“Kumail Nanjiani is averyimportant comedian,” I say, because Tobin hasn’t been my sort-of ex long enough to make snarky comments about thirst. “And actually, it’sextra niceto hang with Eleanor, who is an amazing human being, who I love spending time with. We made a lot of really good things with Legos.”
He closes his eyes. “Fine. I can carry the bag to Amber’s.”
“You don’t get to carry your ex’s bags.”
He blanches like I slapped him. “We’re still married.”
I muscle the suitcase down the stairs. It’s really heavy. “Come on, Tobe. We should try to be realistic.”
“So that’s it?” His voice lowers, dark and wounded. “Youshow up, you grab some stuff, you’re out? I’ve spent hours on the phone trying to get us a therapy appointment sooner than July. I’ve stayed up nights reading every relationship book you can buy, and some you can’t. And you won’t eventryto fix our problems?”
“Oh,nowyou admit we have problems. This would have been useful anytime in the past three years. Anytime I said we needed help before it was too late.”
We’re fighting. Actually fighting.
Tobin and I don’t do this. It’s terrifying and exhilarating, saying all the stuff I kept inside, afraid to give him the last push he needed to leave his boring, weird wife.
But the angrier I am, the more powerful I feel. I don’t have to worry I’m not enough for him if I can decide he’s not enough for me.
He can’t leave me if I leave him first.
I roll off, keeping an eye out for Eleanor dropping down from a tree or popping out from behind a shrub.
“Liz!” It’s the rawest sound I’ve ever heard him make. Raw enough to stop me in my tracks.
“Can we please talk.” His head sags. “Please. I’ve given you space, like you asked. The whole week. Eight days. I’m losing it over here.”
Unwilling to turn back, I peer over my shoulder. He’s sweating. Clenched. Hyperventilating.
I’m leaving him, like his dad left him a dozen times as a kid and left his mom a dozen more since Tobin grew up. I’m impulsively walking out on someone whose psyche formed around the wounds from impulsive abandonment. I should dial 666 and make dinner reservations in hell, because I’m going to need them.
But also. Here’s something he didn’t mean to show me. Something not perfect. The opposite of pixie dust—plain old dirt.
Perfection is what Tobin manufactures for West by North tourists, who don’t understand they’re settling when they feaston Alberta prime rib after an easy float down the river. They’ve never tasted the glorious first bite of bannock—dough toasted on a stick—that you burned and ate anyway after a backcountry day when you felt like quitting dozens of times and didn’t.
And Tobin—he’s giving bannock vibes, charred edges hiding the steamy, tender insides. It’s ugly and ordinary andreal. It’s my favorite, and I want it too much.
I should keep running, but that one click of a tumbler in his locked-down heart makes the whole world tremble under its impact.
I can’t help but be shaken.
“All right,” I say, wheeling around. “Start talking.”
Chapter Six
Interest comes from connection, not conflict. Be true to the self that seeks to know and love others. YES, AND.
—The Second Chances Handbook
Seven minutes later, Tobin and I are posed stiffly on opposite sides of his truck, each of us an inflatable doll incapable of communication. My suitcase hovers next to my leg, the way people position it when they’re waiting for their flight, ready to run.
Tobin’s in the driver’s seat.
Every little thing in our marriage carries meaning these days. There’s nothing I won’t overthink.
It was me who insisted we couldn’t possibly conduct our business inside the house. And it’s his truck. He retrieved the keys, unlocked his door, and reached across the cab to open my door because he knows I get flustered and clumsy when people open my car door from the outside.
But he’s in the driver’s seat, and I’m pissed off about what that says about us.
