Mary Robb - Down the Rabbit Hole

She shook her head. “I was stupid. I know it’s a sick, sad world out there. I should have known. I should have seen it. That’s what makes me mad. I trusted him.” She hesitated, then her eyes closed and her shoulders drooped. “Maybe I did know. I think I suspected. Maybe. I just . . . I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe in him. Is that so bad? I loved him. He loved me. It was through thick and thin, good and bad, all that stuff. I never imagined he’d leave me—much less actively position himself to leave me penniless.”

“Dagnabit! Having a heart as big as Texas is never a bad thing. And trusting the people you love should be as easy and safe as using propane for all your residential and commercial needs. And just as natural, too, come to think of it. You’ve got good instincts, Elise. You just need to listen to them and then not overthink what you’re hearing.”

Hank directed her attention back to the gap between the rack of costumes and another scene from her life with Jeremy.

She recognized the expression on Jeremy’s face as he followed her through the blurry image of their kitchen into a much clearer picture of their dining room after work—and from the look on her own face, she knew that a heavy ball of tension was coiling in her abdomen.

“I cooked your favorite tonight—coq au vin.”

“Great. Hopefully it’ll be better than the last time you made it. I’d like one good thing to happen to me today.”

She knew better than to ask about the not-so-good parts of his day, but did so anyway. “Rough one, huh?”

“Rough? That’s mild.”

“What happened?” she asked, turning to light the candles she kept centered on the table—mostly to create a relaxed atmosphere, as opposed to anything romantic.

“Stop. Blow it out. I’m not in the mood for that shit.”

“I thought—”

“Well don’t.” He took his seat at the table. “I’m not in the mood for that either.”

That stung. Bad.

But she understood days that could drain every ounce of happiness from your life. And she was aware that lashing out at the people who love you best happens because they are the most likely to tolerate and forgive your bad behavior. Plus it was her experience with Jeremy that he simply needed a little time to calm down and center himself. Her sweet, funny Jeremy would come back around.

So she swallowed her own harsh retort, pressed her lips together and poured his wine.

Generally, it didn’t seem to bother him that she didn’t drink with him—preferring water to the blistering headaches even small amounts of alcohol delivered. But on other occasions . . .

“There it is again.”

“What?” she asked.

“That smug, superior look you get when I drink.”

“What? I don’t. I don’t care if you drink.” Her smile was tight and hopeful—she didn’t want to fight with him. “I envy you. I could use a drink once in a while.”

“Once in a while? But not as often as I have them.”

“I didn’t say that . . . or mean that. Look, I’m sorry you had a bad day, but don’t take it out on me. It’s not fair.”

He appeared to back off a bit—but it was only to form a new line of attack.

“Sorry.” He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “You’re right. It’s not fair. But do you think it’s fair that since you didn’t get your promotion, I have to work longer hours and work them all with Barry Levine?” He took another gulp of his wine. “We could have used your pay raise to buy us some time while I tried to find a better, more fulfilling job that would benefit both of us in the long run. I’m frustrated. Can’t you see that?”

She nodded, though she didn’t see his frustration being any greater than her own.

They finished their meal in silence. She did kitchen duty alone that night, then joined him in the living room to watch television—so to speak. The television was simply background noise while Jeremy, sporting earbuds, disappeared to wherever the computer on his lap took him and she escaped into Elizabeth Moon’s new novel.

Until it was time for bed . . .

She heard him close his laptop; listened while he prepared for bed. She knew when he left the bathroom and went down the hall to their bedroom. Then she pretended to be engrossed in her book when he returned in his pajama bottoms to stare at her from across the room.

Normally, she would have looked up expecting to see that spark of desire that promised the hot, sweaty sex she was accustomed to with her husband.

But her sweet, funny Jeremy had not returned . . . and the other one had offered no apology for his surly conduct earlier in the evening. His resentment and her hurt feelings from dinner lingered in the air like the scent of coq au vin.

There was a time, not so long ago, when she would have been grateful to see that he still wanted her at the end of a miserable day. A time when she cut him slack with apologies; told herself that the intimacy of making love would fill the empty spaces that the lack of respect and kindness and friendship the rest of the night had created. A time when she could still pretend she didn’t feel used.

There was also a time when all the books she read said she needed to open a dialogue with him. She needed to let him know how she felt and express her concerns. After several attempts at communicating her distress didn’t go as well as she’d hoped, the books suggested marriage counseling as an opportunity to rekindle their relationship.

Jeremy was surprised—shocked, even—to hear that she thought their relationship needed to be rejuvenated. It cut him to the quick; he was devastated for three solid days.

Yes, there was a time for all of that and then some—like the niggling notion of other women. And if she was truthful, there were also times when she gave as good as she got in feeble attempts to take back her self-esteem. But it became harder and harder to flip the switch between overjoyed and offended; between joining in and faking it; between faking it and making no effort at all.

“Are you bringing that sexy bod to bed anytime soon?”

She looked up at him and smiled; her cheeks felt stiff. “Absolutely. I just want to finish this chapter real quick, okay?”

“Sure.” He turned to walk back down the hall. “But don’t be long. I’m beat. I may pass out.”

Please do, she thought and then she turned the page and started chapter twelve.

She didn’t get through the second page before she shoved her candy wrapper bookmark into the crease of her book and tossed it onto the end table.

She covered her face in shame. “What am I doing?”

She wanted to follow him; she loved making love with him. But her feelings were hurt and her expectations had deflated. Was she pouting like a child; a stubborn, grudge-holding child . . . or was she a woman cocooning herself in a protective shell?

She knew that doing nothing changed nothing, and yet she couldn’t make herself get up and go to him—not this time. Her mind and emotions snapped back and forth so fast she went numb. It was her marriage, her life, and she was disengaging, withdrawing and shutting down. She felt it.

Elise crossed her thin Daria arms across her chest, but couldn’t meet the look in Hank Hill’s eyes . . . Martin’s look. “You’re right. I do shut down and run . . . Well, if he hadn’t run first, I probably would have. But I still wonder, if he hadn’t taken all the money and left, if I could have—”

“Uuuuuuuaaaaaagh!” he said, showing his teeth. “You’re chasing your tail, girl. No number of if s will change what is. Slow down, step back and just think.” He tipped his head to the space where outfits were coming back into view. Strawberries, lemons and grapes—fruit suits. “That’s when you did all the right things; when your instincts were telling you something was wrong. That boy ain’t right. And deep down you knew it. But you didn’t want it to be true, so you didn’t listen to what your gut was telling you—that he needed to be taken out behind the barn and shot. And I’ll tell you what, that ain’t the worst part of it. No, the worst part is that when all was said and done, and you knew you were right about Jeremy, you suddenly got giblets for brains and decided you couldn’t trust yourself to trust your own good sense anymore. And that’s overthinking to the point of not thinking at all.”