Unspoken

by Kelly Rimmer

  “It is?” It was her idea, but she doesn’t seem convinced. I, on the other hand, have no doubts at all. We used to love biking together—it was one of our favorite things to do as a couple when we were in Long Island. I’m also more than relieved that I didn’t have to come up with an excuse to keep hanging out with her.

  “It is,” I assure her. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Isabel

  AT FIRST, BIKE RIDING seems like a genius idea on my behalf. We can do it together, which for some bizarre reason, we both seem to want. But I know we won’t talk while we ride, because we never did, and today that’s probably for the best. This morning has been relatively civil, in the scheme of things, but I think we’re both wary about how long that will last.

  We head north, navigating the curves of Route 25 through East Marion. I’m in front for the first few miles, but then, as we pass the village of Orient, Paul silently switches to take the lead. We turn south toward Orient Beach State Park and travel along the narrow peninsula.

  I try to force myself to pay attention to the pine-tinged breeze that filters through the nearby maritime forest, and the glistening waters of the Peconic River and Little Bay beside us...and not on Paul’s muscular arms and shoulders and ass, which are now right in front of my face and putting up a pretty fierce fight in the battle for my attention.

  And suddenly, I can’t help but wonder if he was equally tortured as we made the first leg of this journey. Is that why he moved? Was this position as distracting to him as it is to me?

  Not for the first time, I wish that physical attraction was enough, because ours is every bit as potent as it was that very first night all of those years ago. Sure, our sex life went through seasons—patches where we couldn’t keep our hands off one another, periods where things were calmer...but right to the very end, I wanted him desperately, and I knew he wanted me.

  Maybe that’s why, even now and as we ride, I find myself wanting him all over again.

  And that’s when this bike ride idea of mine stops feeling genius and starts to feel torturous. Because we aren’t talking about the past, but I’m sure as fuck thinking about it. I’m thinking about the other times we rented bicycles to take this very route, and how we’d get back to the house, sweaty and exhausted, and we’d strip each other as we tumbled into the shower. Sometimes we’d wash each other off and rush back to the bed, our skin still hot from the exercise and damp from the shower. Other times we wouldn’t even make it that far—he’d take me up against the wall of the shower. I also remember us going at it on a hastily assembled carpet of towels on the floor of the en suite more than once.

  The tiredness and our familiarity with each other would make things more real somehow—stripping away any pretense that it was just sex—we were giving and receiving love from each other. Our lovemaking was raw and simple in those moments. Perhaps that’s what made it so beautiful.

  “Ice cream,” Paul says suddenly, his voice husky. He pulls to the side of the road and brakes so fast and hard the tires on his bike squeal, but he comes to a stop just beside me. Our eyes meet and lock and I know he’s thinking about those very same encounters.

  I think we both know it’s best that we don’t keep reenacting them, but we can’t help reliving them in our minds, at least not when we keep setting ourselves up in the same patterns of behavior that always led to us getting naked together.

  “Ice cream,” I repeat weakly.

  “Let’s cycle back and get ice cream in the village. Let’s do something else instead of going straight home.”

  “Before we go back to the house,” I correct him, because I don’t want him to call it home. We don’t have a home anymore, but the house seems less harsh than saying, Well, actually, Paul—it’s my home now, not ours, and sure as hell not yours.

  Paul looks at me, a flash of confusion in his gaze, but hot on its heels is understanding and even agreement, because it isn’t our home anymore at all, and of course we shouldn’t call it that. He nods curtly, and then we turn the bikes back. It’s not safe or even courteous, but we ride side by side as we begin the return journey.

  “If only sex were enough, right?” he says suddenly.

  I glance at him, and then we both start to laugh. Just like that, the tension shatters.

  “When I suggested the bike ride, I forgot what it always led to,” I admit.

  “Me, too. Or I’d never in a million fucking years have agreed to it.” Paul’s blue eyes are sparkling with mirth, and I’m startled to realize that maybe I actually like this version of him—this carefree man who’s a million miles away from his real life and the career that consumes him entirely in the city.

  “You agreed to this because it’s the one thing we always did together that involved absolutely no talking,” I grin. This is one of those bizarre moments that have transpired today where I can nearly forget we are bitter almost-divorcees. We might have been lifelong friends who laugh together and hang out just for fun.

  “There are other things we used to do which involved absolutely no talking,” he says with a pointed waggle of his eyebrows.

  I burst out laughing all over again. “Even sex involves some talking. When we rented the bikes out here, we’d cycle for hours without a word.”

  His grin fades, just a little, but then he ponders this for a moment. “Hey,” he says, and the faded grin shifts until it’s a frown. “You’re right.”

  “Of course I am,” I said, then I add lightly, “We’d ride single file for miles and miles in total silence.”

  “That’s not why we liked it.”

  “Um, it’s why you liked it. You’re definitely happiest in your own head, Paul Winton,” I laugh quietly. “This was an activity where you could pretend to spend time with me without actually having to engage with me at all.”

  “Plus I could stare at your ass for hours, and back then, I knew it would lead to hot shower sex at the end.” He sighs.

  “And there was that, of course,” I agree.

  I’m still enjoying myself—still joking around, which is why I almost fall off the bike when Paul says without any humor whatsoever, “I actually thought riding together was quality time for us. This kind of leisure time is one of the few things I was sure I was getting right. It checks all the boxes—you love exercise and the outdoors and Long Island and...it never even occurred to me that when we were busy together like this, we weren’t actually connecting at all.”

  I pull to the side of the road and stop. Paul doesn’t react quickly enough to stop with me, instead he has to spin the bike around to face me. His expression is a deep-set frown, and I’m completely bewildered by an instinct to defend him. The smile fades from my face, and I stare back at him, now totally unsure of what to say in response.

  “It says a lot, doesn’t it? You saw those same hours as me shutting you out. That must have been lonely for you,” he says. His eyes widen suddenly, as if this is the first time he’s even considered this possibility. “In those last few years we hardly talked at all and I didn’t even notice it at the time, not until today when I realized the dynamic was different at breakfast.” He glances away thoughtfully, but then returns his gaze to mine, his eyes blazing with curiosity he asks, “Is that why you left?”

  I stare at him in disbelief for a long moment before it occurs to me: Paul is spoiling for an argument here. I just don’t understand why. Why on earth would he take such a pleasant, easy moment between us and try to implode it like this?

  “What do you mean, is that why I left?” I scowl. “You say that like it’s a fucking mystery. You know damn well why I left.”

  Paul just stares right back at me.

  I remember Abby’s comment on the phone about him being blindsided by the end of our marriage, and for the very first time, I allow myself to entertain the possibility that she might be right about that. It just makes n
o fucking sense, because I’d been telling and showing him how unhappy I was for months, and I know I explained myself yet again that last night. Even so, an odd adrenaline burst leaves me feeling dizzy and defensive. “But...I told you that night. I said—”

  “You probably said a lot of things that night, Isabel,” Paul interrupts me, a little stiffly. “That doesn’t mean I heard any of them.”

  I remember that he was staring at me with that glazed look in his eyes, as if I was boring him. I suppose, on some level, I should be reveling in the fact that I was right about my suspicion that he hadn’t actually been listening to me at all, but I’m not. I’m hurt, and I’m insulted by the casual way he’s just confirmed what I feared all along.

  He didn’t care enough to pay attention, even in the death throes of our marriage. I thought I was leaving him to shock him into action to save us, but he didn’t actually love me enough to listen even when I put it all on the line.

  I’m seconds away from shouting at him or bursting into tears—maybe both. A strand of my hair has come loose from my helmet and falls over my eye and I push it back impatiently, noting in some dark recess of my mind that my hand is shaking violently. We’re standing on a public but thankfully deserted road by the water, and what was a very pleasant, friendly outing less than two minutes ago now has the potential to turn into an all-out brawl between us.

  And I want to yell and shout, but this time, I don’t. I’m just so tired of being furious with him—so tired of the emotional displays that became the new baseline of our interactions since the mediation. Now, there’s not even anything left to fight for, so why would I bother? I am sorry for how ugly our separation has become, but when it’s all said and done, I owe him nothing. I was happy spending time with him today because he promised we could avoid looking back at our ugly past, but I do not owe him a rehash of the worst night of my life.

  “I’m going back to the house,” I say abruptly.

  “What? We were just talking—”

  “Why did you have to do this now?” It seems I can’t help but take one last dig, even as I hate myself for wasting my energy. “Couldn’t you just let me pretend for one day that we could actually be friends again?”

  “Just tell me exactly what I did to upset you just now,” Paul says. He rubs the back of his neck, then exhales heavily. “Isabel, I wasn’t trying to start an argument. You just pointed out an error of judgment on my part, I was making an attempt to understand how far it went. How could that possibly make you angry?”

  “Because I wasted years of my life trying to get through to you about this shit!” I exclaim, and then I hiss, “You didn’t care enough to listen then, and now you sit here and act as if I just walked away without a fight!”

  “Does it occur to you that maybe we’re not hearing each other even now?” Paul shifts on the bike, then straightens himself to his full height. “Or that maybe the problem isn’t just that I wasn’t listening to you, but that you weren’t actually explaining yourself clearly? Yes, I made mistakes, but I’m trying to learn from them. I’ve spent almost every minute since you left thinking about the man I was and trying to make sure that’s the man I actually want to be. You, on the other hand, remain entirely convinced that I’m somehow this ice-cold monster and that justifies you using me as a verbal punching bag whenever we’re in the same space. I just don’t understand why it hasn’t even occurred to you that maybe it took two of us to fuck our marriage up.”

  My emotions have shifted from weary to furious so fast, I’m struggling to keep up. I can’t listen to this anymore—there is just no point. I adjust my position on my bike and throw him one last, scathing look before I set off at a breakneck pace.

  “Fuck you, Paul. Just fuck you.”

  I hear him call after me again but I ignore him, cycling faster to put some distance between us. He could catch up to me easily, but he won’t.

  I know all too well now that when I run away upset, Paul doesn’t bother chasing after me.

  * * *

  I’M USUALLY A very neat traveler, but then again, I’m not usually rushing to make a train that’s due to depart the station on the other side of the island in less than fifteen minutes. My Uber will be here in four minutes, and I’m cutting it close. If I miss this train, I’ll either have to pay for a car to take me all the way back to the city, or I’ll be waiting until almost 10:00 p.m. tonight for the next one. I don’t have time to pack my bag with care the way I usually would.

  I don’t even have time to stop and think about whether or not I actually want to leave. All I know is that this little attempt at cohabiting with Paul for one last weekend is failing miserably. There were moments this morning where I wondered if he had changed enough that we could be in one another’s lives again, but if that interaction on the bike path proved anything, it’s that Paul and I can’t even be friends these days. There are just too many sore points between us now.

  I need to get out of here. Where is that sweater I was wearing last night? Probably somewhere in the living room, because now that I think about it, I stripped it off in a desperate hurry when I was on the sofa in the process of making yet another mistake with Paul.

  I jog out of the bedroom to scan for the sweater—but my gaze instead lands on Darby’s tulips...and then slides down to Paul’s laptop, still sitting right beside the vase. Paul’s broken laptop. The one he has definitely not looked at for over twenty-four hours, because I’ve had his full attention for that entire time. The sweater is on the floor beside the dining room table, so I should run to pick it up, then run back to my room to keep packing, but I don’t.

  Paul hasn’t even noticed I broke his laptop yet. And I have to suspect that he hasn’t noticed because other than one two-minute phone call this morning, he has been completely disconnected from his working life for at least twenty-four hours.

  Because he’s chosen to spend his time with me. Despite the awkwardness. Even though it takes so little for me to react and withdraw. He’s more than met me halfway today, and in his typically odd, Paul way, he’s actively trying to make some kind of amends.

  I stare at that laptop for a minute, then walk back to the guest room to cancel my Uber.

  I unpack my bag, turn on the AC, and crawl under the duvet with the TV remote in one hand and my phone in the other. I’ll put on some comedy...zone out for a while. First, I check my phone. I’ve missed a call from Dad this morning, which is unsurprising—he hasn’t called for a few days. He’s left me a voice mail.

  “Hello, love. It’s Dad, just calling to see how you’re doing. Mom and I love you. Call me back if you want a chat, otherwise I’ll try you again later.”

  My dad is the best. There’s another message waiting for me, too, from Abby.

  Just checking in, Izzy. Are you okay?

  I stare up at the ceiling while I calculate a reply. I’ve never been particularly good at math, but I figure this kind of math I have at least some small chance of success with, because I’m not actually working with figures. I’m trying to average out the day so I can figure out how to answer that question.

  There have been awful moments and angry moments and awkward moments and moments of reconciliation and moments of peace. I don’t know if the sum total of all of that is something good or something neutral or something that leaves Paul and me worse off than we were yesterday before we collided again.

  Collided is precisely the right word. I feel like I’m recovering from a car accident this afternoon—suffering from emotional whiplash as I try to process where we find ourselves now. I just keep thinking about that laptop and Paul’s comments on the bike path.

  I just don’t understand why it hasn’t even occurred to you that maybe it took two of us to fuck our marriage up.

  He’s actually kind of right. It still seems simple to me. We were happy, and then he started working like a maniac and pulled away from me, and now here we
are. What I haven’t thought to wonder about in the longest time is why he pulled away. I could never have asked the Old Paul about that. That man wasn’t focused or self-aware enough to offer me an honest response.

  But this Paul could. This Paul could also explain to me exactly what he thought when I walked out that door and why he didn’t try to stop me...why he didn’t come after me. I even have a feeling he would talk honestly and openly about those moments in our lives.

  I’m just not entirely sure that this Isabel is ready to hear his answer.

  I reply to Abby.

  I’m still here. So is Paul. I’m okay. Thanks for checking in.

  Then I send a message to Dad.

  I’m out at Greenport for the weekend. I’ll call you guys next week. Love you, too.

  I drop the phone and turn the TV on. I fix the Wi-Fi password, and Netflix springs to life. But then I pause, and suddenly the idea of zoning out loses its appeal. I turn the TV back off and sink into the pillows. Instead, I stare up at the ceiling and wonder if, after all of the fierceness and all of the fighting, I’m actually brave enough to confront the root cause that led to the war.

  * * *

  SEVERAL HOURS PASS before Paul comes home. When he does, I hear him moving around in the living room and at first I brace myself, assuming he’s finally going to try to do some work...certain he’s about to thump on my door and demand to know what the hell I did to his laptop. When minutes pass and he does not, in fact, thump on my door, I wonder if he’s packing up to leave.

  I don’t know why the thought of that is so upsetting, given I was leaving myself not so long ago. But it is upsetting. There’s so much left unfinished between us, and while I’m not yet ready to go back out and face Paul again just yet, I will be disappointed if he does opt to give up on our attempts to rebuild a friendship.

  After a while, I hear the screech of the slightly rusty tracks of the sliding door that leads to the deck. Once again, the house falls silent.