasn’t sure about renting the place. Shawn wanted to upgrade from our homey one-bedroom into something with a spare room for a home office and a space for Nicky, but I was content to stay just as we were. There were plenty of reasons to move, to be sure: the heaters in our old apartment had two modes — not working and a thousand degrees; the bathroom was so small that you had to turn sideways to sit on the toilet; the reverberation from the subway shook the living room pretty much continuously during rush hour. (Vanessa once remarked that it felt like “she was sitting on a couch atop the world’s largest vibrator.”) But still. We’d leased it shortly after we’d married, and I’d grown to love it, flaws and all.

Eventually, Shawn talked me into trading up, mostly by endlessly insisting that we trade up, so I said goodbye to our old home, and we packed up and left.

And here we were again: packed up and gone from this home, too.

Today, I step into the empty apartment, my flip-flops echoing and bouncing off the space. There are marks on the wall where we once hung paintings, faded planks on the floor around where rugs once lay. But mostly, it’s been stripped bare of everything that made this plain old place our own, other than my memories, of course, which pile atop each other. I run my fingers over the windowsills and head to the bedroom, where I find two boxes stacked on top of each other, marked “Stuff.”

Stuff.

That is so exactly Shawn and me. Non-specific, middle-ground, no idea what’s lurking below until you open it.

Accept.

Ignore.

Deny.

My phone buzzes just then.

Facebook: Nancy Thomasson (friends with Minnie Chandler) has added you as a friend!

I click onto my app but rather than accept Nancy’s request, I find myself back on Shawn’s page, lurking, trying to uncover the intricacies of my husband’s life on Facebook.

I run my thumb over my screen, scrolling down, down, down. Then I quickly scroll up, up, up.

And I see that Shawn’s no longer tagged in Erica Stoppard’s photos.

I check his “Photos” folder to be sure.

Indeed, he has erased (or she has erased?) any sign of her on his page. My pulse accelerates, and my stomach churns with something that I think is excitement but I’m no longer really sure these days. Either way, I let out a triumphant “ha!” and tuck my phone into my back pocket and smile.

And then I remember the boxes.

Stuff.

Who knows what sort of stuff is shoved inside? It can’t be important, I decide, if we’d simply named it stuff. So rather than open it, I bend at the knees, put my weight behind the box and heave it over to the front door. I’m crouched over, my arms curled underneath the bottom of the second box, when I hear the lock unlatch behind me.

“Hello?” I shout. “Mr. Dubrovsky? I’m here, taking the boxes. My sister texted me! I know that we have to be out today!”