Scowling, he replies, “So I fucked up. Like you neverfucked up in our relationship? No, I forget. You were too busy being Mother Theresa. Shit, Izzie, how many dates and special events did you cancel because a dig you were on took longer than it should? Or you had a missed flight? Or trouble getting back through customs with an artifact? Hell, you missed our proposal dinner. Remember that? I had to put off asking you to marry me for three weeks until we could finally see each other again. And as I recall, that was so you could provide a consultation in Guatemala for the newly discovered tomb of a Mayan princess or some shit like that.”
He always likes to bring this up. “It was a significant find, and time was of the essence. We madeNational Geographicwith that discovery.”
“Baby girl, that’s my point.”
Baby girl. Why does he still call me that? And how can three syllables put such a deep ache in my chest? Make me think of things I don’t dare hope for?
Swallowing hard, I steel my heart, remembering the loneliness of my previous life, the constant stream of lies and secrets. The nagging sense that I would never know even half of what he did, from the sudden need to grow a beard he couldn’t shave for months to unaccounted for scars and wounds.
The physical reminders of his job had nothing on the mental and emotional ones, though, which left him haunted, silent, and cold for months at a time. Towards the end, it became a constant cycle of piecing the man I loved and the father of my children back together, only to send him out to get shattered again.
He looks down. “We both broke a ton of promises, and we both led highly independent lives. And it worked just fine. But then you got pregnant, and we married, and everything changed overnight. You created a mile-long list of expectations for me without telling me what any of them were. And then you freaked out when I didn’t follow them to a tee. Is it anywonder it took me time to catch up? To figure this shit out? Now that I have, though, you continue to punish me instead of seeing it for what it is. How much more atoning do I need to do to make you happy?”
I glance back up the alleyway, squinting.Is somebody eavesdropping on our conversation?For a fleeting moment, I swear I see a shadowy figure at the front of the alley. A cold chill travels down my spine.
Turning back towards Wolfe, I whisper, “List of expectations? I think anybody could figure out a husband’s supposed to be home more than he’s away. And a father’s supposed to be there for his children. It’s common sense.”
His face scrunches, “You know nothing was common about my childhood. I was a fucking foster kid. I always told you I didn’t know the first thing about how to make a relationship or a family work. You promised you’d help me. But you never even tried—” He looks away for a long moment.
I’m dangerously close to tears, but I have to defend myself. Having the divorce papers drawn up and sent overseas was the single most painful thing I’ve ever done.
“Never tried? How could I, thousands of miles away? Our marriage was a constant cycle of you disappearing for months. You couldn’t tell me where you were or what you did, let alone who you did it with. Sometimes, you didn’t contact me for weeks. Then, out of the blue, you’d reappear, a hollowed-out shell. I held on for as long as I could despite the anguish it caused our children and me. But the deceptions gnawed away at me.”
They caused me to do the one unforgivable thing in his eyes: question his loyalty. I don’t say this last part because I already know what the result will be—him getting furious and shutting down. I can’t stand it when he stonewalls me. And even though I know he won’t admit it, he’s never forgiven me.
Instead, I take a deep breath, gathering every ounce ofcomposure. Softly, I remind him, “You were the one who brought up divorce in the first place.”I’m not trying to hold grudges or drudge up things from the past, but it’s true. And that word was one of my two unforgivables—the other being infidelity. He knew that going in.
Through gritted teeth, he says, “All I’ve ever wanted to do is make you happy. Obviously, you were miserable with me, so I said it.”
I knit my brows. “And yet you refuse to sign the papers?”
I ignore the stricken look on his face like I’ve punched him in the gut. Silence engulfs us, thick and suffocating. I long to run into his arms, let him comfort me like he used to. But the pain built up between us is an invisible, impenetrable barrier. Instead, I wrap my arms around myself, pacing back and forth.
Shaking my head to clear it, I feel myself falling apart. I have to get a hold of myself. So, I turn back to our previous conversation, using anger to fortify me. “Getting back to the kids. How often do I have to consult you about watching them? If Cricket or Birdie stops by and can watch them for a few minutes while I head out to the grocery store, do you honestly expect me to call you first? How difficult and unnatural do you want to make this?”
His face looks hard as iron, and he shakes his head. “You don’t care about what I want. If you did, everything would be so different right now?—”
“Everything would be so different? You couldn’t even be bothered to Zoom into marriage counseling with me.”
“I didn’t like the therapist.”
“What was wrong with Paul?”
His face hardens even more, and he looks down, muttering under his breath. I only catch pieces of it, including “…on a first-name basis…”
I don’t know what he has against our old therapist. Maybe he never wanted to put in the hard work marriage requires.After all, running away from chronic problems was easy each time he headed overseas for work. The way he’s running away from signing the divorce papers now.
It’s not fair to me or the kids, and I don’t understand how he can stand to live this way, either. But the military can teach soldiers to lead double lives, and the same goes for a PMC.
Sticky details like still being married probably don’t bother him the same way they do me. My mind wanders back to seeing him flanked on either side by Selma and Laurie at the table—two of the biggest skanks in Hollister. A hot flash of jealousy seizes me. I know I should keep my mouth shut, but I’ve never had much self-control when it comes to jealousy and anger.
Now, both incinerate me as words I know I’ll regret pour out. “Back to our custody arrangement. I’ll be sure to call you the next time I need to step outside for five minutes, or heck, maybe even when I need to take a shower or use the bathroom. That way, you won’t miss one precious moment with our children.” I’m being childish and petty, but I can’t stop. “And while we’re on the topic of babysitting, you better get back inside to Selma and Laurie. Otherwise, you might be last for a blowjob under the bar table.”
“You’ve got a filthy mouth. You know that,” Wolfe replies, stuck between a disgusted grimace and a shocked smirk.
I do. I’ve spent my entire professional life around shovelbums and Army Rangers with a thin frosting of intellectuals and academics on top. I also have four brothers, three of whom served in the Navy or Coast Guard, and one who became a professional hockey player. Still, he’s the pot calling the kettle black. I retort, “Like you’ve got any room to talk.”
“As I recall, that’s something you liked about me. My filthy, dirty mouth.”
