Lizzy sees Greg’s car in the driveway. Her heart pauses, then hammers wildly. She parks and takes careful steps toward the house. Her brain, though, is not behaving carefully. Demands, pleas, accusations, and threats intersect in a maze of confusion.
All the lights are on.
“Greg,” she calls, afraid of her anger, her despair. Afraid of why he’s here.
She looks for him in the kitchen. He’s not there. Slowly she climbs the stairs. He’s in their bedroom, taking things out of his closet and putting them in a white trash bag. She watches for a few moments, her heart leaking.
“Greg,” she says softly.
He turns. “You don’t normally come home this early.”
Doesn’t she? Does it matter? “What are you doing?” she asks.
He motions from the closet to the bag, as if it’s obvious. Which of course it is.
“You haven’t answered any of my calls,” she tells him, taking a step into the room, then retreating back to the threshold.
“I didn’t think it would be good to talk right now. Everything ends in a conflagration.”
It’s an odd word, she thinks. “But we have to talk.”
“Agreed. But not when we’re both so irrational.” He throws in a shirt and his golf shoes.
“I don’t think I’m irrational,” she tells him. She takes the tissue Bridget gave her from her pocket and twists it. It reminds her of the pastries her mother used to buy.
He holds up a sweater, debates whether or not to put it in the bag, decides against it. She got it for him for Christmas. It’s a Ralph Lauren.
“Where were you?” she asks.
“Just some hotel.”
“Did you watch porn?”
“This is why we can’t talk.” He picks up the bag, then lets it thump back on the floor when he realizes she’s blocking him.
“Were you?” she asks again.
“Yes. I was.” He’s defiant.
“Did you masturbate?”
“Liz, I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.”
“Why not?”
“Look, this is why I need to leave for a while. Questions like that just aren’t constructive.”
She twists her pastry tissue until it rips. “I hate that you make me feel so unwanted. I hate that you lied to me. That you make me feel like a pest for asking perfectly good questions.”
“Listen, we can’t do this. I talked to my therapist. She thinks it was good that I left the other night. She thinks it would be better if we met under her supervision.”
“Because, what, I’m going to hurt you? I’m dangerous?”
“No.” He picks up his bag again. “But it was volatile, and she thinks it would be wise to have a cooling-off period.”
“I can’t believe this. You act all calm, like you’re the sane, rational one. Can’t you see what you did to my life?” She digs her nails into the door frame.
“Look, I’m dealing with a lot right now. I feel like a bomb just went off at my feet.”
She digs harder. “You feel like a bomb went off? How does that make sense?” she asks.
“It’s how I feel,” he says, as if using the word feel means she can’t disagree.
“But you knew a bomb was there. I mean, a bomb really did go off in my life, because you threw it at me,” she tells him.
“You’re not making sense. I need to get going. I have a call scheduled with my sponsor.” He approaches the doorway.
She glares at him. She’s not about to move. He’ll have to push her out of the way.
“Please,” he says.
She grips the door frame with both hands. He retreats to the master bathroom. When she hears a few drawers open, she follows.
He’s taking the toothpaste. She lunges, rips the bag. White plastic clings to her fingers. She peels it away and grabs the half-filled tube.
“You can’t have this,” she yells, holding it close to her chest.
“Fine.” He bends, picking up the lumpy, torn bag from the bottom. In her rashness, she’s given him an opening. He scurries out.
She faces the mirror and looks at the aqua-colored swirls on the toothpaste tube.