An Unforgivable Love Story

by B. L. Berry

  Looking in the mirror I untie my robe and let it fall to my feet. I move my hands underneath my camisole and caress the pale, soft, dimpling flesh that just barely spills over the waistband of my pajama bottoms. Places that were tight are already a bit more elastic. While I’ve certainly gained a few pounds over the past month and a half, I didn’t really notice the physical change until now.

  And it disgusts me.

  I silently curse my body, hating what I’ve become physically. Hating what this is doing to our marriage.

  He rarely touches me anymore. I’m pretty sure the last time we had sex was when he left a parting gift in my abdomen. And it’s no wonder — he doesn’t find me sexy since I got knocked up. Or perhaps he’s terrified of me ending up in the hospital again? Or worse? My mind goes directly to Carrie and I dig my fingernails into the palm of my hands to focus on the physical pain instead of the emotional pain that rots my core.

  I turn the faucet on and splash cold water onto my face, washing away the tears that have started to fall. Leaving the water running, I push my back up against the wall and slowly slide down until my ass hits the floor.

  I don’t want him to hear me cry. I don’t want him to know how deeply this is affecting me.

  “Babe, let me in.” Simon taps the back of his knuckles against the bathroom door, but I don’t move. I don’t respond. After a few more moments of silence, he knocks again and jostles the doorknob.

  “Come on, Sharna … baby. Open up.” I cover my pathetic mouth to stifle the sobs. “Listen … this isn’t your fault.”

  “No! Leave me alone.” I hug my knees to my chest and softly cry, wiping my cheeks.

  “I’m not leaving until you open the door.”

  After a few minutes, I reach up and turn the knob, unlocking it. He slowly pushes it open and kneels behind me on the floor, wrapping his arms around my body, holding me tight. Softly, he shushes in my ear, desperate to calm my raging hormones.

  “Sharna ... you’re okay,” he coos.

  I’m on the verge of hyperventilating, gasping for air. “I don’t … I don’t know what just happened in there.” The tears won’t stop falling and my shoulders quakes with each sob. I’m desperate to breathe. The air can’t come fast enough.

  “Hey … look at me, baby.” He pulls my chin gently toward him and wipes the tears away with the back of his other hand. There’s no embarrassment in his eyes, only pain. I hate myself for doing this to him, and I wonder if he feels like the guy in the book he’s reading. An invalid.

  Simon’s shoulders sulk and he looks me square in the eye with a defeated look upon his face, a mask of tenderness hiding the underlying pity he feels for me. “Listen to me when I say this, honey. I promise you this … it’s not you … it really is me. There’s just a lot going on right now, okay?”

  Okay.

  I subtly nod, unable to say the word, but there’s a sincerity in his eyes that makes me believe he’s telling the truth.

  But if that is the truth, then what the hell else is going on?

  Twenty-One

  Silence

  I used to love the comfortable silence between us. Novels spoken with words unsaid. But now? Now his silence does nothing but piss me off. It’s hard not to think he sits there judging me. Hating me. Resenting me. I need him to open up. Because those novels are now short stories. Or three lines of a haiku.

  His glare says it all …

  You ruined my life.

  But we are stuck together.

  I want to get out.

  I find myself focusing less on the words coming from Dr. Bob’s mouth and more on how Simon reacts to the things he says. The tiny flinches when he says words like relationship or marriage. How he mindlessly bounces his knee when he tries to hide the truth or spew what I’m certain is a lie. How he practically hugs the opposite end of the couch from me, as if to proclaim, “I’m married to a piranha … save me!”

  But he doesn’t speak.

  At least not very much. And not until today.

  It has always been pulling teeth to get him to talk when we’re sitting in a couple’s counseling session, but slowly he’s getting there. Besides, the fact he’s even sitting here in this room with me means he’s trying, right?

  I didn’t notice it until this moment, but on the far wall above Dr. Bob’s desk hangs an embossed piece of ivory paper, touting his education at The Ohio State University. How fucking pretentious. It’s not like they are the only university in the entire state. And anyone who goes to school there, has graduated from there, or plans on becoming a buckeye, is fast to inform you that it is not, in fact, Ohio State University, but rather The Ohio State University. Carrie attended The fucking Ohio State University and I suddenly hate everything about this office, about this doctor and about this entire session.

  The room is far too small and there’s not enough air and that man on the other end of the couch appears to be looking at that same stupid diploma with reverence reserved for the moment a bride walks down the aisle. It’s utterly ridiculous and I find myself secretly starting to loathe Dr. Bob even though he doesn’t fit the mold of pretentiousness.

  “I don’t remember the last time we were even on the same page. I haven’t felt connected in quite some time.” Simon says in response to a question I never even heard because I was too busy obsessing over The Ohio State and everything that is wrong in my world. I curl my leg underneath my body and think about the truth in his words.

  It’s undeniable. We aren’t connected on an emotional level anymore. And if we’re not connected emotionally, how the hell can we even be connected physically?

  Where did we go wrong?

  “As I’m sure you know, you can’t continue with the way things are today if you want to see improvements. And you can’t simply expect your wife to be the one who changes, the only thing you can control in this situation is your behavior and your outlook. Is that something you’re willing to do? Make improvements within yourself to see improvements in your relationship?”

  “Of course … yes.” His tone is matter-of-fact for the tapestry of lies he’s weaving. Both he and Dr. Bob look to me to respond, but the only I can see is the giant pink elephant in the room emblazoned with an oversized red “O” indicating The Ohio State University.

  “You’re seeing someone else, aren’t you?” I speak before I think. Because honestly, I’m not sure I want to know the answer. But the words are out there and I can’t take them back. So I divert my eyes to the floor and brace myself for his response.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “How could you expect me to not think that? You’re gone so much. And I’m not talking about just physically gone. You can be sitting next to me on the couch and just be present. You’re not having sex with me. And you’re practically eye-fucking that diploma on the wall, undoubtedly because it reminds you of The Carrie from The Ohio State University!”

  Dr. Bob is frantically scribbling some bullshit on his notepad and Simon turns his entire body to me. And for the first time in all of our sessions, he speaks directly to me. He’s angry and void of compassion. “Sharna … I can’t believe you think I’m having an affair! Carrie is in the past! I’ve been so stressed out lately trying to keep everything together. Work is insane. The baby. You and your mood swings giving me whiplash. You keep giving me those doubting eyes time and time again. Don’t think for one second that I don’t notice it!” He’s projecting his voice too loud for this tiny space and I feel the word you echoing throughout the room. It’s laced with venom. And it’s suddenly obvious.

  He resents me.

  I say nothing.

  But only because I’m not sure what to say. Sorry? Because I’m not. I can’t help what I feel. While my accusation could be considered out of line, it’s his reaction that guts me to my core. I really want to know what it was I did that made him hate me so much, but I don’t ask. Again, I don’t want to know the answer.

  Dr. Bob doesn’t step in. He watches co
nspiratorially, putting his fucking pen to that fucking paper taking fucking notes on this whole fucking situation.

  Simon exhales and he slouches back against the couch, realizing how he’s stepped over the line.

  “Look,” he begins calmly. “When I’m not at home, I’m either at the office, with a client or out with the guys. I most certainly am not off with some other woman. I hurt you once and I swore I would never hurt you like that again.” His finger twitches and the next thing I know he’s stretched his arm out across the open cushion on the couch, palm side up. His eyes silently plead with me and I look down at his outstretched hand. “I’m sorry, okay? I love you, Sharna.”

  Guilt coils around my conscience like a vise effectively squeezing the life out of me. Maybe it’s all a rouse since we’re in the middle of a therapy session? Maybe it’s him feeling guilty? And when the light catches his wedding band at just the right angle, reflecting a bright gold glint, I think that maybe … just maybe, he’s telling the truth?

  Slowly, I nod and brush my fingertips against his. When he weaves our fingers together in the most tender way possible, I’m reassured, if only slightly.

  “I love you, too,” I mutter.

  Dr. Bob doesn’t dig deeper on my outburst. He is undoubtedly saving that for a rainy day one on one session with me where he’ll dissect and psychoanalyze every thought I’ve ever had and probably my relationship with my father, too. Daddy issues are one thing I never had to worry about thankfully.

  “So it’s safe to say that you share Simon’s sentiment of detachment?”

  I gently squeeze my husband’s hand and nod subtly. Simon gives me a sad smile and I know he, too, regrets allowing us to get to this point.

  “I know that often times couples who feel this disconnected from each other sometimes need a romantic getaway of sorts. A retreat to reconnect. Rediscover each other and remind yourselves of why you fell in love in the first place.”

  Simon’s thumb brushes the back of my hand before he releases it and begins cracking his knuckles.

  I don’t admit that I fear we’re beyond the point of repair, but I at least want to try to make this work. One last shot to bring us back to Sharna and Simon. The young couple who fell head over heels in love. Recapture what we lost.

  “I think that’s a lovely idea. Don’t you think, Simon? We could go back to Paris. Relive our honeymoon.”

  During our time there the City of Light became the City of Unbridled Love. Our honeymoon was remarkable and full of all the things that couples in love would do if money were no object. We started in Paris and after a week made our way down to Cannes for a sail along the Mediterranean.

  He tilts his head ever so slightly and I swear I see the corners of his lips turn upward. I knew he’d like that idea.

  “We could stay at the Hotel Plaza Athenee again. See the Monet exhibit at Musee de l’Orangerie and even take a ride on the old fashioned merry-go-round at foot of the Sacre-Coeur Basilica in Montmartre. Do you remember when we did that, Simon?”

  I could never forget the last one. We had just left the guided tour of the church and it started raining. Simon grabbed my hand to run as we sprinted to find shelter from the downpour. The closest place of refuge was an old carousel just down the stairs. We paid and climbed onto a pair of old fashioned ponies. I’ll never forget the way he looked at me and said, “A pair of old souls, just like us,” before he leaned over and kissed me. Simon kept feeding the old man euros and we spun round and round for nearly an hour waiting for the rain to end. It was one of the most romantic moments of my life.

  He nods thoughtfully at the memories but says nothing.

  “What was your favorite part of your honeymoon?” Dr. Bob asks.

  Simon turns and looks at me reverently and there’s a glimmer in his eye that melts my insides as memories flood his mind. After a few controlled moments, he speaks. “For me, it was visiting the vineyards in the south of France and the incredible food we ate along the southern coast when we visited Cannes.”

  And just like that, all the air is pulled from my lungs. Of all the romantic and meaningful things we did together, he picks the food. The goddamn food and booze wins out.

  Are you kidding me?

  “And what about you, Sharna? What was your favorite part?”

  My favorite part of our honeymoon was when Simon dipped me backwards in a passionate kiss on the Ponts des Arts bridge just before we hung a padlock with our initials to the rails, immortalizing our love. He must have seen the panic in my eyes when I was bent over backwards because just before his lips came crashing into mine he whispered, “I’ve got you, Sharna ... I’ve always got you.” Late at night when the sun has disappeared from the horizon and the house is silent, I can close my eyes and harness the butterflies he filled me with that day. It takes effort on my part, but it’s still there.

  The love.

  The devotion.

  The vows we made.

  It’s all still there … somewhere.

  Since we were there seven years ago, Paris officials have mandated that all locks be removed for the safety of the bridge. And in some ways it feels like when they destroyed our lock, a part of our marriage was destroyed, too.

  Dr. Bob coughs subtly, pulling me from my thoughts. “Your favorite part?”

  “Umm, I’d have to say visiting the art museums. They were truly spectacular, especially The Louvre,” I lie, too bruised to recall the sentimental moment on the Lover’s Bridge aloud.

  “Good. This is good,” Dr. Bob proclaims. “I have homework for you two before our next session. I’d like for you to start planning this trip. It doesn’t necessarily have to be to Paris, and you don’t need to have it booked, but working together I want you to begin figuring out what you’d like to do together wherever you decide to go.”

  I smile, finding it to be a lovely idea.

  “Also, I want you two to start talking to each other more. Each night before you go to bed, tell each other a favorite memory that involved your other half. It could be the first time you met or how they supported you during a difficult time. The two of you have something great together, and it is my hope that I can bring you both back to it.”

  I hope so, too.

  “Looks good, thanks, Shar.” Simon sits down at the table across from me and scoops a spoonful of creamed spinach onto his plate. Never mind the fact that I’m almost half done with my steak and most of the food in the spread is likely cold.

  He came home late. Again. But I bite my tongue and try not to complain. I feel like that’s all I’ve been doing lately and my outburst at the therapist’s office earlier today certainly didn’t help my case. His delayed arrival is just a testament to his hard work and dedication to his job. I need to remind myself that everything he’s doing, he’s doing for our future.

  “I hope you like it.” I smile sweetly and take a sip of my tea. “So I’ve been thinking … about what Dr. Bob said today.”

  “Oh?” Simon raises his chin and looks at me while he chews.

  “And I think he’s right. I think some time away from the day to day would be good for us. We haven’t been on vacation together in a while and late spring in Paris is my favorite time of year.”

  “You can’t possibly think we’re actually going to go through with this trip, can you?”

  The acid in his voice stings and I try not to take offense. I could have sworn he thought it was a good idea earlier. Unless he was prattling off bullshit because he thought that was what I wanted to hear.

  “Please? Just give this a legit shot for me. For us … I miss us.” But what I really want to say is I miss the you in us. “I just think it’d be good for us to get away together.”

  “Why?”

  “Because right now the only thing you want to get away from is me. And frankly, I’m not willing to give up on us as easily as you are.” I didn’t intend for the words to sound so curt coming from my mouth. But they do.

  Simon flinches at the reality o
f my statement. “You know that’s not true, Sharna.”

  “No, it is. I notice when you’re not around. And lately it’s happening more and more.”

  “I told you, I’ve been traveling more frequently so I can secure these new high profile accounts. Your uncle is depending on it.”

  I hate it when he plays the family card. It makes me feel like a failure of a wife when I want my husband at home with me rather than at work making my uncle’s company more successful. It makes me regret ever suggesting having him work for Uncle Grayson.

  Simon’s fork clanks loudly when he puts it down on his plate, pushing his unfinished meal toward the center of the table. With his elbows on the table, he holds his head in his hands. He looks like he’s in agony and it’s making me a bit nervous. I hear him take a controlled breath and exhale slowly before he speaks.

  “Okay. How about this? I’ll reach out to Carmie and have her start pulling together a suggested itinerary for us and—“

  “That’s not what Dr. Bob said to do. We’re supposed to plan this together.” I don’t want him calling our travel agent to take care of something that we are supposed to accomplish together. It’s not just the vacation that would bring us closer together, but the planning of it all, too.

  Simon holds up a single finger and I bite my tongue. “And we take a look at her ideas and decide what to strike and what we want to add to it. She had planned our honeymoon initially, remember? She knows all of the best spots. I think it’s a really good starting point considering how busy I am these days.”

  I guess I can’t really complain since he’s game to agree to the vacation in the first place. Even if we aren’t the ones doing all of the planning, we’d still be involved. So surely that counts.

  As I sigh, I instantly feel lighter and more at ease. “Okay. It sounds like a plan.”

  Simon reaches out and downs his glass of tea in a few gulps, then sets it back down on the table. “So you really want to go back to Paris?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, desperate to relive our honeymoon. Maybe it’s delusional of me, but I truly believe that if we can just get there, we can resuscitate our marriage.