Author's Note: Thank you everyone for the positive reviews! I know I don't update as often as I probably should, so I'm grateful for your patience with the story.
Chapter Nine: Disarmed
Jane packed her son's lunch.
Secretly, she appreciated the hot lunch that was served at his school. It certainly served a valuable purpose—providing nutrition at a small fee while saving her a few minutes in the morning. Every month, she received a calendar printed on pink paper with the cafeteria menu and she posted on the refrigerator with a couple of errant magnets. Arthur checked this calendar fairly religiously, almost always pausing before opening the door to grab a slice of cheese or some leftovers. He judiciously notified her if any cuisine was not to his liking. It was a rare occasion that she needed to prepare his lunch; however, today's date had fish tacos written in Times New Roman. She knew his intense dislike of fish tacos (not the dish particularly; his father prepared it well. The school just didn't have the same prudent palette that he did), so here she was, throwing a slapdash sandwich together with a fruit cup and pudding.
Arthur tumbled into the kitchen that morning, backpack bouncing on his shoulders, ready to receive his lunch. She tossed it to him with a smile and a wishful thought on her lips as he strolled off to school with his little sister. Moments after he left, his father entered the room for some coffee.
She watched him quietly as he grabbed a mug from the cupboard and poured. She wasn't sure if he even knew she was in the room. She wasn't sure of a lot of things with him, and turned over everything she knew about his recent activity in her mind, what she called The Absolutes.
Absolute No. 1: He was working late two or three days a week at his friend's restaurant.
Absolute No. 2: After coming home from these late nights, he took a shower before coming to bed.
Absolute No. 3: He was more guarded about his phone, often subconsciously moving the screen away from her or turning it off completely if she walked into the room.
Absolute No. 4: He hadn't touched her intimately, hadn't really even kissed her, in at least two weeks. Probably more.
Over and over, these fragmented ideas rolled around in her head as she slowly filled the gaps with assumptions and worries. She believed him when he told her she was the only woman for him. She believed him when he said he was at Mr. Ratburn's house—though his text said "old friend" and Arthur's teacher certainly wasn't that—but there was still something that nagged at her, something undefined yet present like a fog. She could see it and feel it but couldn't really reach out to touch it. It was this ever-present fear that almost made her confront her husband.
Her husband. Married after two years of dating. They met at the county fair through mutual friends and during his toast at their wedding, David made a point to mention that within five minutes of meeting her he knew they were destined to spend the rest of their lives together. She had sniffled as he made that comment, smiling through her tears. This man would be her husband. Until the end of time.
The end of time. That phrase always brought up two images for her. The first was a universe full of twinkling stars and swirling galaxies, held in place by effervescent gas. The second was a ticking clock, counting down to the inevitable end when they would cease to love each other. She knew the phrase was often overused and hokey. She didn't know that the end of time occurred less than a month ago.
She did still love him, as the father of her children and her only partner for over ten years. She wanted to continue loving him this way but knew that they were growing apart. Something had sprouted up between them slowly over the last few years and only recently began blooming in full force. She didn't know what the catalyst was, the accountant part of her brain demanded facts and figures. Hence, The Absolutes.
Was he having an affair? Could he still be having an affair after telling her she was the only woman he loved? Did he have a one night stand, immediately regret it, then mull it over and decide to continue? They were still in the kitchen together and he hadn't even acknowledged her, observed her. Did he know that she observed him? Did he care?
This last question made her spin around to him and say in a clear voice, "Good morning, David."
As if expecting it, he turned to her and smiled. "Good morning, Jane."
He wasn't surprised. She could read no guilt on his face. He was lucid, cognitive, natural. There was just a piece of him that she could no longer detect. Affection, maybe. She was talking to a stranger, but a stranger that she had slept next to the night before.
"How did you sleep?" he asked.
Something closed her throat. She turned away, suddenly choked up. There was a part of her that savagely wanted him to see her cry, feel part of the pain that she was hiding away. But another part was developing a quiet strategy that she wouldn't reveal yet, and seeing her cry would spoil it. "Fine. You?"
"Great."
"You came home pretty late last night. How many of these nights do you think you'll need to work next week?"
A pause. "Hard to say. Probably two at least. Business has been crazy right now."
She looked over at him with a small grin that didn't quite reach her eyes. "At least that means a little extra spending money for the holidays, right?"
He grinned sheepishly. It was a grin she'd seen a couple of weeks before, when she asked him where he was when he didn't come home that night. "I wish. It's mostly volunteer, preparing meals for the homeless and whatnot. 'Tis the season, right?"
"Oh? What's the organization? Maybe I can reach out to help."
"That's sweet, but I don't think so. The school district has a good amount of volunteers and you probably wouldn't want to commit to anything before tax season."
She hated him right now. The liar, the fucking liar. She turned away, suddenly feeling like her feet had been replaced by blocks of concrete. Her fingers wrapped around her lukewarm coffee as she wished she were anywhere but here in this stifling room.
Warm fingers lightly rested on her back, making her want to recoil. "I'll be home tonight if you want me to make some dinner—"
"Take your goddamn hands off me," she hissed through gritted teeth. The words permeated the room, now completely silent. Without looking at him, she continued. "Don't touch me. Ever. Again. Take your fucking clothes out of the closet. Sleep in the basement. The garage. I don't give a shit. Just do it by the end of the day."
A pause. The hands lifted and like a shadow, her husband left the room.
The tears now came in full force. She felt like she had been holding onto hot coals and expected him to feel them burn.
A memory rose and replayed in her head. They were on the ferris wheel at the county fair all those years ago. Dusk was settling, stars were beginning to twinkle. He kept insisting she ride with him, she kept making excuses until finally, laughing, slightly tipsy, both of them tumbled into the carriage and giggled all the way up. He rocked the seat back and forth and she slapped him to stop in a way that was both playful and tinged with fear. In a moment of bliss that could only come from adrenaline, he grabbed her hands and kissed her deeply as she thought to herself, I don't ever want this ride to stop.
Such a cruel thing for her mind to think of, to force back into her consciousness as if to say, Remember what you're giving up, Jane. Don't be irrational.
No, she retorted briskly. He gave up first.
What if you're wrong? Some people stop feeling sexual when they get older.
The guarded texting? The late nights? The showers?
He enjoys his privacy around a busy family. He's working. He doesn't want to smell like food.
Yeah, cushioned in a whole mess of nonprofit bullshit excuses. What a fucking farce.
He looked you in the eyes and told you that you were the only person he could ever love.
Technically, what he said was, "No other woman could bring me happiness." Hardly a commit—
Her eyes widened as she realized the literal meaning behind those words.
No other woman.
No other woman.
The implication bubbled up but before she could give it voice, she smothered it with all the internal strength she could muster. The accusation went from sound to ridiculously bizarre. A husband who has an affair with another man? Her hate and jealousy evaporated into a bizarre confusion, like a chronic pain that had suddenly fled.
Her hand reached for the whiskey in the liquor cabinet above the fridge. She added a generous dollop to the coffee. Fuck the time. Lady, you need a big ol' drink.
"She kicked you out?" Nigel sounded incredulous.
"No, not really. Out of the bedroom, not out of the house. I still can't believe it."
They were sitting in Nigel's classroom, Nigel leaning against his desk and David sprawled in one of the students' desks, his legs splayed underneath the table as he leaned back, thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose. He had a massive headache that had started sometime around noon, as he was packing up his clothes and trundling them to the basement. He was in complete denial of the morning's events, reasoning that she was just acting out of anger, that she would come down and apologize and he'd apologize and they would be on the ready to flip a switch and return to joyful ignorance.
When he dropped by after school, Nigel recognized the bewildered look on his face and immediately invited him to sit down and start talking. He relayed the conversation without looking up.
"I don't know where it came from. I don't know what I'm going to do. The kids are home right now and I… I'm living in the f-fucking basement. They can't see their father like that." His voice cracked on the final sentence and Nigel realized he was on the verge of tears. He gently rested a warm hand on David's neck, lightly stroking his hair with a thumb. "Your kids won't judge you. They won't blame you."
A muffled reply. "What am I supposed to tell them?"
Nigel's voice was low. "That's something you and Jane need to talk about first. It sounds like you haven't been doing a lot of that."
David laughed bitterly. "Jesus, I really fucked this up. I was seeing you too often, I was getting too sloppy. No wonder she caught on."
Nigel reached into his desk for a bottle of water and handed it to him. "Drink this."
He cracked the lid off and took a few sips.
"Now listen. We can't be in limbo about this anymore, that's fairly clear. It looks like you need to make some big decisions."
"Ughh." David tilted his head back. "I was afraid you'd say that."
He felt his hair being brushed away from his face and finally looked up at his lover. His eyes were rimmed with red.
"Go home," Nigel replied softly. "Get some sleep. Think about what you want. Talk to Jane."
"What about you?"
He smiled and shrugged. "What about me?" He felt his hand being grabbed suddenly, fiercely. David's eyes bored into his.
"You're more than just limbo to me. I want you in my life. Don't think that you're a passing flight of fancy."
Nigel cleared his throat, feeling it constrict suddenly. He nodded. It was all he could do.
