Thirty-four

Tuesday came and went and still no word from Michael. It seemed I was in a familiar pattern with him, alternating between pissed off and guilty. One minute I’d pick up the phone to call him and the next minute I’d slam down the phone and say, “Fuck you. Two can play at this game.”

On Wednesday, though, I went to the grocery store and picked up a whole chicken, some potatoes and fixings for salad. My game plan was to assume he was coming over, that he’d have called if that weren’t the case. If I was wrong, I was wrong. I sort of hoped I was.

In the afternoon the kitchen smelled homey with the chicken roasting in the oven, stuffed with onions, lemons, thyme, oregano and parsley. I was peeling potatoes when I heard Michael’s key in the door. My stomach did a spin.

“Smells good,” he said, coming into the kitchen, coat still on. He didn’t kiss me as he usually did. He barely looked at me. Instead he got a glass and poured some scotch.

“I wasn’t sure you were coming,” I said. I cut the potatoes into wedges and put them on a baking pan. “It would have been nice if you’d called me back.”

“Yeah, I know. But I wasn’t sure what I was doing until I got here.” He took a slug of scotch while I drizzled the potatoes with olive oil and sprinkled them with salt, pepper and rosemary. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what’s going on with you,” he said, leaning against the refrigerator, “and I think it must be related to your dad’s death.” The word brought tears to my eyes but I blinked them away and put the potatoes in the oven.

He went on. “Grief affects people in different ways. It’s a big blow and I understand that. I think it’s hard to be yourself right now and I’m sorry you’re going through it.”

His empathy softened me. “It is a tough time,” I admitted.

“I think you need time to work through that before you can worry about anything else.” He seemed relieved to have figured it all out. “I’ll be honest, it’s not easy to deal with, but I’ll try to be patient. Losing someone close to us can make us say and do things we wouldn’t ordinarily do. I understand that now. And I forgive you.”

My head snapped up. “Forgive me?”

“Oh, I don’t mean forgive exactly. That was a bad choice of words. I just mean I can overlook what’s going on with you now because you’re grieving.”

I guess I should have appreciated his empathy, but I hated how sure he was of himself, how pleased that he’d decoded me. I hated the smug expression on his face.

“What’d you do, Google ‘grief’?” I said.

“Well, I did actually. It’s amazing what you can learn on the Internet.”

Can you learn not to be an asshole? I wondered.

“I’m going to Florida on Friday,” I said quietly. Can you forgive that?

Michael blinked. He looked into his glass and then back at me, studying every detail of my face as if he weren’t sure who he was looking at.

“Well, that’s an interesting way to deal with your grief,” he said. I had to look away. “Goddamn it, Libby,” he said. “I never thought you’d do this to me.”

My chest tightened. “I didn’t do anything to you,” I said. Yet. “There’s nothing going on that you don’t know about.”

“Yeah, right,” he said. “That’s why you’re going to Florida.”

It sounded bad. I knew it did. “Nothing’s going on,” I said again. “I don’t even know how I feel about him.”

“You don’t know how you feel about him. You don’t know how you feel about me,” he said, his eyes on fire. “Just exactly what do you know?”

Where had Mr. Understanding gone?

“I guess I don’t know much of anything anymore.”

Michael walked over to the window and stared out. He twisted the wand on the miniblinds, opening, closing, straightening them. “You think he’s so great, Libby? You don’t even know him.” He turned. “You have no idea who he is. But you’re going to throw this all away.” He waved his hands, sweeping the room.

I looked around the room. “Throw all what away?” I said. “This is my house. My TV, my Oriental rug, my candlesticks, my pictures hanging on the walls—”

“You know what I mean,” he said. “Us. Our future. Our life.” He stood for a moment, glaring at me, his shoulders hunched, his mouth grim. Then he huffed and turned away. He poured more scotch, adding water this time, and left the kitchen.

I braced myself against the counter, my heart beating like a jackhammer. The smell of the chicken was intense, so I opened the oven to see if it was done. I took the bird out and studied the golden, perfectly crisped skin. I breathed deeply for several moments and then went into the living room, where Michael was sitting on the ottoman, his head in his hands. Was he crying? He sat utterly still and there was no sound. I wished I could make him disappear so I wouldn’t have to see the dejected curve of his back, his vulnerable neck, white where the barber had trimmed his hair. I wished I could spare him this, and spare myself this overwhelming feeling of being a traitor. And a bitch.

Rufus was curled into a gray ball on the chair. I moved him and sat in front of Michael.

He looked up. Thankfully his eyes were dry.

“I can’t believe this.” He laughed but there was no amusement in it. “Two weeks ago I was the happiest guy on earth. What the hell happened? Does what we have mean nothing to you?”

“What do we have, Michael? What we had meant a lot to me, back when we first met, when we had the same goals, when we seemed to be on the same page about our life together. I never wanted to get married again, you knew that. You said you felt the same way.

“Two weeks ago you may have been the happiest guy on earth, but at what cost? If making yourself happy makes me miserable, what have we got?”

His shoulders slumped, face etched with misery. “Don’t go, Libby.”

I felt overwhelmingly sad, for him, for me, for the circumstances, for the fact that my dad was dead. What would my father say if he could see all this?

“Michael…” I didn’t know what to say.

“You know how long I was single before I met you? Fifteen years. And I was fine. I figured I’d had my chance and it didn’t work out. You know how hard it is to meet someone at our age?” I nodded. “And then I met you.” I swallowed. “And you changed my life.” Don’t tell me any more, I thought. “I mean, it’s not like I didn’t have a great life—I did. I had friends, I had a good business, I traveled. And all that was terrific. But you know what? It was a hundred times more terrific with you in it.”

I went to sit beside him and he moved over to accommodate me. I couldn’t speak for a moment. I took his hand. “I know what you’re saying. I’ve felt some of that myself. It is nicer to have someone to share things with. And it’s even better if you have a great life to begin with. I think you appreciate it even more then.” He nodded and I started crying then. “I wouldn’t hurt you for anything in the world,” I said. “And I don’t want to lose you and everything we’ve built together. But you’re right, I’m not myself right now. I’m doubting everything—you, me, my own feelings, my goals, what I want out of life. The bottom line is, I can’t tell you I won’t go see Patrick. Don’t you see that I have to be sure? No matter how I feel about you, I need to be sure. I’m too old to have regrets.

“You’re so important to me,” I said. “But would you want to get married if I’m not sure? What chance would we have?”

He said nothing. He put his elbows on his knees, head down. I reached out but my hand just hovered over his shoulder, and I withdrew it.

He stood up then, and rolled his head on his neck. “I think we’d be fine,” he said, straightening. “I think once you made the decision you’d realize how right it is.”

“I wish I could be sure of that.”

“I know.” He shook his head, picked up his glass and took it into the kitchen, leaving me and Rufus sitting there. In a minute he came back and said, “I’m gonna go.”

“Don’t leave yet,” I said. I thought if we talked it through I’d unearth something important. Maybe together we’d figure something out. I didn’t want him to leave with all this emptiness, and my guilt, hanging between us.

“Why not? What else is there to say?” he said. “You made your decision to go see Patrick. What that says is pretty clear to me, Libby. I don’t need an instruction manual to see I’m not on your agenda.”

My throat felt tight. Why was I doing this to him? “I’m sorry, Michael, I really am.”

He didn’t look as if he believed me but he said, “I know.” And then, “But really, so what?” I flinched. He sighed, smiled thinly and walked to the front door, head high, shoulders square.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, I’m just peachy.” He turned. “Have fun, Libby. Have a great time with your boyfriend. But don’t expect me to be waiting when it doesn’t work out.”

I watched him walk out and close the door behind him. I stood there waiting for him to come back in. And as I stood Rufus wound himself around my legs.

But Michael didn’t come back, and I realized I had just doused that bridge in gasoline and ignited it.

A painful thing settled inside me while tears coursed down my face.