“Yes!” Amber yells. “And you’ve never let me forget it!”
Breath eddies in and out of my chest. “It’s not that you melted down, Amber. It’s that you never said sorry for the damage you caused. That’s why it still matters.”
Silence falls, dense and dark.
Finally, “If I apologize, will you think about what I said? Will you not wreck yourself to prove a point?”
I don’t know. I think I might enjoy proving a point—to Amber, to myself, to everyone.
“Amber, I’m sorry, but it’s not up for discussion. I have to go.”
I shoulder my bag and head for the foyer. It’s past time to find Tobin. He deserves better, and so do I. I led myself into this mess, where I spend more time with the sister who thinks I’ll fail than the husband who’s always rooted for my success.
And now it’s my job to get myself out of it.
“Liz, you—”
I turn back, halfway out the door. “Stop, okay?Stop. I don’t need you to be my keeper. And one day, Eleanor won’t need that, either.”
From behind Amber comes a high, thready wail. “Stop! Fighting!Please.”
“Eleanor! I told you to go watch the iPad!” Amber scoops up her daughter, dislodging Yeti from her arms.
Sensing freedom, the cat darts toward the open door. Kris Kristofferson and I lunge at the same moment; in a flash, I’m tangled up with the dog and landing hard across the doorstep, tampons scattering like confetti down the stairs.
Amber, soothing Eleanor, pins me with a knowing stare. “Fine. Maybe you’ll listen to Tobin, if you won’t listen to me. You got one of the good ones. Better than mine. I hope you can keep him.” Turning away, she carries Eleanor up the stairs.
By the time I pick myself up, Yeti’s gone.
But Amber’s words still echo like an omen.
Chapter Twenty-five
Questions aren’t forbidden in improv, but they’re not usually helpful. Questioning your partner(s) without adding any of your own input unbalances the scene and forces your partner(s) to guess what you’re thinking. Do your share of the work.
—The Second Chances Handbook
I scoot my car the ridiculously short distance home, knowing I don’t have the words for what comes next, letting myself balance on the knife edge of hope anyway. I’ll make a mess of it, no doubt, but when I ask him to forgive me, he’ll say yes. He always does.
Halfway up the front stairs, I lose my nerve, turn around, turn back, get stuck.
“I really screwed up today, and I’m sorry,” I whisper, practicing with the spruce tree he planted when we moved in. Three years ago, it was nothing but a sprout; now it’s a gangly teenaged tree, taller every time I turn around, two shoots competing to be the main trunk.
“When I said we weren’t a team… when I said you weren’t my anything…” Just hearing it makes me crunch my shoulders to my ears, trying to block the awfulness. “I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”
The tree doesn’t answer.
But Tobin does.
“Didn’t you, though?”
The shock of his voice hits me between the shoulder blades, startling a squeaky “Oh!” from my throat.
He’s leaning in the open doorway, eyes down, mouth twisted. Curse that silent, lubricated hinge. “I think you did. I think you’ve been trying to tell me that for… for a long time now.”
It’s worse because he’s not angry. Or sad. Or even very surprised. He just looks so, so tired. Like it would be a relief to shut his eyes for the next hundred years.
My mouth opens and closes. I’m frozen in the most important improv of my life.
