The Fix

by Kristin Rouse

  “It was a fight I caused. One I picked. I hate thinking I hurt her in any way. I hate that I don’t know what else I would have said or done if you guys hadn’t been there to defuse me.”

  “You wouldn’t have gone overboard. You were just upset.”

  “I don’t know that.”

  “Believe it,” she tells me.

  But I don’t. I’m seriously beginning to get scared that I don’t.

  ***

  It’s too difficult to sleep without Jules in bed next to me—it’s even worse when I think that not only is she not in bed with me, she’s angry with me. I deserve her anger. I creep out of the guest room at Constance’s house around two in the morning to make myself some tea to try and trick my body and brain into being tired. All it does is make me think more about what a mess I’ve made.

  I don’t know if I actually woke her, but Constance comes down not too long afterwards. I hadn’t wanted to regale her with the story in front of Gemma, but now I find the words pouring out of me as soon as she sits down. When I’ve recounted the entire disaster, she grips my fingers hard with hers. “I’m sure she’ll forgive you,” she says, smiling at me and folding her hand over my forearm. “Women have a great gift for forgiveness.”

  “She didn’t want me to come home tonight,” I say. “I’m not so sure about forgiveness.”

  “It was one fight. Just one.”

  “It wasn’t even a fight about the shirt, not really,” I say. “I sort of wonder if I picked it because I wanted to prove her suspicions right, that I can’t be trusted. That I’m too fucked up for her.”

  “Oh, darling, you know that isn’t true,” Constance says.

  “She’ll get sick of me walking out every time we so much as disagree on something sooner or later.”

  “Maybe. That’s how things go sometimes, though.”

  I wonder if taking relationship advice from a woman whose addiction drove away perhaps the most loving man on the planet and lost custody of two of her kids to boot may not be the best of plans. From the way she falls silent, it seems like she’s thinking it too.

  “I can’t shake the idea that she deserves better than this, Mom,” I say. “She deserves better than me. I’m going to be so fucked up for so much longer and… I don’t want to put her through this. I don’t want to hurt her because I snap and take it out on her when she doesn’t deserve it. I hate hurting her.”

  “You gave her the option to walk away, Ezra,” she says.

  “I wish she’d taken it.”

  The sentence hits me hard. I don’t even realize what I’ve said until it’s already floating in the air, impossible to take back. Do I seriously wish Jules had left me, given up on me? How can I possibly say that when it hurts so much just to breathe without her?

  “I think Juliana is a wonderful person. And it’s clear she loves you very much. I’m not the best of examples of stable relationships, of course, but I can see you have something special. But I also know that feeling of not wanting to hurt someone you love. You may not believe it, but I felt that way about Mac. And about you and Dylan. I know I had a funny way of showing it.”Even after it came up forever ago at that dinner at Mama A’s, we still haven’t discussed Mac or Dylan. We haven’t talked about my growing up, the wicked things she’d say to us. The closest we ever got was that one night at the Almeidas’. Maybe I haven’t wanted to watch her cry, because I know that’s bound to happen when we really hash that sort of stuff out. Maybe I haven’t wanted to cry in front of her myself. But knowing how drunk Mom always was, how not in control of her own faculties and what she was saying and doing, it surprises me that she’d ever have admitted to herself that the way she was treating us was wrong.

  “You know, something has always bothered me, Mom.”

  “What’s that, sweetheart?”

  “You couldn’t have been any less of an addict by the time Gemma came along. I mean, if anything, you’d have been worse off, right?”

  “I suppose that’s about right, yes.”

  “So… why would you get sober for her and not for me and Dylan?”

  Constance studies her hands for a long time, and I wonder if my question is entirely unfair. But when I say it’s bothered me, I really mean it. And as hurtful as it might be, I want an answer.

  “I promise you, Ezra, it’s not the simple answer you might be looking for. It’s not that I didn’t love you two enough or that I love Gemma more. It’s just that I wasn’t ready. And I think you know as well as I do that being ready is as big a part of this as any.”

  It makes sense what she says, but I don’t like the answer any more than if she’d told me it was because she didn’t love me and my brother enough. It still fucking hurts.

  I decide to be diplomatic. “I don’t know what to say about that, Mom.”

  “You don’t need to say anything. In the end, I chose drinking over my family, and that was terrible. The only good thing I did—maybe the only good thing I was capable of doing as a mother at that point in my life—was not fighting Mac when he took you two and left. I think you had a better childhood because of it.”

  I could say something snarky to that. I could say that, yeah, clearly I turned out so fantastic. An alcoholic by my mid-twenties, failing a recovery attempt, unemployed and mooching off my girlfriend and thanking her by being a temperamental asshole. I’m a real winner.

  “I know the feeling of wanting better for someone than you can give them, Ezra.” Mom swallows back the last of her tea and gets up to put her mug in the dishwasher. “Don’t do anything rash, but think about it seriously. You’ll know what the best thing to do is when it comes to you.”

  We say goodnight again, and I make myself another cup of much weaker tea, and stare at the cup for so long that the liquid turns cold. I don’t sleep at all. I can’t turn my brain off. As I toss and turn, I think about Jules, about us, about all the times we’ve said we want forever with each other. I desperately want forever with her. But as my brain spins, I find myself wondering if forever is good enough—for either of us.

  ***

  I wait on purpose to return home until after Jules is off work. Having the day lets me get my head on straight. I go for my run with Ryan, I go to group, I smoke the better part of a pack of cigarettes and think everything through. I hit traffic on the way up, which only prolongs my thinking time. And the more I think, the more I certain I become.

  I mull through my head the sort of things someone in my position ought to do before going home. I’m pretty sure flowers, chocolate, and at least one bottle of expensive wine are all supposed to be givens. But I know Juliana, and all three of those things would be hollow, insincere gestures that don’t mean anything. Maybe another time not this close to my relapse, a bottle of wine wouldn’t be the worst thing to offer. But then what time isn’t close to my relapse? It may have been three days ago for how quickly and slowly these months have gone by.

  I resign myself to the notion that nothing is going to help, find a parking spot, and head for our house. It’s not surprising the front door is locked, but I drop my keys when the blade doesn’t fit correctly in the lock on the first try. I think for a second that maybe she changed the locks. I try again and it turns smoothly in the cylinder. At least I have that much going for me. An empty bottle of what had been white wine is on the coffee table. There aren’t any glasses, and my mind immediately goes to her drinking it straight from the bottle. It’s distressing and also makes me want to gag, but that’s the nature of white wine for me. No matter the severity of one of my cravings, the thought of white wine always makes me want to gag. I wonder if I ever told Jules that. Or maybe her choice in a bottle of wine had absolutely nothing to do with me.

  She’s reclined on the chaise, her tablet in her lap. Her finger runs along the screen every few seconds, her eyes flit across the words of whatever it is she’s reading. Her shoulders are stiff and her spine is ramrod straight, a sure sign that she’s noticed me come in even though she hasn’t
looked up. So yes, she’s flagrantly ignoring me. And no, I don’t exactly blame her.

  I open my mouth, but the word ‘Hey’ dies on my lips. I duck into the bedroom instead. If she wants to ignore me, I can ignore her right back. It’s not the most noble thing I’ve ever done, that’s for sure.

  I plug my phone into the charger on my side of the bed, then sit down and lie back on my pillows. Technically they’re her pillows. Mine were old and a little ratty and didn’t make the move with me. This is just the side of the bed I sleep on. I close my eyes and wonder if I could drift off for a few minutes before we face one another, but it’s a pipe dream. My brain is still churning far too fast.

  It might be just a few minutes and might be a whole other hour before she comes in and curls onto the bed next to me. Her legs are tucked underneath her chin. I’m sure if I tried kissing her or even just reaching for her, I’d get one of her feet to my chest. That isn’t why I don’t try, though.

  “You can’t come home twenty-four hours after a fight and go straight to the bedroom like you’re expecting makeup sex, you know.” There’s anger in her voice even though I know that she doesn’t want to be angry with me. I know her tone too well.

  “I had absolutely zero expectation that you were going to walk in here and have sex with me,” I say.

  “So then are we going to talk about last night or just pretend it never happened?”

  “Of course we’re going to talk. I figured I’d let you decide to stop ignoring me first.”

  “I’m not ignoring you now.” She sits up and straightens her legs out in front her so there’s still a defensive perimeter around her. I deserve that sort of treatment.

  I’ve been rehearsing what I’ve wanted to say for hours, but my tongue feels limp and heavy in my mouth. But thinking about what I want to say to explain myself and actually looking into those eyes of hers—damn those eyes of hers—are two completely separate things. She looks at me, her face expectant, and all I can do is stare back, my lips pursed and silent. Way to be chickenshit, Mackenzie.

  “I get why you were mad. I’d probably have done the same thing if that had been one of my dad’s shirts. I get that you miss him. It’s normal to miss him. But I didn’t fucking deserve that, Ez. For the first time since I’ve been with you, you made me feel like dirt, and I didn’t deserve that. Wouldn’t you say I’m pretty justified being pissed?”

  “I would,” I say when my tongue starts working again.

  “So are you going to say anything that will make me feel like you actually love me and feel bad about what you did, or do I just have to read between the lines and guess that that’s how you feel?”

  “I feel like an asshole, Jules. I was a massive asshole. And I am so, so sorry.”

  She relaxes a little, even shifts closer to me. “That’s a start.”

  She reaches out like she’s going to lace her fingers in with mine. I sit up and scoot away, because this is going to be so much easier if she doesn’t touch me.

  “You’re right, Jules. You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t, Mattias and Lukas didn’t deserve to witness it. Anja didn’t deserve to have a crummy birthday because I was moody and needed a timeout with a chaperone. You all deserve so much better than all of my bullshit.”

  Her eyes narrow to slits, but she doesn’t disagree with me.

  “I was totally out of line. And I am really so sorry. But I can’t promise you that I’m never going to be like that again. Or that I won’t get even worse. It’s getting more and more obvious that this isn’t something I want to put you through anymore, regardless of how much I love you. And I do love you. I love you so much that it’s killing me. And I do enough that should kill me all on my own.”

  “No,” she says, barely waiting for me to finish my sentence. She gets it; I can tell by the way her face changes. “No, you don’t get to offer me another out because you were mean and yelled at me. I already told you I don’t want an out. Remember?”

  “The out isn’t for you, Jules,” I tell her. “It’s for me.”

  A breeze could knock her over. Fresh tears well in her eyes. Some well in mine, too.

  “You deserve stability. And you deserve someone who can get up and go to work every morning without worrying about whether or not he’s going to fall to pieces and set himself back at the slightest provocation. Don’t you get how much better you deserve than me? How not good enough I am for you right now? I’m not good for anyone right now, and I think that’s the problem.”

  “Ez, no….” Her voice is thick and and her eyes are dewy with tears I know she must be trying desperately to keep at bay.

  “You deserve someone you can completely trust, honey.”

  “I do trust you.”

  “I think we both know that isn’t quite the truth.”

  Her jaw trembles and she looks at me with so much sadness, so much pain etched on her face it makes my heart wrench. She has got to know what I’m about to say, and all I want is to say nothing and shield her from whatever pain this is going to cause. But I have to say it, because in the end, she’s too important to me to keep doing this to her.

  “I think I should move out. I think we should call this off, at least for now. At least until I get my head on a little straighter. I love you, but I don’t know if we can do this right now. I’m so sorry,” I say in a way I hope sounds final.

  “No, this isn’t… This isn’t fair. This isn’t what you’re supposed to say right now.”

  “It isn’t fair. But it’s what’s best, for you and for me. I want to do something right for once. I want to do right by you, and as much as I hate it, I think this is the right thing.”

  “How is it right if we’re not together? How is that fair? I love you, I told you I love you. I told you I want forever.”

  “And I don’t know if I can give you forever, Jules. I can give you a single day at a time. And you deserve better than that.”

  I can see the moment the weight of my words hit us both. It’s like a pendulum has swung between us and severed the cord tying us to one another. If there is more to say, neither of us knows how. She begins to cry in earnest. I do, too. It’s torture watching her cry. I’m reluctant to try to hold her, but when I do offer her my arms, she falls into them. Our bodies shake and we each take turns sobbing louder than the other. ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I love you’ and ‘I hate this’ play over and over on our lips.

  But it’s over. It’s really over.

  ***

  She helps me pack a suitcase. I’ll come back for the rest of my stuff when she’s at work, because I know neither of us wants to relive this moment over and over again. The tears stopped several minutes ago. I know I’m doing more harm than good prolonging this any further, so I need to get going, and soon.

  “You’ll really be all right at Constances’s?” she asks.

  “Yeah, I think I will be. She and Gemma are all the family I have left. I should really get to know them better.”

  “They aren’t the only family you have. And you know that wasn’t what I was asking.”

  “I’ll manage. There are plenty of places out there that I can apply.”

  “A little white lie won’t kill you, you know. You don’t have to be quite so honest in interviews.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  We mostly clear out my drawers, but before we run out of room in the suitcase, we move to the closet. Her fingers linger over Mac’s shirt and tie and her lip trembles like she might start to cry again.

  “If I had known, I never would have….”

  There’s more to this than that, and we both know it. I loop my fingers around her wrist to pull it away from the shirt, then tug it off the hanger and toss it in with my t-shirts. I’m guessing she won’t want to see it while I’m still getting everything cleared out.

  I’m zipping the bag up when I finally notice she’s wearing one of my shirts. It’s a long-sleeved thermal I’ve had forever. The cobalt blue color really doesn’t suit h
er skin tone, but when we’re home and lazing about, she steals it to curl up with. She’s always cold, even in the heat of summer. She notices me looking at it, and moves to pull it off over her head. I shake my head to stop her.

  “I don’t need it. It’s June—what am I gonna do with a thermal all summer?”

  She folds her arms over her chest, like she’s trying to hug the fabric. Her ‘thank you’ is almost lost for how quiet it is.

  “I’ll get everything out of here as soon as I can, I promise. Anything else like that,” I nod again at the shirt, “you want, you can have. Just scoot it over to your side of the closet or fold it up.”

  “I can’t have what I want,” she says. It breaks my heart, because I can’t, either. To break the moment, she clears her throat bravely and asks, “What are you going to do after you find a job and all that?”

  “I dunno,” I say truthfully. “Miss you, probably.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  She inserts herself into my arms and holds onto my waist like I’m a life preserver. There’s a finality in this embrace. I don’t know when I’m going to see her again, but then, that’s the entire point of a breakup, isn’t it? It hits me like a painful, sudden heart attack: this is our forever. We’re crying and miserable. This is our forever, because this is what’s best.

  “I always thought we’d end up like Anja and Mattias,” she murmurs.

  “Me too. I’m sorry we ended up being Ezra and Jules,” I reply.

  She pulls away and brushes her fingertips under her eyes. “I need to run to the store. Will you… You won’t be here when I get back, will you?”

  “No. I’m gonna get my stuff from the bathroom and head out.”

  “Good. It’s better that way. For me.”

  She doesn’t leave like she says she’s going to. Instead she leans towards me, and I cup her face with my hands. Years from now, when I think of the last time I kissed Juliana Almeida, I’ll remember how her lips tasted of saltwater, how her eyes and her cheeks were puffy, how her mouth trembled under mine. And even though I had broken her heart, she still put her hand on my chest and said, “My family is your family. Don’t you dare forget that. If you need to not see me for a while, that’s fine, but they’re your family, too. They need you as much as you need them.”