Practice Husband

by Noelle Adams

  I keep going to class, doing my reading, trying to cook, pretending to be normal.

  I’m not sure I fool anyone.

  Definitely not myself.

  On Wednesday of the following week I’m so exhausted from trying to get through each day without falling apart that my head hurts, my eyes swell, my legs feel shaky.

  It’s ridiculous. And infuriating.

  I shouldn’t feel like this.

  I should be stronger, smarter, more like the heroines in all the books I read who push through their problems and trials and come out better on the other side.

  I want to be like that.

  I don’t want to be a wuss.

  I think I’ve grown and changed in the past few months, so I don’t know why I can’t get over this too.

  I can barely stand up, but I make myself cook dinner anyway. I’ve done it every evening for almost a week, and I’m going to keep doing it until I collapse on the floor. Tonight, I’m making a baked pasta dish I saw yesterday on a cooking show.

  As usual, I’m chopping vegetables when Hunter gets home.

  “How was work?” I ask brightly when I hear him come in.

  “Fine.”

  He doesn’t say anything else, and I don’t hear any noises. After a minute, I turn to glance over my shoulder to see what he’s doing.

  He’s just standing there, looking at me.

  “Pasta for dinner,” I say with a smile.

  “Sounds good.”

  Then like he’s too tired to even pick up his feet, he trudges into the bathroom.

  After a minute, I hear the shower come on.

  I work busily, hoping the simple tasks will distract me from everything else. When I’ve got everything prepared, I realize I need a baking dish to put the pasta in.

  I’ve got one that will work, but it’s on the high shelf of the cabinets.

  So I drag a stool over and climb up on it so I can reach the shelf.

  I’ve done this before.

  Plenty of times.

  There’s nothing unusual or dangerous about it.

  But I’m tired today. Evidently too tired to accomplish a simple thing like climbing up to retrieve a dish.

  I open the cabinet door. Stretch up to get the large baking dish. Lower my arm and then lower one foot to balance on the bottom rung of the stool.

  I miss.

  Lose my balance.

  Fall backward, taking the baking dish and the stool with me.

  The dish crashes onto the hardwood floor and cracks in half. I scramble for purchase, jerking my leg into position to catch myself. But my ankle twists and can’t hold my weight.

  I end up on the floor on my back beside the pieces of the baking dish, the stool on top of me.

  I hit hard, and it jars me, dazes me.

  “Sam?”

  Vaguely, I hear the water in the shower turn off.

  I lie where I fell and go through that orienting process where you realize what happened, what it means, what parts of your body hurt.

  My head is pounding, but I can tell it’s from being jarred and not from a direct impact.

  I didn’t hit my head.

  That’s good.

  My butt is aching. I landed on it. And my ankle is starting to pulse in pain. I twisted it.

  I fell off the damned stool.

  I broke the baking dish.

  I’m such a complete idiot. If I’d been more careful, it wouldn’t have happened, and now I’m going to have a swollen ankle for who knows how long.

  I love Hunter, but he doesn’t love me back.

  And I’m going to have to live with this fact for the rest of my life.

  My body starts to shake.

  “Sam?” It’s only been a few seconds, but the bathroom door is already open. I can tell by the sound of his voice. “Sam, what happened? I heard—”

  His sentence breaks off, and I know why.

  He’s come out of the bathroom and sees me on the floor.

  “Shit, angel.” He’s running over to me now, kneeling on the floor beside me. He’s still wet and has a towel wrapped around his waist. “Sam, talk to me. Are you all right?”

  I’m still shaking with barely suppressed sobs.

  It’s stupid, but there’s no way I can help it.

  “Sam.” He’s reaching down to cup my face in his hands. “You have to talk to me. Tell me what hurts.”

  “My ankle.” I don’t recognize the sound of my own voice.

  He lets out a hoarse exhale. I don’t know if it’s relief or what. His hands are moving down my body. “Anything else? Did you hit your head?”

  “No.” I try to sit up. “My butt.”

  “Hey, hey, don’t try to move yet.”

  “I’m fine.”

  I’m not fine. Everything hurts. I slump against Hunter’s chest.

  He wraps his arms around me. “It’s okay, angel. I’ve got you.”

  It’s not okay. He might have me, but he doesn’t want me the way I want him.

  But I’m an adult, and that means picking yourself up when you fall, even if you don’t want to, even if it hurts.

  So I try, and Hunter helps me. I gasp when I try to put weight on my ankle, and I have to cling to him for support.

  “Shit,” I mutter. I hate this. Hate it. Why the hell didn’t I watch where I was putting my foot?

  “You need to lie down.”

  I don’t want to lie down. I want to start over on the evening, the day, the year, my life. “I need to put the pasta into the oven. The dish broke.”

  “Do you have another one?”

  I nod up at the hated upper cabinet.

  He reaches up—easily—and grabs a different-shaped casserole dish that will work for the pasta. He sets it on the counter. “What do we need to do?”

  “Pour the pasta into the dish, cover it with cheese, and put it in the oven.”

  He nods. “I’ll do that after you’re in bed.”

  “I don’t—”

  He doesn’t let me argue. He just picks me up, cradles me in his arms, and carries me into the bedroom.

  I’m almost crying again as he lays me down, and I have to contort my face to control the tears.

  “Oh angel,” he murmurs, stroking my hair back.

  “I’m fine.”

  He stands up, sad and exhausted. “I’ll get some ice for your ankle.”

  He leaves and returns almost immediately, holding an ice pack he’d grabbed from the freezer. He fiddles with my ankle for a minute, poking it and turning it carefully. It hurts but not unbearably, and it’s clear that I’ve twisted my ankle but not broken or even seriously sprained it.

  That’s a relief anyway.

  He positions the ice pack over it and then straightens up, his eyes resting soberly on my face.

  “The pasta.” My voice cracks on the last word.

  He nods. “I’ll go do it.”

  The pasta turns out good. I eat some of it from bed. Later, Hunter takes the ice off my foot and bandages it up tightly. He helps me change clothes and brush my teeth, and then he gets into bed with me, even though it’s not even eight o’clock in the evening.

  I can barely keep my eyes open. I’m asleep before I know it.

  SOMETIME DURING THE night, Hunter rolls over on me.

  I know this because I wake up blurrily to realize that he’s rocking his erection into my belly.

  Just a little. He still seems to be asleep.

  But he’s hard, and his hips are moving instinctively.

  He’s mumbling against my neck, “Angel. Angel.”

  We haven’t made love for more than a week, so I guess it’s not surprising that he’s gotten turned on in his sleep.

  It’s a weirdly intense feeling. The way his body is moving against mine. This warm weight above me. The neediness of his hips, his voice, his breathing.

  It’s so close to what I really want.

  It goes on for a minute or two, and then he hisses, “Yes.” His body seems to
soften, so maybe he came in his sleep.

  What the hell do I know about men?

  I’m having trouble breathing now, so I give him a gentle push.

  He mumbles and rolls over, still asleep.

  I breathe.

  Then I start to cry again.

  I make sure to do it silently.

  THE NEXT MORNING I wake up when Hunter does, but I don’t open my eyes until he’s left for his morning run.

  I get up to go to the bathroom, pleased to discover that I’m able to walk. My ankle is still bandaged, and it’s sore, making me limp. But I can move on my own.

  I’m back in bed when Hunter returns, panting and drenched in sweat.

  He looks over at me a few times before he gets in the shower, but he doesn’t say anything.

  I listen to him take a shower and then listen to him get dressed.

  He stands above the bed for a minute after he’s fully dressed in his work clothes and shoes.

  Finally, I can’t stand the silence, so I say, “What?”

  He shakes his head. “How’s your ankle?”

  “Okay. I can limp around.”

  “You’ll be okay on your own?”

  “Of course.”

  I’ve always been okay on my own.

  “Call me if you need anything.”

  “I will.” I test out a smile. “Have a good day.”

  He doesn’t answer immediately. “You too.”

  I’m not sure what’s holding him back, but his face twists with some sort of internal struggle before he’s able to turn around and walk away.

  As soon as I hear the apartment door close, I know.

  I know.

  I can’t do this anymore.

  It’s a lie. It’s not a life. It’s not a marriage. And I’m not going to put myself through it.

  I can live with Hunter not loving me. He’s under no obligation to do so.

  But I can’t keep playing this part, this farce, this fiction of a marriage.

  If I can’t have him as a husband for real, then it’s better not to have him as a husband at all.

  It’s a terrible thought. Painful. Ripping through my heart.

  But I know it’s the right one.

  So I roll out of bed and limp to the bathroom again, this time to wash up and get dressed. I pack a bag, collect all my school books and my laptop, do a search for anything else that I can’t do without.

  Then I leave Hunter a note on the kitchen counter.

  I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry. It’s my fault, not yours. I’m going to stay at Chelsea’s for a while. Thank you for everything. Sam.

  I take off my wedding ring and lay it carefully on the piece of paper.

  I can barely let go of it, but I make myself release the gold band.

  Then I take my suitcase and my school bag and I leave.

  I’m about to step into the hall when I freeze.

  I’ve left Hunter a note, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Not after everything he’s done for me over the past three months.

  Not after the friend he’s been to me.

  The husband.

  Before I can think it through or talk myself out of it, I grab my phone and connect a call to him.

  He answers on the first ring. “Sam? Are you okay?”

  “Ye-ah.” I clear my throat and try again. “Yeah.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m going to stay at Chelsea’s for a while.”

  There’s a pause. Then, “What? Why?”

  “Because I have to.”

  “Sam—”

  “I have to, Hunter. I need to.”

  “Sam—”

  “I’ll call you in a few days to check in.”

  “A few days?’ His voice is hoarse, raspy.

  “I think it’s for the best.”

  There’s silence on the other end of the line, and this time I wait for him to say something.

  “Okay,” he says at last.

  I swallow hard and nod at the empty hallway. “Thank you for everything.”

  Another pause. “Thank you too.”

  “Goodbye, Hunter.”

  “Bye.”

  I hang up, relieved that it’s over. I’ve done what I could, and now I just need to get away.

  I limp down the stairs, put my luggage in my car, and am about to get into the driver’s side when I think about the note I left for Hunter upstairs with my ring.

  There’s that amazing scene in Persuasion where Wentworth writes the note to Anne as he’s overhearing her conversation on love and faithfulness. The emotional intensity of it. The almost desperate need for clear communication, human interaction, in the middle of suffocating social inhibitions.

  I love that scene. I always read it with a buzzing in my head.

  Two hearts finally connecting at last.

  Wentworth going all in at last.

  As I have that thought—exactly as I have that thought—I’m hit with a strange flash of revelation.

  I’ve been waiting, hoping, praying for Hunter to finally go all in with me, but I’ve never gone all in myself.

  This is my story. The story of my life. And that means I’m the hero of it.

  Me. Not him.

  I can’t just wait around, waiting for Hunter to change, for the world to fix itself. Not when there’s something I can do myself.

  I’ve read enough hero stories to know what it takes.

  Going all in.

  Not holding anything back.

  So I limp back up three flights of steps and unlock the door to my apartment. Our apartment.

  I go to the letter I wrote to Hunter earlier, and I add a few lines.

  I love you, Hunter. I always have. You’ve never been just practice to me. I know you don’t feel the same way, and that’s okay. I needed to tell you the truth anyway. I would love if you were my husband for real.

  I stare down at the words I’ve just scrawled out.

  I swore I’d never do that. Pour myself out when there’s no hope of it being returned.

  It doesn’t matter.

  I’m all in now.

  This is my story.

  I leave the note on the counter before I can change my mind, and I limp back down to my car.

  THE DAY GOES ON FOREVER. I hang out with Chelsea in the morning, and then I make myself go to the library and do some research for a big paper that’s due at the end of the semester.

  I’m leaving the library, feeling drained, exhausted and sad, and I’m thinking about what it means to be all in.

  Not just with Hunter.

  In everything.

  I haven’t really done it yet.

  So I drive across campus to the graduate admissions office, and I talk to the assistant there about what I need to do to apply for the PhD program in English.

  Then I go back to Chelsea’s place, and I submit my application online.

  I have class in the evening. Plato and Aristotle for three hours. I want to skip it, but I don’t.

  Halfway through class, I think of something else I want to do, so I text Melissa and Chelsea and ask if they’ll do it with me.

  They say they will.

  Of course they will.

  They’ll cancel any other plans they have because I need them tonight.

  So a few hours later, at almost midnight, Chelsea, Melissa, and I are walking back to her apartment.

  My ankle is aching a little, but it’s not holding me back.

  A small spot on my lower back is also aching.

  I just got a tattoo there.

  Chelsea knew of a good place where a lot of her friends got their tattoos done. They’re skilled and clean and comfortable, and they were able to work me in tonight when Chelsea called up and asked them.

  It did hurt. But not unbearably. The pain was never the reason I was reluctant anyway.

  I’m really glad I did it.

  It will be with me now forever, and I’m not even scared of that fact.

 
I’m glad I had something to do this evening. I haven’t heard from Hunter at all.

  He’ll have gotten home hours ago from work. He’ll have read my note. He’ll know that I love him.

  And he hasn’t tried to get in touch with me.

  At all.

  I should have expected that. He’s not ready for a real relationship. He might never be. He told me that more than once, and I should have been able to see it for myself. And even when he is ready, I might never be the one he wants a relationship with.

  It’s okay.

  I’ve done what I need to do, and I can’t control anything else.

  “You did so good,” Melissa says, giving me a one-arm hug as we walk, keeping her arm up high so she doesn’t get close to my new tattoo. “I know it sounds stupid, but I’m so proud of you.”

  “Thanks.” I’m exhausted and sad but also relieved.

  There’s really nothing else I can do now.

  “And I think you’ll be hearing from Hunter soon,” Chelsea puts in.

  I shake my head. “If he was going to suddenly change his mind, he would have done it when he got the note. He’s not going to come rushing back to me, wanting to be my husband for real.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  I sigh. “No. But I’m pretty sure. I know about people. Think of all the books I’ve read.”

  “But a lot of those books have happy endings, don’t they?” Chelsea’s eyes are big and concerned.

  “Yeah. But not all of them. People don’t—can’t—always change.”

  “But sometimes they do,” Melissa murmurs.

  “Yes. Sometimes they do.” I say this because it’s true. Not because I have any hope that Hunter is going to change just because I did.

  It’s just then—exactly then—that we turn the corner onto the sidewalk that runs in front of her building.

  And I see him.

  Hunter.

  Sitting on the steps that lead up to the main entrance to Chelsea’s apartment building.

  I jerk to a stop at the sight of him.

  He’s wearing his work trousers and a wrinkled white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. He stands up from the step when he sees me.

  “Yes,” Chelsea whispers. “I knew it!”

  Melissa is almost smiling, and she puts a hand on my shoulder briefly. “We’ll go upstairs. You talk to him.”

  I don’t reply. I just stand on the sidewalk like a statue.