Entry 10: Another Undefined Moment
Summary: Angela tries to ease her embarrassment and understand the inconsistencies of her feelings and relationship with Tony.
The last twenty-four hours have been among the most embarrassing in my life, and I'm not even sure why. You'd think I'd have been grateful to have everything out in the open, but instead, I was mortified. I wasn't ready, and it was that loss of control that caused me to panic. I had dreamed of telling Tony that I love him on my terms, when I was ready, or when he said the words to me. I did not count on the words coming out while I was completely unaware of it – in front of the whole family no less. Those factors, more than anything else, were what had me running away instead of facing the situation.
And I still don't know exactly what I said during my nocturnal mumblings, but I'm so glad to have the whole situation resolved that I won't dare bring it up again. But the consequence is that all I'll ever know is that at some point, I was sleeptalking loud enough to wake everyone up, and among my ramblings was a profession of love to Tony. Even worse, I don't even know what I was dreaming about. At least if I'd have had a context, I may have been able to offer some explanation. As it stands, I can only assume that I let what are admittedly my true feelings come out in the only way they could – when I was unable to stop them.
When I overheard Mother and Tony talking in the kitchen, I had never been so embarrassed. Just thinking that, had I not overheard, they would have known something so intimate while I was clueless is enough to have me burying my head all over again. Maybe if it wasn't true, maybe if I had been honest with Tony before now, maybe if I'd just pretended I hadn't overheard anything, maybe, maybe, maybe. The truth is that maybe I wanted to talk about it. What better way to draw attention to the fact that something is wrong than to miss your own surprise party? If I really hadn't wanted to talk about it, I'd have gone home as though nothing were the matter and gone on with life as though no one were the wiser. But I couldn't do that. I couldn't face everyone knowing that they had heard what I'd said, even if they didn't know I knew. And a part of me needed to know what Tony thought about it. We had never again brought up what he'd said before his appendectomy two years ago, and until tonight, when he admitted remembering it, I wasn't even sure he had. There are so many unfinished moments between us, so many times when more could have been said and wasn't. And even though this time turned out no different, I feel better having reached some semblance of a truce than if I, or we, had left it completely unresolved.
Okay, yes, I admit it: I overreacted. I heard Mother and Tony talking, I went to work and fretted over it all day, and when it came time to go home, I panicked. Tony said it was no big deal. What did he mean by that? Was it no big deal that I said it or was it no big deal that he and the whole family heard it? Was it no big deal because he knows I love him or was it no big deal because it doesn't matter to him?
I just couldn't go home and face everyone. Even after talking to Tony, it still wasn't easy, but he swore to me that he'd explained to the kids that private thoughts needed to be respected and that what I'd said wasn't going to change anything. Like we have so many times before, we glossed over the real issue, offering insufficient answers and not inviting more questions. Within minutes of arriving home, we were eating what remained of the cake, and I was opening up presents. I know both kids were probably dying to ask if I had meant what I'd said, but true to their promise to Tony, they held their tongues, and I was too scared to open myself up for questions. And by the time they went to bed and Mother went home, it almost felt normal.
But echoing in the back of my mind all night was the bartender's question: If I'm so crazy about Tony, why didn't I just tell him? Why didn't I just say, "Yes Tony, I love you." But no, I couldn't say it, anymore than he could. We talked in circles, only going so far as to acknowledge that we both have feelings and have both vocalized those feelings. But even though we couldn't bring ourselves to admit the conscious reality of love, at least I know it exists. Tony has feelings for me, and he remembers expressing those feelings on that seemingly long-ago anniversary. Has it really only been two years? Anymore, it's hard for me to remember a time when Tony wasn't a part of my life. But I also learned tonight that he is no more ready than I am to admit those feelings. He said he didn't need to be unconscious to tell me how he feels, but when I asked him, something I still don't quite believe I was bold enough to do, all he could do was stutter through barely coherent babble. I guess Joe was right: We're just not ready.
But, it seems, we're getting there. We've both said, heard, and now acknowledged the words that we keep locked inside. The subtle lines of demarcation within our household are continuously fading, making us one cohesive, blended family. And the affection, the intimacy, between us is growing. I can feel it every time we're alone together. Only a week ago, we spent hours dancing, swaying, holding each other close in the dark quiet of our living room, which Tony so magically transformed to give me the prom I missed. We talked and laughed in a comfortable and friendly banter, then fell silent and just held tight as the tape deck moved from song to song in a continuous, repetitive cycle. He didn't care that I was dressed in a ratty robe and bunny slippers or that my hair wasn't done, and I didn't care either. We were comfortable and lacking in the self-consciousness that one would expect two people to feel in such circumstances. I wasn't embarrassed as I trailed my fingers along his neck, and I didn't blush when his arms tightened around my back, pulling me so close that our dancing became little more than a long embrace. It was a magical night that didn't end until we noticed the first pink streaks of dawn inch across the sky. Regretfully, we restored the living room to its usual order and ducked into the kitchen just as Sam slid her key into lock, no doubt floating on her own cloud of bliss.
Why did my emotions transform so quickly from such comfort and closeness to such humiliation simply because the very feelings that enveloped me on that night were vocalized a week later? When Tony and I met in the kitchen the next day, there was no embarrassment that we'd spent the whole night before dancing like high school sweethearts. We weren't tense or awkward or unsure about the implications of our actions. We were still best friends and partners in a household. I didn't flinch when he stood over me to pour coffee, and he didn't jerk his hand back when our fingers brushed while reaching for the sugar.
But when I found myself vulnerable, open to rejection, to being told my feelings were unanswered, I reacted with fear and embarrassment that I didn't even feel years ago when I mistakenly thought our first kiss was a whole lot more. Actions may mean a lot, but words remain and carry a permanence that I'm not ready to face.
I know that tomorrow, I'll wake up and walk into the kitchen to greet Tony as I have every morning for nearly five years. We'll plan our day and go over our to-do lists, and come Saturday, we'll put in a movie and relax on the couch in the comfortable intimacy that is our relationship. Someday, down the road, we'll revisit the subject of our feelings and our future, and someday maybe we'll be ready to put words to those feelings we share.
But after the kids were in bed and Mother was gone, and Tony and I were alone again, I couldn't help but wonder and fear if there would be some residual awkwardness. I know I felt it, because I didn't' know what I wanted to happen. Did I want to talk about it some more, or did I want to let it go? What about Tony? What did he want? Trusting and believing that one day the time will be right, I stayed quiet, opening up only enough to tell him how much I appreciated the party while being careful not to mention the events that preceded it. His smile, so sincere, so disarming, was all the reassurance I needed to know that everything will be okay. Silently returning what I hope was the same sentiment, I made my way all the way to the kitchen door before my eyes left his.
It may not be the definitive conclusion that could or maybe even should have been, but it still felt right somehow. Maybe I'm only able to say that now as I try to make sense of everything, and the memory of his patience and reassurance eases away what lingering embarrassment I still feel.
