When Eric comes to bed, and Tami is already snuggled beneath the comforter with a book in hand, one of three things usually happens.
One - he's so exhausted from his day that he flicks out his bedside lamp, kisses her goodnight, and rolls over to sleep.
Two – he picks up his own book from the nightstand and joins her in the evening exercise of reading.
Or three – he not so subtly tries for sex.
Tonight, however, he doesn't do any of those things. Instead he lies on his back with his hands laced behind his head and stares up at the ceiling.
Tami knows she should ask him what's wrong. That's the wifely thing to do. The truth is, however, that she's afraid he's going to admit he doesn't want to make this move, that he's having second thoughts. She doesn't think he'll back out. He's practical, after all, and he currently has no contract with any school, while she's signed on the dotted line and will be earning just under six-figures. But she also knows that what she's asked of him is hardly easy. Texas is the only state he's ever known, and no state knows football like Texas. Their extended family is still here, scattered about in Dallas, Houston, and west Texas. All of his friends are here, at least, all of the friends he's made in the past decade.
"What's wrong, hon?" she says anyway.
"Nothin'," he mutters.
She supposes she could stop right there. She's done her duty, and it's not her fault he's reluctant to express his feelings. The counselor in her , however, won't let her stop. "You look a little despondent, sugar."
"Luke signed up."
"For?"
"The military. Probably Iraq."
"Oh. I guess I saw that coming. You know, he was in my office a while back. He said he was looking at his options in case football didn't work out. I suggested he could take out loans for an agricultural college, but he didn't want to go into debt. The GI Bill is one way to avoid that. I think - " She stops suddenly, because she realizes she's gone into opinion mode and that this is a time that calls for listener mode. She puts a hand on his head and strokes the thick, soft strands. "You're worried about him." It's half a statement, half a question.
"I feel like I failed him."
"You didn't fail him, hon."
He jerks his head out from under her hand. She sighs and closes her book and lays it on the nightstand. She ought to know better. He just told her how he feels, and she basically told him he shouldn't feel that way. A good counselor doesn't tell someone how they should or should not feel. But she's not just a counselor, she's a wife. And reassuring her husband, impossibly hoping to wipe his pain away quickly, is a knee-jerk response.
She takes off her glasses, folds them up, and sets them on top of the book. "Why do you feel like you failed him?"
"I don't know. I just do. I should have made him…I should have gotten him an offer somehow. From somewhere."
"You're a good man, Eric." It isn't telling him how to feel. It's just telling him the truth.
He rolls over and whispers, "C'mere."
She slides in close, warm against the white t-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders and solid chest, and kisses him. As a wife, she does have some tools that are not to be found in her counselor's tool kit. She wraps a leg around his waist and he buries a hand in her long hair and kisses her more deeply. His hands are familiar and strong as they slide down her back and tug at the edge of her shirt. She pulls away to draw it off over hear head, and the serious, stern line of his lips morphs into a broad grin.
Later, when they're naked and cuddled beneath the warm weight of the comforter, she tries talking to him again. He doesn't say much, until he says, "Everything is changing."
"Change is the only sure thing, babe."
"And death."
"That's a bit morbid."
"And you." He kisses her cheek.
"That's better." She closes her eyes, relaxes into his arms, and dreams of the future.