Unspoken

by Kelly Rimmer

  He really did surprise me that time, not just because of the waffles but because it was the anniversary of the day when we met. I hadn’t even realized he’d marked that date in his mind.

  We sat at the dining room table for so many meals—even our first meal together, when Jess and Marcus and Abby and even Paul’s brother Jake were all here for the kind of noisy, wine-soaked long weekends with friends that most twentysomethings know all too well. I’d known Jess for a while by then, after she started coming to my advanced Pilates class, and we’d quickly formed a close friendship outside of class, too. She invited me to join her other friends for a long weekend out here, and I didn’t realize that agreeing to that trip was going to change my entire life.

  That was the first time I’d ever laid eyes on Paul, and I could scarcely convince myself to look away. He was utterly intriguing, brilliant and intense. He was also just a little too arrogant and awkward to be easy company, but intriguing nonetheless.

  But I remember, too, that last dinner we had here, when it was just the two of us, and we sat in bitter, impenetrable silence. Paul’s eyes kept drifting to his laptop, and I knew his hands were itching to hold the phone I’d snatched from him when we sat down at the table. Halfway through dinner, he pushed back his chair, scooped the laptop up and went upstairs to work. We were supposed to stay another few days, but the next day I sobbed as I packed my bag. He actually caught on for once and packed his, too.

  “What’s wrong?” he’d asked.

  “Nothing!” I’d snapped, as I folded the new lingerie I’d packed for the trip but never actually worn.

  I’ve been here over a dozen weekends since I left Paul—this house has become my haven when navigating life in the city alone becomes bewildering and exhausting. The first few trips were difficult, but I’ve never felt overwhelmed like this, and suddenly, the house I fought tooth and nail for is the last place on earth I can bear to be.

  I step hastily back into the bedroom, scoop up my wallet and all but run from the house into the street. I wander idly toward the village center—almost a mile from our house, but it’s a pleasant walk down streets filled with much-loved family homes. It’s warm for April today. The air is heavy with the humidity I know is only going to build over the coming months; the sun is hot on my shoulders when I step between the shade offered by the trees that line the street.

  With every step away from Paul, I feel the chaos in my chest settling. By the time I reach the village center, I’m almost calm again—but I’m in no rush to go back to that house. That’s why I linger, ducking and weaving through the stores without purpose or the desire to actually do any shopping.

  It’s the kind of spring afternoon here where the whole world seems fresh and new. On days like this, I used to joke with Paul that we should pack up in the city and move to Greenport permanently. I wasn’t always joking. Most of the time I love the city, but I almost always loved us here. Every now and again when we stole a weekend away together here, I’d catch the full force of Paul’s attention for a few hours. Even in those last lonely months, I’d remember exactly why I fell so deeply in love with him in the first place. In work mode, Paul is focused and obsessive and cold. He’ll always be an intense man, but here at Greenport, the intensity was sometimes irresistibly focused on me.

  It’s hard to admit, even to myself, that I still really miss those moments.

  When I tire of my rudderless voyage, I wander to Marie’s, my favorite store here in Greenport. It’s a quirky mix of homewares, flowers and food, tucked inside a remodeled Colonial house on Front Street. When I step through the front door, a blast of floral-scented air greets me, and Marie herself calls from behind the counter.

  “Isabel! Back so soon? Weren’t you just here last weekend?”

  It took three or four visits alone to this café before Marie stopped asking after Paul. I haven’t thought about that for a while, but I’m suddenly very grateful that she did eventually catch on. If she asked after him today, I think I’d burst into tears.

  “It was a couple of weeks ago. And I’m already due some more Greenport peace and quiet,” I explain, offering her a weak smile.

  “Large iced coffee on almond milk, extra cream, extra caramel syrup, right?” she smiles, and I laugh and nod. I curl up in a bucket chair by the window of the café and begin flicking through a gossip magazine someone has left on the table, but I’m quickly interrupted by another familiar voice.

  “I know we said we’d have coffee next time you’re in town, but I didn’t realize it would be this soon.” I look up to find my friend Darby Whitlam sinking into the seat opposite me. He offers me a somewhat cheeky smile, which quickly fades as he surveys my face. “Oh, Izzy. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I lie, then explain, “This visit was kind of a last-minute impulse. I didn’t plan to be back so soon.”

  “I was just joking around with you. I actually have a client shortly. I felt my energy levels starting to fade so I sneaked out for a caffeine top-up. Nothing worse than your therapist falling asleep while you pour your heart out to him, right?” Darby gives me a little grin.

  I met Darby at the little gym here in Greenport late last year. He’s a super-friendly, happily divorced guy in his late thirties, and apparently the main driving force behind the gym’s thriving social club. Greenport is a pretty intimate place in the off-season, so I’ve run into him plenty of times over the last few months. His office is over a store just down from the café, and we’ve caught up over coffee together here at Marie’s place a few times now, most recently when I was here two weeks ago. I’ve joined the gym’s trivia team for the Sunday night competition at a local bar at his invitation, but I’ve always declined his offers to take me out for dinner. I can tell that Darby is interested in something more than a friendship with me, and I really don’t want to lead him on. I’m months, maybe years away from being ready to date again.

  Plus...I feel absolutely nothing when I look at Darby, even though he’s attractive. He has a thick head of blond hair and warm blue eyes, and he’s kind and thoughtful and sensitive. He’s exactly the kind of guy I should’ve been with all along.

  “Listen, if you need to talk, you’ve got my number, okay?” Darby says quietly. That’s when I know I must look awful—he’s never directly offered a shoulder for me to cry on before.

  I’m relieved when Darby quickly moves the conversation on. “We can catch up for a drink this weekend if you find you’re up for some company. Or come along with the gang for trivia again Sunday night...you’re always welcome to join us, and it’s always handy having someone on the team who knows both sports and anatomy.”

  Jess might tell me to meet him for trivia, or better yet, to go out for dinner with him beforehand. She’s been asking me why I’m not playing the field again, given the divorce was my idea and it’s almost finished now. She even suggested she could set me up with her best guy friend, Mitchell, whom I’ve met quite a few times now and do genuinely like. I told her I just wasn’t ready, and I guess that’s true. What’s also true is that the idea of dating anyone makes me feel like I’m cheating on Paul.

  Paul. The man I’m quite certain I feel nothing but anger toward these days. It doesn’t make sense that I still feel I need to be loyal to him, too. I’m in limbo, and that’s part of the problem. I don’t feel married anymore, but I sure as hell don’t feel single. I can’t help but think that part of the reason that I can’t move on yet is that so much of my energy is still tied up in thoughts about Paul.

  I glance up, and Darby smiles at me again. He has such a lovely smile, and I actually wish I could feel it in my chest the way I can see it with my eyes.

  “I was thinking I might take a class at the gym tomorrow,” I say lightly. “Will you be there?”

  “Never miss 7:00 a.m. barre on Saturdays.” He winks at me, and just then the barista calls his name and he rises. See? Perfect for me. He
even does barre, for God’s sake, my favorite of all of the classes I’m certified to teach. “You take care of yourself, Izzy.”

  “You, too.”

  I did the right thing leaving Paul. I’m sure of it.

  I just wish I could understand why I still can’t move forward, even though I now find myself stuck at a place I hate.

  * * *

  WHEN I’VE FINISHED my iced coffee and I’ve almost convinced myself to go back to the house, Marie hands me a bouquet of purple tulips.

  “Oh,” I say, surprised. “What are these for?”

  “From your not-so-secret admirer,” Marie tells me, then she gives me a knowing wink. I flush and leave the café in a flustered hurry, only finding the courage to open the little card on the tulips when I’m outside.

  I hope these brighten your day. Darby xo

  The tulips are beautiful, a generous gesture from a man who has shown me nothing but kindness in the months that I’ve known him. But they feel heavy in my arms, and I’m actually conflicted about taking those tulips back into the very house where Paul waits. A sudden, sharp thought prickles my consciousness.

  If Paul had bought me flowers, even just once or twice, then maybe we wouldn’t be in this situation.

  I’m taking the tulips home. I hope he sees them in the vase on the dining room table and I hope he wonders if another man bought them for me. I fish my phone out of my pocket and send Darby a text.

  Thank you, my friend.

  To which he replies almost immediately:

  It’s my pleasure. I hope the flowers put that beautiful smile back on your face.

  What is wrong with me? Darby is perfect. Why can’t I just let myself feel something for someone who might actually feel something for me in return?

  I stop at the grocery store on my way home to pick up some fruit and some almond milk for my coffee back at the house. I hover at the half-and-half, knowing that’s what Paul would want for his own coffee, unsure whether or not I should pick some up for him, too. At the last minute, I scoop up a small carton and dump it into my basket, but I don’t let myself think about the gesture too much. It’s not a white flag, and knowing Paul, he probably won’t even notice I made the effort.

  I’m dragging my feet by the time I climb the steps to our front porch, but the flustered urgency of my anger and confusion has burnt itself out. Now, I’m just resigned to an awful, awkward weekend, and I decide to leave Paul well enough alone and return to my room to read.

  My good intentions last exactly long enough for me to open the front door. Because as soon as I step inside the house, I see that Paul has left his laptop downstairs. It’s sitting right there on the table, charging.

  If there’s one symbol of every single thing I came to loathe about my husband, that laptop is surely it. It’s ridiculous to feel jealous of a device, but that computer certainly enjoyed more care and attention than I did during the last year of our marriage. I guess that’s why the mere sight of the thing feels like a red flag to a bull.

  He locked me out of the Wi-Fi. He must realize I’m going to take revenge for that somehow. He left the stupid laptop down here. What did he actually expect?

  Locking me out of the Wi-Fi was stupid but essentially harmless—the kind of prank that, a year or two from now when I’m no longer feeling quite so miserable, I’ll probably be able to chuckle at. It’s so childish...almost playful, and that’s so out of character for Paul, at least these days. Sooner or later, maybe, I’ll enjoy the wry humor in the prank.

  But I’m not thinking of delightfully playful pranks right now. I’m imagining myself dropping the laptop. Or throwing it. I could run down to the rocky little beach off the deck and throw it into the water. I could take it out onto the road and throw it in front of a passing car.

  I could go rent a car and run it over myself. I’d drive over it, then reverse, and drive over it again and again until it was just a road mosaic of smashed plastic and metal.

  But I understand how much of Paul’s work life revolves around that computer. I can’t even pretend I don’t. If I was to return fire for him changing the Wi-Fi password by physically damaging the device that all but runs his business life, could I honestly say it was tit for tat for his prank?

  I couldn’t.

  Besides, I’m angry and scorned, but I’m not the kind of person who’d deliberately damage someone’s property.

  My heart rate is returning to normal because I know I’ve made the right decision to ignore my childish impulse. I feel somewhat smug as I slip the half-and-half into the fridge for Paul. I arrange the flowers in a vase, and then wander over to the dining room table to set it down. It’s only then that I focus again on the laptop.

  I find myself staring down at it. Why is it here and not upstairs with Paul? Why isn’t he working? That doesn’t seem right at all, unless he has two laptops now, and he’s working on the other one upstairs?

  This laptop is open, although of course it’s locked. The password screen blinks up at me, his username already filled in, the cursor in the password field. Paul once admitted that he had a system for his password, and when I pushed him to tell me what it was, it turned out to be unexpectedly sweet. He’s understandably pedantic about computer security so he changed the password every week, but it was always some complicated combination of my name and a random number he calculated with some top-secret algorithm. That whole algorithm business seemed unnecessarily complicated to me, but Paul’s mind for dates and numbers is extraordinary, and to him, it somehow just made sense.

  There is a sudden creak of a floorboard from the master bedroom. The sound comes out of nowhere and I’m so lost in thought that it startles me. A little water sloshes over the side of the vase, and because the universe hates me, lands squarely in the middle of Paul’s keyboard.

  I’m too stunned to react at all at first. I stand in frozen horror, still holding the vase over the laptop as the water spreads between the keys. When the panic hits, I’m so flustered I spill more water as I try to set the vase safely down, swearing under my breath as I try to mop the moisture up with the only absorbent thing within reaching distance—the bottom of my tank top.

  That effort is a complete failure, and soon I’m flapping my hands hopelessly as the password prompt on the screen flickers once...twice...

  There’s another sound from the master bedroom upstairs, and this time I hear movement—more floorboards creaking and this time footsteps are stomping and oh God, is he walking out to the little balcony up there, or is he walking to the stairwell to come back down to get his goddamned laptop?

  Cursing under my breath, I slam the computer closed and sprint across the living room back to the guest room.

  This time, I pull the door closed behind me as quietly as I can.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Isabel

  FOR A WHILE, I half watch stupid cable dramas and try to convince myself the laptop is fine...then I start channel surfing and instead try to convince myself that Paul actually deserves for the laptop to not be fine.

  Then I give up all pretense of watching TV and spend several frantic minutes convincing myself that the laptop is not fine, Paul did not deserve the laptop to not be fine, and even if the water spill was a genuine accident, it was exactly what I had fantasized about in the first place, so maybe I got what I subconsciously wanted all along.

  Finally, belatedly, I reach for my phone and do some research to see how much damage I’ve actually done. And oh my God, I’ve screwed up so badly here. It turns out the problem isn’t just the liquid, but that by leaving it to soak while it was charging, I’ve probably fried the rotten thing.

  I run out to the living room, knock the plug out of the outlet and try to turn the laptop on. It’s officially dead as a doornail.

  I spend another thirty minutes hiding in my room again, trying to figure out how to explain to Paul that, yes,
I destroyed his laptop, but despite how unlikely this is going to seem to him, it really was an accident. It’s now late afternoon and there’s a pregnant silence in the house. I’m running out of time because sooner or later, Paul is going to want to work and to work he’s going to need his laptop. I start to rehearse my confession in my mind.

  So, Paul, here’s the thing. I was going to do something mean to your laptop because I really wanted to watch Netflix and it seems you messed with the Wi-Fi which was probably kind of funny but also really mean. But then I decided not to do it, but also I was still thinking about it, but then I accidentally spilled water all over it anyway, and I know this is going to sound a little too convenient but I really do promise that it was totally an accident.

  Then I panicked, and I closed it and walked away and did nothing for several hours. But I did eventually Google it to see if that would have done any damage and only then did I realize that I should have told you right away so you could unplug it and drain the keyboard.

  But you’re freakishly smart, so I’m sure you have backups and stuff. That’s what “the cloud” means...right? And you guys make internet software so you’re all about “the cloud” these days, aren’t you?

  I finally gather the courage to climb the stairs to the master bedroom, but I pause at the door and take a fortifying breath before I force myself to knock and call his name. There’s no answer, so I call again as I push the door open just a little. The room is empty, but I can see that at the edge of the wall-length windows, the drapes are billowing gently, which means the door to the balcony is open. I walk toward it hesitantly.