Down the Rabbit Hole

“Well don’t.” He took his seat at the table. “I’m not in the mood for that either.”

That stung. Bad.

But she understood days that could drain every ounce of happiness from your life. And she was aware that lashing out at the people who love you best happens because they are the most likely to tolerate and forgive your bad behavior. Plus it was her experience with Jeremy that he simply needed a little time to calm down and center himself. Her sweet, funny Jeremy would come back around.

So she swallowed her own harsh retort, pressed her lips together and poured his wine.

Generally, it didn’t seem to bother him that she didn’t drink with him—preferring water to the blistering headaches even small amounts of alcohol delivered. But on other occasions . . .

“There it is again.”

“What?” she asked.

“That smug, superior look you get when I drink.”

“What? I don’t. I don’t care if you drink.” Her smile was tight and hopeful—she didn’t want to fight with him. “I envy you. I could use a drink once in a while.”

“Once in a while? But not as often as I have them.”

“I didn’t say that . . . or mean that. Look, I’m sorry you had a bad day, but don’t take it out on me. It’s not fair.”

He appeared to back off a bit—but it was only to form a new line of attack.

“Sorry.” He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “You’re right. It’s not fair. But do you think it’s fair that since you didn’t get your promotion, I have to work longer hours and work them all with Barry Levine?” He took another gulp of his wine. “We could have used your pay raise to buy us some time while I tried to find a better, more fulfilling job that would benefit both of us in the long run. I’m frustrated. Can’t you see that?”

She nodded, though she didn’t see his frustration being any greater than her own.

They finished their meal in silence. She did kitchen duty alone that night, then joined him in the living room to watch television—so to speak. The television was simply background noise while Jeremy, sporting earbuds, disappeared to wherever the computer on his lap took him and she escaped into Elizabeth Moon’s new novel.

Until it was time for bed . . .

She heard him close his laptop; listened while he prepared for bed. She knew when he left the bathroom and went down the hall to their bedroom. Then she pretended to be engrossed in her book when he returned in his pajama bottoms to stare at her from across the room.

Normally, she would have looked up expecting to see that spark of desire that promised the hot, sweaty sex she was accustomed to with her husband.

But her sweet, funny Jeremy had not returned . . . and the other one had offered no apology for his surly conduct earlier in the evening. His resentment and her hurt feelings from dinner lingered in the air like the scent of coq au vin.

There was a time, not so long ago, when she would have been grateful to see that he still wanted her at the end of a miserable day. A time when she cut him slack with apologies; told herself that the intimacy of making love would fill the empty spaces that the lack of respect and kindness and friendship the rest of the night had created. A time when she could still pretend she didn’t feel used.

There was also a time when all the books she read said she needed to open a dialogue with him. She needed to let him know how she felt and express her concerns. After several attempts at communicating her distress didn’t go as well as she’d hoped, the books suggested marriage counseling as an opportunity to rekindle their relationship.

Jeremy was surprised—shocked, even—to hear that she thought their relationship needed to be rejuvenated. It cut him to the quick; he was devastated for three solid days.

Yes, there was a time for all of that and then some—like the niggling notion of other women. And if she was truthful, there were also times when she gave as good as she got in feeble attempts to take back her self-esteem. But it became harder and harder to flip the switch between overjoyed and offended; between joining in and faking it; between faking it and making no effort at all.

“Are you bringing that sexy bod to bed anytime soon?”

She looked up at him and smiled; her cheeks felt stiff. “Absolutely. I just want to finish this chapter real quick, okay?”

“Sure.” He turned to walk back down the hall. “But don’t be long. I’m beat. I may pass out.”

Please do, she thought and then she turned the page and started chapter twelve.

She didn’t get through the second page before she shoved her candy wrapper bookmark into the crease of her book and tossed it onto the end table.

She covered her face in shame. “What am I doing?”

She wanted to follow him; she loved making love with him. But her feelings were hurt and her expectations had deflated. Was she pouting like a child; a stubborn, grudge-holding child . . . or was she a woman cocooning herself in a protective shell?