“And you know my kids aren’t here, right?” I tease, squeezing her back. “You can swear like a trucker.”
“I know. But now I like it. So, deal with it.”
I nod, smiling. “Night, Iz. Love you and your dirty mind.”
When I return to my desk, a small box tied with a bright yellow ribbon is waiting for me. My cheeks hurt from the sudden burst of dopamine. I know exactly who left it. The fact that he went out of his way to leave this here, even after I’ve spent all day avoiding him and his messages, makes me feel a mix of guilt and anticipation.
Inside, I find my favorite candy with a notepad covered in adorable kitty designs. A handwritten note sits on top:
Life would be un-BEAR-able without… me, of course (and your notepads).
Love,
Your annoyingly persistent (but lovable) friend, Dylan
P.S. You might want to eat these gummy bears after the kids are in bed. Luis swears by them. I don’t use the stuff, but figured you might need some fun more than I do.
A laugh bursts out of me, the stress of the day melting away in an instant. Dylan’s cheesy surprises—like the Halloween gifts, the massive pack of bubble gum he left on my desk after I ate tuna, and now this—always make my heart flutter. They are small gestures, but they make me feel special in a way I’ve never felt before.
This doesn’t change anything, though. I can’t “start living,” like he suggested. I can’t run off with him, riding into the sunset like I’m single. I probably shouldn’t eat these bears either. And I definitely shouldn’t message him back.
The house is quiet, except for the sound of our daughters giggling in the bedroom playing a board game. A nice change from the sadness they’ve carried since giving away Wobbles. Jacob’s eating leftovers at the kitchen island, while I sneak into the box of Halloween chocolate that was meant for next week.
“Jacob.” I take a deep breath, trying to calm my shaky nerves. “Can we talk?”
Shit—out of all the ways to start this, I choose the worst.
He looks up, startled, fork hovering mid-air. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve… been unhappy,” I say, shoving a mini Kit Kat bar in my mouth like it’s going to fix everything. “With life… with us.”
His silence is heavier than any answer.
“Like I’m stuck… or maybe we both are.” I fumble for the right words. “There was a time we saw each other. We laughed. Shared dreams. Talked about our day. But now it’s like we’re just existing.”
Jacob sets his fork down, the clink breaking the quiet. “We have a beautiful family, a nice home. I don’t get it, we’re comfortable. What more do you want?”
“Comfortable?” I shake my head, frustration brewing as I slide onto the stool beside him. “A house isn’t a home because it’s filled with things, Jacob. A real home is built on love and connection. It’s the people that matter, not the fancy rug or big-screen TV.”
He stares at me, confusion deepening. “I thought we had that.”
The words sting because they should feel true. I drop my gaze, staring at the countertop. “I don’t want to feel comfortable. I want to live, to feel alive, Jacob. I want someone who wants to talk to me, who’s excited about life, who doesn’t run from their feelings.”
I force myself to look up and face him. “It’s like I’m living with two versions of you.” I pause. “The one who lets me in and the one who shuts me out. But I want the first one to stay because I don’t know how to live with the second one.”
Jacob’s shoulders slump. “And what am I supposed to do with that?” he murmurs. “I provide. I love you. I’m doing my best. Isn’t that enough?”
I let out a bitter sigh. “I appreciate everything you do. I know you’re capable of being an amazing husband. But it’s like you fill my glass just enough to keep me going—showing glimpses of the man I married—only to leave me empty again. Vulnerable. Waiting for a few drops to keep me from breaking.”
His hands flex at his sides. “What does that even mean? Am I supposed to guess what you need?”
“Maybe that’s the problem! I’ve been telling you for years, but you don’t hear it.”
He cuts me off. “Of course, I’m the problem. I’m always the problem. What about what I need?”
“I never said that. I don’t even know what you need from me, Jacob! Because you don’t tell me. It’s like I fell in love with the parts of you that let me in. The parts that are good. The partsI hold onto, waiting for you to give me more. But maybe that’s all it is—pieces I’ve become addicted to, getting high off those moments, waiting for the next, convincing myself that’s who you are.”
I swallow hard, fiddling with the candy wrapper. “The times when we’re away and there’s no work or distractions… you’re different. Vulnerable. Funny. Charming. The man I fell in love with. But the moment we step into the car to head home, that version of you disappears. You shut me out again. But I knew this when I married you. I knew I’d always have to share you with your work.”
