“I want that more than anything,” I said, resting my chin just off her shoulder, squeezing her tighter. “I am so sorry, Frankie. For everything. Just … fucking everything. God, I was such an asshole.”
Her head shook side to side before she pulled back. “You weren’t always an asshole. Don’t do that to yourself.”
“Why would you forgive me? That’s what you’re doing, right?” I couldn’t remember ever having being forgiven before by anyone besides family. And even then it was often accompanied with a frustrated smack upside the head or a resigned eye-roll. But not here, and not now. She was forgiving me with tears. And love.
Frankie sniffed, roping me into her gaze. “Sometimes that’s all you can do before the anger eats you alive. I didn’t know the depth of what you’d been through with your dad, or that you were willing to be like this in front of me.” She gestured to me, chuckling and shaking her head some more, as if trying to prove to herself that this wasn’t a dream.
“I was so pissed, CJ,” she continued. “But seeing you like this …”
I hesitated to press on the point, but I was so tired and confused, baffled that this woman used the word forgiveness in an affirming way with me. “You forgive me because I cried in front of you?”
She shrugged. “Because you are being open with me. Raw. And you didn’t plan it. It wasn’t staged or orchestrated. It wasn’t a gimmick or a gesture. You just helplessly offered yourself to me. Why are you questioning me?” she asked with a comical eyebrow arch. “Are you trying to talk me out of it?”
“God no!” I answered quickly, causing her to laugh. “No. I just … I’m trying to understand why you would forgive me for all my bullshit.”
“Knowing you, it’ll take a long while for you to forgive yourself. So, someone has to show you how. You did screw up, in a lot of ways. And forgiveness doesn’t come with automatic trust, CJ—”
“I know,” I cut in, reaching for her hand. “I know it doesn’t. That’s a time thing …”
“It is. But I’m willing to try if you are.” She wiped away the last of the mascara from her cheeks.
I nodded, pulling her to me once more, so overcome by emotion that I could hardly stand it. “Please,” was all I could say before the tears fell again.
“I’m so fuckin’ tired,” I said, trying to cover up the tears. I couldn’t go from never crying to a puddle of mess in the span of a day. It was bullshit and overwhelming—probably as much for Frankie as it was for me.
She yawned almost instantly, her shoulders sinking. “So am I. I had to leave so early this morning.”
I turned around, eyeing the pillows over my shoulder. Looking back at Frankie, the only desire I had was to hold her and never let go.
“Nap?” I asked with a shrug and the only grin I had left in me.
She nodded, slipping her sandals off. “Please.”
At nine-thirty in the morning, my not-so-ex-girlfriend slid under the covers and backed into me where she fit like a glove, our bodies curving together. I draped my arm around her waist, pulling her in as close as I could get her. The last thing I remembered before falling to sleep was kissing her shoulder and telling her I loved her.
I wasn’t awake long enough to hear her response, but it almost didn’t matter. I wasn’t saying it for reciprocity. I was saying it so she knew. Because I did and I’d try my best for her, always.
Thirty-One
Regan
Georgia and I were in Dr. Weeber’s office for the third time since I’d been home. Our first session was the Monday after I got back, which only gave us a day and a half of awkward tangos around our home before spilling everything to our therapist. As we hadn’t seen her in quite some time, there was a lot to catch up on, and the reminder that regular checking in, both with each other and her, if needed, was vital in “watering the tree of our marriage.” Those were her actual words. Despite the cheesy turn of phrase, not even Georgia rolled her eyes at the sentiment, which was more powerful on its own than the words uttered by our licensed marriage repair specialist.
Dr. Weeber listened in the first two sessions about the busyness that had become our lives, the various ways we were, or were not, supporting each other through the transitions, and, more specifically, the detailed events over the past couple of months that landed us in a heaping mess in her office. The tour, the trying to conceive, Nessa, and all of our unmet expectations.
“It can often be the case,” Dr. Weeber opened our third session by reviewing what we’d discussed previously, “that unstated expectations are pre-planned resentments.
I winced internally at the sentiment. And, perhaps, a bit externally. Taking in the words, I sat silent for a moment, giving myself three inhales and exhales before responding, as Dr. Weeber herself had suggested Georgia and I practice with each other.
“No,” Georgia answered quickly. She was still practicing the breathing response thing. “I don’t want to resent Regan.”
Her fingers interlaced with mine, she gave my hand a squeeze. Despite the pregnant pauses and downcast glances that highlighted our existence over the last two weeks, we’d spent more time in physical contact with each other than we had in ages. We hadn’t had sex—not since the night after I got home and we were so wracked with anger, guilt, and sadness that we sought solace in each other. The next morning, though, it was glaringly apparent that the sex hadn’t done anything to change the root of our discord. We didn’t fight—hadn’t since the night I came home—but we were both so raw that we agreed we should focus on our emotional relationship for a while.
Inexplicably, we’d become closer. Of course there were tough days in there when I wanted nothing more than to strip her clothes off, but I’d been able to redirect that. So had she, it seemed. Handholding resurfaced—like it had been at the beginning of our relationship, and we sought each other out for a stroke of the lower back, a kiss on the cheek, or an arm around the waist or shoulders.
It’s like we were trying to trust each other again in ways we hadn’t realized we’d lost it. We were trying to find each other again.
“I don’t want to resent Georgia, either,” I echoed.
Dr. Weeber nodded slowly, her sweet-and-sorry smile almost saying, you fools. “Relationships are, quite stereotypically, tangled webs,” she started. “Patterns of behavior are learned over time, to the point that it can be tough to remember the motivation. Sometimes what can happen with couples, is they learn how to breed guilt in the other as a means to cry out for and receive the affection they’re desperately seeking, but have lost the vocabulary to assert for themselves.”
Georgia and I sat silent, staring—almost gawking—at our doctor.
“I do that,” Georgia answered softly with a pinched, tear-laden voice. “Jesus Christ, I do that. And I don’t know why. Regan’s never withheld affection from me—not ever—but I still sometimes play games with him. I don’t mean to—”
“Hey,” I cut in with a whisper, turning my head to her. “It’s okay. I know you don’t mean to.”
“Regan,” Dr. Weeber interrupted with a warning tone. “Is it okay? Do you mean that? Or are you acting in the overburdened role of relationship martyr, wanting to avoid conflict to the point of preventing growth for you and Georgia?”
I swallowed hard. Dr. Weeber didn’t mince words. It’s one of the things I loved to hate about her. And the reason she was the perfect choice for me and Georgia. I sighed. She was right.
“You’re right.” I sighed again. “I mean, I know she doesn’t mean to do it, so I just let it roll off my back most of the time. I don’t want it to turn into a whole thing and have her feel beat up for something that’s hard for her to change.”
“I can’t change it if you don’t make me,” Georgia said.
“Make you?” Dr. Weeber questioned. “Explain.”
Georgia took a deep breath. “I mean, if there are no consequences for the behavior, what need would I have to change it? No, I don’t do it intentionally to R
egan. It’s … habits. Old, old habits of, of …” she trailed off, reaching for a tissue.
“Receiving affection,” the doctor suggested softly.
Georgia nodded, dabbing under her eyes.
“Both your parents responded well to the guilt … because that’s what they had taught you. Right? You felt like you deserved love when you fixed something you felt guilty about and, in turn, you learned that things like the silent treatment and guilt were surefire ways to get people to crawl back to you, so to speak.”
Georgia nodded again, sniffing before she spoke. “Yeah. And we’ve even talked about it here a million times, but it’s hard.”
“Because that’s how you’re wired,” Dr. Weeber confirmed before turning to me. “And, Regan, you’re a longstanding peacekeeper. Don’t rock the boat and everyone stays safe and happy. Because as long as there’s no fighting, you’re good, right?”
I sighed, thinking back to the early days after CJ’s dad left.
“Yeah,” I answered. “That’s right.”
CJ had stayed at our house for what seemed like months back when I was in second grade, but it was probably a couple of weeks, while his mom nearly gutted the inside of the house. Not with construction, just lots of new furniture. And, I think a mild emotional breakdown. I’m sure from a psychological standpoint it probably wasn’t the greatest idea for CJ to lose his dad and the entire contents of his house, except for his bedroom, in the span of a few weeks. That’s probably why he spent so much time in his bedroom from an early age.
While I didn’t understand what was going on, except for knowing Uncle Callum wouldn’t be living with CJ and Aunt Christine anymore, I knew CJ was angry and upset. He hit me a lot when he didn’t get his way. At first, I’d hit back, and we’d fight like little snot-nosed kids. Until my parents pulled me aside one day and said that CJ was going through a hard time, and we needed to be extra kind to him.
Which was true. We did. He was a hurting little kid and I was, for all intents and purposes, the older-brother figure.
“With CJ when we were kids,” I started, “I saw how it was like a switch—when I just let him freak out but I didn’t freak out back at him … he calmed down faster than if I engaged with him. That was my introduction to pacifism.” I chuckled.
Dr. Weeber grinned. “The world needs pacifists,” she assured. “So do marriages, from time to time. But it’s not healthy to be locked into roles, because this isn’t a play, this is your life.”
I nodded. “Yeah.” I had to stop, swallowing a few times in an effort to get ahold of myself as I leaned forward, afraid the tears would start.
Georgia’s hand found the space between my shoulder blades where I often held tension. I relaxed the muscles immediately, but still held my breath.
“What is it?” she asked softly, as if we were in the privacy of our own living room.
I shook my head, sitting up with a great sigh. “I just couldn’t … I couldn’t …”
I took another deep breath, allowing some of the tears to drip like an annoyingly slow leaky faucet. “I couldn’t keep him from hurting,” I said of CJ. “I tried, I really did. We played sports and climbed trees and I brought out all my action figures and board games, but … he wasn’t ever the same.”
“Did you think you could fix it?” Georgia asked.
I shrugged. “I was in second grade. What did I know? He was just so damn sad all the time. Then he got angry. And he’s stayed angry. I just thought if I’d tried harder, I could have made him feel better.”
“Do you still think that?” Dr. Weeber was silent as Georgia and I talked.
“I haven’t in years,” I admitted. “But I try to stay out of his business—you know that. If he’s angry I don’t push him. If he’s sad, or something that resembles sad, I don’t leave his side, but I don’t say anything.”
At this, Dr. Weeber interrupted. “Regan, what are some negative outcomes for you when shouldering the emotional onslaughts with the grin-and-bear-it attitude?”
Looking at Georgia, I almost regretted what I was about to say, but figured since we were in the safety offered by our therapists spacious, white and seaside blue office, it was now or never.
“I feel a lot of the time like I’m either putting out fires or waiting for the next one.”
Georgia visibly recoiled from my words, but didn’t let go of my hand. I continued.
“I’m not on edge all the time, but that gets worse as time goes on—the anxiety. Like we’ll have a long stretch of calm waters, and I let my guard down a little bit, then when the other shoe drops, big or small, I’m knocked off balance and it’s sort of like that proves to me that I need to be on guard all the time.”
“Expect the worst and you’re never disappointed,” Georgia offered.
I sighed again. “Yeah. But it’s not like that all the time—”
“Regan,” the doctor entered, but I waved her off.
“I need to get this off my chest.”
She grinned. “Go ahead.”
I turned toward Georgia, running a hand over my hair. “I love you. That I have some fucked up need to keep everything honky-dory all the time is not your fault. Yes, it’s our problem together, but it didn’t originate with you. Just like with your guilt stuff. I know I didn’t cause it, but I have to live with it. We have to live with it. I think maybe we have an opportunity here to accept each other as we are and always work to be better. I don’t want to exploit your weaknesses, Georgia.”
She shook her head, looking down for a moment. “I don’t want to do that, either. I feel like we’ve kind of been acting like high schoolers for a while …”
Dr. Weeber sighed contentedly. With a smile on her face, she gave us her plan of action. “We’ll spend some time rewiring your language. Both of you. It’s important to be able to state what you need, but even more dire that you two realize you’ll never be one hundred percent of what each other needs. Humans were meant to live in communities. Friends, co-workers, and family are important aspects in life. Neither of you can or should shoulder everything the other is dealing with.”
“Will you have a problem with me having female friends? I’ve got Ember, and—”
“I have a problem with you being friends with Nessa.” Georgia put up her hand, her lips forming a thin line of repressed rage. It was as calm a voice as she seemed to be able to manage, though it still stung.
My face fell. I wasn’t even attracted to Nessa, but my actions had provided no proof of that. “Okay,” I answered, nodding.
“Do you mean that?” Dr. Weeber shot me a sideways glance as she asked.
I eyed her, then Georgia, then settled on gazing out the window for a few seconds. “I mean … we’re part of the same tour, but she’s not with our label, so it’s not like she’s a co-worker, or anything. She’s become a friend—”
“Yeah,” Georgia cut in, “I’ll say.”
Dr. Weeber motioned to Georgia to let me finish, but I turned to my wife, fighting rage and choosing rationality.
“I fucked up, Georgia. And I’m sorry. It was inappropriate, the way I handled my friendship with Nessa, but I wasn’t even fully aware of what was happening. And that’s never happened with me before, not just since I’ve been with you, but ever.”
Georgia squeezed her eyes shut, crinkling her nose like she’d just stubbed her toe, or something. “I’m sorry.”
My mouth dropped. “What?”
“It wasn’t ever about Nessa. Not for you and not for me. It was about us all along, wasn’t it?”
My heart raced at the possibility that we might actually have a real conversation about this. I nodded, agreeing, but wanting her to continue.
“I can’t keep punishing you for my father’s mistakes. Or my mother’s, or any of the assholes that strolled in before you came along and showed me what it’s like to be loved.”
I took both her hands and, smiling, I kissed the tops of her knuckles.
“You’re human,” she
said with sweet sarcasm. “And I have to deal with that.”
I laughed. “I really am. And I have to deal with that too. And …” I continued, hesitating for a moment. “You’re a grown woman, in a marriage with me. You might have a wounded child inside you but you aren’t that hurt kid. I can trust you with my feelings. For better or worse.”
Georgia brought one of my hands to her lips, kissing softly. “For better or worse.”
I can’t explain what happened in the moment her lips touched my skin, but it felt like some heavy shackles had been cut off my ankles, and all I had to do was take a step forward to be free of the chains.
Staring into the eyes of my wife, for the first time I had no doubt that she’d take that step with me, and we had the chance to be free of the weight of the past—together.
***
It was a wobbly few days after the session with our therapist. We’d uncovered a shitload of deep-as-hell issues, and were trying to figure out how to deal with them. We were the same people we were before, but now we were treating each other like those people, and not the little kids behind the masks. It felt a lot like walking around in the sun after ripping off thirty Band-Aids. Raw, confusing, and a little painful. But, we didn’t need the bandages anymore anyway.
I’d kept in regular contact with Yardley, assuring her that I didn’t plan on bailing completely, but that I needed to talk things over with Georgia before I recommitted. I was cautiously optimistic that I’d be back in the fold by the NYC show, but if not, I’d really make a case for Massachusetts, if Georgia and I hadn’t hashed out the details by then.
One Saturday night, while the tour was continuing on in Ohio, Georgia and I walked our dinner down to the beach across from our apartment. I’d finally received some text messages from CJ after the Chicago leg of the tour. He sent some videos of various acts and, in the most recent set of pictures he’d sent from the tour bus, there was a familiar face.
“Look at this.” I grinned, facing my phone to Georgia once we set the blanket close to the shore. Low tide gave us some more space.
Chasing Kane Page 26