by Kelly Rimmer
“Jess never pulls punches at work. I’m certain that if I’m talking to her and she’s thinking something, she just says it. That works for us because I always know what she wants and needs, and I don’t ever get offended by feedback.” He pauses, then says thoughtfully, “So that’s why you express things so...carefully at times. You’re worried about hurting people’s feelings.”
“When we first sat down to talk tonight, I was actually irritated that you would even suggest I’m indirect. But now that we’ve talked a bit more, I can see what you’re saying. To be honest, I was annoyed because you hit a sore spot.” I glance at him and purse my lips. “Nick kind of said the same thing to me on Thursday when I was trying to ask for this week off.”
I could leave this conversation here. We’ve covered a lot of ground, untangled a lot of painful misunderstandings. But Paul has been so open and generous with me tonight—sharing parts of himself I’m certain he’s rarely shared with anyone else. And that generosity inspires me to open up to him, too.
“It is actually really hard for me to just come out and say what I want sometimes,” I admit reluctantly.
“But...why?”
“Well, in the case of asking Nick for vacation time, I knew I was asking for something he probably didn’t want to give me, and I worried he’d think I was too pushy. Demanding.”
“You’ve worked for Nick for...what...ten years?”
“I know.”
“So he knows you’re nothing like pushy or demanding. Why did you think one single request would change that?”
“I’m not sure,” I sigh.
“Your mom is actually one of the most confusing people I’ve ever tried to converse with.” Paul exhales. “Your brothers and your dad are fine, but your mom? I often didn’t have a clue what she’s talking about. Remember when they came to visit us and she kept talking about how our house was too big for the two of us?”
“She was hinting that we needed to fill it with children.”
“I’m aware.” He smiles wryly. “I didn’t want to ask, but you accidentally translated the Veronica-speak for me when you were complaining about how unsubtle she was about wanting grandchildren later that night.”
I do remember that day. I try to imagine how that felt for Paul, because Mom went on and on and on about the size of our house over dinner. But now that I think about it, that’s just Mom. It’s how she always communicates.
“My God, Paul,” I whisper, suddenly cold. “Mom is so indirect. She never says what she’s actually thinking.”
Of course I’ll still support you, Isabel, even if you do decide to waste your God-given talent and go to some second-rate college in New York. But if you’re sure that’s what you want to do...
And so many comments about my appearance over the years. Too many to count or even catalog.
Isabel, yoga pants again? They really don’t show off those lovely legs of yours.
Which of course, was code for, go back into your room and put on a dress. It still drives my mom crazy to see me in activewear on days when I’m not working. Mom is always so elegant, but she has such a narrow, old-school view on femininity. Her hair is curly like mine, but she chemically straightens it and wears it in a bob so smooth and well controlled, it barely moves when she shakes her head. I haven’t seen her without a full face of makeup in years, and she’s always wearing beautiful dresses and heels.
She just doesn’t understand why I don’t make more of an effort. Just as, I suppose, I don’t understand why she can’t just wear sweatpants every now and again.
Izzy darling, ladies don’t raise their voice or roughhouse. You want to be a lady, don’t you?
The inference, of course, being that because I did sometimes raise my voice and I did often roughhouse with my brothers, I was somehow failing as a female. It seems absurd now that I think about it in such stark terms, but that was the reality of my childhood. And the covert messages continue to this day.
Have you spoken to Paul? I’m sure he’ll forgive you for whatever happened between you two if you ask him to take you back.
Code, of course, for Paul is going to be worth a lot of money one day and no matter what went wrong between you, you should apologize anyway so you don’t let that very lucrative fish get away.
But I can’t judge her, because now that Paul has explained his perspective of our breakup to me, I’m painfully aware that I communicate like that, too. I never once said the words to Paul you’re working too much or I’m feeling so lonely or why don’t we talk anymore? I never asked him to miss a meeting or to spend his weekends at home instead of in his office. I never even told him that the connection we shared was starting to feel feeble on my end, or to ask him if he could feel that, too.
Instead, I locked those words inside and tried to nudge our relationship back to health by hints and gestures that I just assumed he would understand. Even when those attempts failed, I didn’t tell him how unhappy I was, and my sadness evolved and grew until it was resentment...and that became this fury I’ve failed altogether to manage this year.
Sometimes, clarity hurts. And right now, I feel sick with shame and guilt. Yes, he withdrew. He locked himself away in his work. But I’m just as guilty as he is, because he’s right. Paul might be a certified genius, and maybe I’ve only known about his autism diagnosis for five minutes, but I’ve known all along that he wasn’t a great communicator. I am a people person—I understood very early on that things between us were souring. Who knows what would have happened if I’d found the courage to actually directly address that distance between us?
“You’re awfully quiet over there,” he says suddenly.
“You did so much work on yourself this year.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
“The same reason I’m having this conversation, even though it’s fucking awful and awkward,” he says starkly. “Because it’s one thing to be clueless about other people. It’s another altogether to lose the single most important person in your universe and fail to understand what went wrong.”
“I did not do that this year. I didn’t work on myself,” I say miserably. “I just felt sorry for myself. I blamed you. In my mind, you went from someone who had passively let me drift away, to someone monstrous who’d actively hurt me. I hated you. I felt sorry for myself, and I hated you.”
Paul sits up and turns to face me, then reaches across and rests his hand on my knee. It’s an innocent gesture—a silent offer of comfort. “We both made mistakes.”
“But this is the first time I really understood that this mess wasn’t all your fault,” I croak.
Paul gives me a sad smile. “My personality doesn’t lend itself to emotional intimacy. You’re right when you said I’m most comfortable in my own head. In fact, you were the first person I ever met who actually made me want to connect.”
“It’s hard for me to be direct, and it’s hard for you to read nuance,” I whisper through tears. “We were doomed from the outset.”
“We could have addressed that if we’d seen it. If we’d had the kind of relationship where we could talk to one another about this kind of thing...but I was not at a place where I understood myself well enough for a chat like this, Isabel. Alison spent a lot of the past year trying to help me to understand how to better express my emotions and adjust to change, and through that therapy, I’ve finally come to see that the way I was living my life was isolating me. Even when things were good between you and me, there was a barrier there. It was only a matter of time before we ran into problems.”
Having held myself together since I arrived here yesterday, I’m surprised by the swell of tears, and the fact that I simply can’t hold them back. A sob bursts from my throat, and Paul sits up, then shifts to sit beside me on my sun chair. He takes my hands in his, and he squeezes. I feel his gentle gaze on my face, and that only makes it w
orse.
“Hey,” he says softly. “What’s this? Tears now?”
“This is guilt. Guilt I deserve, too. It’s seriously overdue,” I whisper thickly. “I’m sorry, Paul. I promise you, I didn’t mean to blindside you when I left. I’m so sorry.”
“I know that. Now. And you know what? It’s okay, Isabel. I’m okay. You’re...” He pauses, then he says a little wryly, “Well, my lawyer could probably mount a decent case against what I’m about to say, but you’re a gentle person. Sensitive. You were like that through our whole marriage. I think it’s because you’re so empathetic. And then all of your frustrations just built up until you couldn’t take it anymore, right? That’s why you’ve been so angry this year?”
“For someone who keeps telling me how clueless he is about other people, you’ve made some very astute observations this weekend.”
“I’m only clueless when I’m not focused. And I hope it shows you how much I want to rebuild a friendship with you that I have been focused today. This is hard for me, but even as a friend—you’re worth the effort.” He ducks his head to meet my gaze, and as soon as we make eye contact, he gives me a cheeky smile. “Also, now that you’ve finally let that temper of yours out, I’m kind of scared of you. I’d much rather have you as an ally than an enemy.”
I laugh through my tears, then I lean forward to throw my arms around his neck. It’s such a fucking mess...such a muddled, awful mess. But as much as it pains me to acknowledge where we find ourselves, this is the reality of relationships. Two people come together, and they bring two different histories and two different personalities, and they try to mash all of that into one shared life. Even when the attraction is intense and the love is strong, sometimes people just can’t make it work.
But even as that thought crosses my mind, I wonder if it’s really that final. Paul and I made mistakes, but we understand them now. I can’t help but think about what might have been if we’d had this kind of chat twelve months ago.
And although I kind of hate myself for even thinking this, what it means for us now that we have had this chat. I sit up away from him and glance at him through my lashes as I ask, “Does it feel to you like we could have avoided all of the chaos just by making one or two slightly different decisions at any point along the line?”
“It is what it is.” Paul shrugs. “We can’t go back in time, so the best we can really do is to try to respect one another as friends in the future.”
He smiles at me, then rises and walks away to disappear into the house.
Meanwhile, I’m trying to make sense of how much that casual dismissal hurt, because it felt very much like a punch to the gut. Regret swamps me, and suddenly, I would give anything to go back in time. I’d just turn that iPad on...or I’d go back to those nights when I was so angry with him but I never actually said why...or I’d stick around in that therapist’s office and give reconciliation a real shot...maybe I’d just swallow my pride and be the first one to reach out across the silence those early days after I left.
I’ll never get a do-over with Paul, and for the first time since I left, I actually wish that wasn’t the case. Especially when he returns to the deck with a box of Kleenex, and he sits beside me again and passes me a handful of tissues.
“See?” he says softly. “Maybe I fucked the husband thing up, but I do think these days, I can be a reasonable friend. And thank you for staying for this conversation. How are you feeling?”
I take a Kleenex and wipe at my eyes and blow my nose. I give him a sad smile. “I nearly left today. I’m really glad I stuck around.”
“Good,” he says, and he nods, satisfied. “Me, too.”
“I’m sorry for all of the ways I hurt you. I kind of wanted to at the time, but I never really meant to. Does that make sense?”
“Completely, and also, not at all,” he laughs.
“It doesn’t even matter,” I choke. Tears well in my eyes again, and I wipe at them impatiently with the Kleenex. “As long as you know that I am sorry for how we messed things up, and for everything that’s happened since.”
“I’m sorry, too.”
We share a sad, uncertain smile.
“What now?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“Should we start stacking the dishwasher?”
I laugh softly. “You cooked. Let me clean.”
He helps me anyway, and side by side, we clear the outside table and start to set the dishes into the dishwasher. It’s a simple moment of domesticity, but it’s a moment like no other—another strange point in one of the heaviest, most emotionally intense days of my life. I feel like the repercussions of the hour Paul and I shared on the deck are going to echo on in my life for decades—because after almost a year of feeling like my entire life was upside down, something has just been set right.
I’m scraping the scraps from my plate into the trash when Paul asks me, “What would you have been doing tonight if you’d successfully bullied me into leaving yesterday?”
I throw a soiled napkin at him. He laughs and catches it easily, then tosses it into the trash beside me.
“I had a whole list of soppy movies lined up on my Netflix queue,” I tell him.
“I could watch a movie.”
I laugh in surprise. “You really don’t have to. What were your plans?”
“I told you yesterday. I was going to drink a lot and try to catch up on sleep,” he says. I wince, and he shrugs. “I don’t really feel like doing that now, anyway. Entertain me.”
“Maybe we can watch something that isn’t quite as emotional as the list I had planned.”
“Hey, I’m getting over a breakup, too,” he teases me. “Go ahead and put on your weep-fest. We can sulk together.”
“This is more than surreal. Now it’s just fucking weird.”
He grins and flicks off the kitchen lights. There’s a slight chill to the air now, and Paul pulls the sliding door closed while I run upstairs to retrieve the throw blanket from the balcony.
When we meet back at the sofa, I glance at him one last time. “Are you sure about this?”
“How bad can it be?”
‘It can be very bad,” I warn him. “Very bad indeed.”
“What’s the first movie?”
“The Notebook.”
“No,” he gasps.
“I did warn you.”
Paul draws in a deep breath, then exhales. “Okay.”
“I’m kidding,” I laugh. “I won’t make you watch The Notebook with me, Paul. You hate love stories. That would be cruel and unusual torture.”
“I’ve already seen it. I’m sure you made me watch it with you one time.”
“Yeah, you ‘watched’ it while you wrote a project plan on your laptop,” I tell him. “That’s probably the only reason you survived the experience. Let’s find something we’ll both enjoy.”
But Paul shakes his head. “I insist,” he says as he takes a seat on the sofa.
I settle right at the opposite end and pull the throw over myself. The blanket does smell like him, but that’s far less annoying than I feared it would be yesterday. I pull it up to my shoulders and tuck my legs up alongside myself.
As soon as the title credits start, Paul stands and walks back to the kitchen. I laugh, thinking he’s given up on the movie already, but he returns just a moment later with two glasses of wine.
“Oh,” I say, surprised. “Thanks.”
“I’m going to need medicinal alcohol to get through this,” he mutters, and I giggle.
Two hours later, I’m sobbing into a handful of tissues, and Paul is staring at the TV in disbelief.
“Why would you watch that awful movie now? Surely it just makes you feel worse!”
“It’s meant to remind me to believe in love,” I sob, and he shakes his head.
“T
hat’s just masochistic. Jesus. I can’t think of a worse movie to watch at this point in our lives!”
“A good cry can be cathartic,” I assure him. Paul looks away, but the movement is so subtle I almost miss it. “Did you cry this year?”
“I probably came pretty close at a few points, but no. I don’t think my tear ducts work anymore. I haven’t cried since...” He pauses, then exhales. “Not since my mother died, actually.”
“We were always so different,” I muse softly. “The woman who cries at Kleenex commercials, the man who doesn’t ever cry.”
He smiles sadly, and we both turn our attention back to the credits. After a moment or two, he asks, “Should we go to bed?”
“I think I’ll watch another movie. You should turn in if you want to, though.”
“I’m not tired yet either.” He shrugs.
I convince Paul that it’s his turn to pick the next movie and he loads an action flick. Less than half an hour passes before my eyes start to feel heavy, but I really don’t want to go back to my own room. Instead, I gradually sink into the sofa, resting my eyes for longer and longer periods of time.
I don’t want the night to end, and I really don’t want to leave Paul and go back to my own, lonely bed. I’m sure he’ll go upstairs when he’s ready to sleep, and it doesn’t really matter if I end up sleeping on this sofa.
Especially now that I’m snuggled up under this throw blanket, and it smells just like Paul. It turns out, I don’t mind that at all.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Paul
I’M PRETTY SURE that Isabel has fallen asleep. She’s curled up against the armrest, and her eyes have fallen closed. The thing is, I’m in a similarly uncomfortable half recline now, and my eyelids are getting heavy, too.
But I can’t convince myself to go up to bed, and I’m pretty sure that’s because she won’t be coming with me.
When Isabel shifts until she’s stretched out across the sofa, her feet near my thighs, I decide to give in to the urge to stay. I turn the volume way down but I leave the TV on so that tomorrow, when we wake up, I can pretend all of this wasn’t on purpose. Then I shuffle along the sofa and stretch out beside her. I tuck the throw blanket around us both and rest my head on one of the decorative cushions she bought sometime since my last visit.