Jennifer Close - The Hopefuls

Colleen looked at me as if she was unsure of how to continue. “Do you have feelings for him?” she finally asked, and I shook my head forcefully.

“No,” I said. “It was just a mistake.”

She nodded and then perked up, as if just remembering something, and pulled a bottle of wine out of her bag. “I brought reinforcements,” she said. I stayed on the couch as she opened the bottle, poured us each a glass, swirling it around before tasting it.

“I don’t know how things got to this point,” I said. Colleen sat back down and refilled my glass, which I’d already drained.

“Well, it’s not like things sounded good the last time we talked.” She said this almost gently, like she was telling me something I didn’t know. I had a childish desire to correct her, although I don’t know why. She was right.

“I know,” I said. “I just kept thinking things would get better if I waited it out. And then I made it worse.”

“So, Dogpants is still going through his mid-whatever crisis?” she asked. I just nodded. “Well, I mean, look. Couples go through this all the time. I don’t think it’s as weird as you think it is.”

“Maybe. That doesn’t mean Matt’s going to forgive me, though.”

“Maybe not,” she said.

“I just — I know I fucked up. But, Colleen, he was awful too. He really was. And I’m not saying that’s an excuse, but it’s true.”

“I know. I don’t think you’re trying to make excuses.”

“He didn’t even care if I was there or not. It was like I didn’t exist. Like he couldn’t even be bothered to talk to me. I moved to Texas for him, for his job, and he just didn’t even give a shit.” I got angry as I started telling her this, felt the wine warming me up.

“Well that sounds shitty.”

“It was. It was completely shitty. He was mean. It was like he was a different person or something. And I was so mad, but it didn’t matter. I’m still mad.” I got louder with each word.

“Good. You should be mad, Beth. Get mad.”

And then I felt my anger crumble and I was near tears again. “I don’t want to get divorced,” I said, sniffling.

“No one’s talking about that right now.”

“What would I even do?”

“I don’t know,” she said. Part of me appreciated her honesty and part of me just really wanted her to lie and tell me it would all be fine. “I don’t really see you eat-pray-loving your way through this. No offense.”

I assumed the “no offense” meant, no offense that you’re not brave enough to travel alone, no offense that you’re such a baby you’d never go to Bali. But I couldn’t have cared less that Colleen thought I was an emotional wimp, so I didn’t even bother responding.

“Did you eat yet?” she asked, and I shook my head. I think my wild swing of emotions in a three-minute span — from apologetic to angry to pathetic — had alerted her that the wine was hitting me quickly.

She took charge then, and I was happy to let her. I watched from the couch as she ordered dinner and got more wine and called home to tell Bruce that she’d be staying over.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “What about Bea?” I tried to sound convincing, but I wanted her to stay, badly, and I was happy when she just shook her head in a businesslike way.

“It’s fine,” she said. “Plus, I think you could use the company.”

Later that night, after making me drink a glass of water and take two Advil, Colleen got into bed with me. I was drunk — incredibly so — and tired and grateful that she was there. We talked into the darkness, like we had for so many years, the pauses in our conversation getting longer as we each neared sleep. The last thing I remember her saying was “It’s not the end of the world, Beth.”

“How do you know?” I asked. My eyes were already closed, and I’d been half in a dream just seconds before.

I heard her sigh. “I just do,” she said.

—

The next morning I woke up, remembering in some fuzzy part of my still-sleeping brain that something was wrong. And then it all came rushing back to me. Colleen was already gone, the covers on that side of the bed pulled up and a note left on Matt’s bedside table that said, “B — Had to run. Didn’t want to wake you. Call me later.” I rolled onto my side and closed my eyes, but it was no use. There was no chance of falling back asleep now.

The rest of the week crawled by so slowly that I considered ripping out my hair just to have something to do. Colleen stopped by after work a couple of times, and on Thursday, she insisted I come over for dinner. “You can’t just sit inside all day,” she said, wrinkling her nose like the apartment smelled. So I went to her house, and sat at the kitchen table nodding every so often as she and Bruce carried on a conversation. I assumed she’d told Bruce the whole story, because when he saw me, he kissed my cheek and then pulled me against him for an awkward embrace, my face smooshed against his shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Beth,” he said, finally ending the hug but still holding on to my arms. And honestly, I couldn’t even muster up the energy to feel embarrassed.

I spent most of the time lying on my back and obsessing over what had happened, going over each step in my mind. I was paralyzed. It felt like I should do something, but I didn’t know where to start. Should I look for a job? Contact Ellie to see if there was anything for me at DCLOVE? If Matt and I broke up, would I even stay in DC? My mind was an endless loop of questions, none of which I had the answers for.

Sunday night came and went with no word from Matt. I wondered if he was staying at his parents’ house, if he was back in DC, or if he’d gone somewhere random to think things through.

“I could be dead for all he knows,” I said to Colleen that night. “He hasn’t even bothered to text me. Someone could’ve kidnapped me or I could be in the hospital.”

“So call him,” Colleen said. “He’s your husband. You have a say in this, too. You deserve to know where he is.”

“How can he really not care enough to check in just once?” I asked. Anger flared in my chest. This was the longest we’d been out of contact since we first started dating all those years ago.

Colleen looked at me, then said again, slowly, “Call him.”

“I can’t,” I said.

She shook her head at me, frustrated. “You’re always letting things happen to you,” she said. “You just wait to react. Do something.”

I just looked at her, not knowing how to respond. She was right, of course. But I didn’t know how to change that about myself — didn’t know if it was even possible.

—

I couldn’t sleep that night, imagining Matt had gone to Sunday dinner at his parents’ house, that he was telling everyone what happened, turning them all against me, acting like he’d done nothing wrong. Would he do that? I didn’t think so, but at this point, nothing would surprise me. To leave me like this, to care so little that he wouldn’t call, or even bother to send a text — that I never could’ve imagined.

I began to think he was never going to bother coming home, that he was just going to Irish-good-bye out of our marriage. Which, on top of everything else, would be awkward to explain.

As I tossed and turned, I kept trying to picture my life without Matt. It felt impossible. If we split up, no one would ever call me Buzz again. And while there were so many more important things to worry about, it was that thought that made me the saddest.

—

But then the next morning, he texted: I’ll be home tomorrow night. We’ll talk then? The question mark made his text seem almost friendly, made me feel hopeful despite myself. I had a million things to say, but I just wrote, Sure. I’ll be here. And he answered, See you around 7.