If I Break #4 Shattered Pieces

by Portia Moore

  “Let me call you back.” I hang up and text Bryce.

  Are you home? is the weirdest text a woman should have to send to her husband. I’m startled when I hear keys in the door and, a few moments later, it opens.

  “Hey,” he says, his voice uneven. He looks almost as surprised as I am to see him.

  I smile at him—it’s genuine and not forced. He’s always had the ability to make me smile, even in my saddest moments. His eyes smile at me, but it doesn’t reach his lips. His eyes lock on mine, trying to read me, read who I am today. Am I someone he can talk to, touch, make love to, or someone who will freeze up and want her distance?

  I hate myself for not knowing. Awkwardness has grown between us like weeds. When did they start? The day I found out I was pregnant with Anna and I didn’t tell him. Ever since then, there’s been a secret between us that I couldn’t share yet, and now… well, it doesn’t even matter.

  He pulls his sweatshirt over his head, and in doing so, his white wife beater pulls up, showing his etched stomach and strong arms. My skin heats up from the sight. Our distance has never been due to my body not desiring him, and it’s screaming at me now. It’s been a little over two months since we made love. I’ve missed him so much.

  He folds up the sweatshirt and sets it on a barstool, then he sits down, stretching his long legs out in front of him. His eyes trail up my body, and my stomach flips. Then his eyes lock on mine. They’re big warm pools that I used to swim in every night.

  “You slept on the couch last night.” His tone is cautious, hesitant, and he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his sweats.

  “I just fell asleep,” I say meekly.

  He squints at me in disbelief, then he sighs, looking at me as if he’s searching for the woman he used to love, as if I’m a ghost of myself. “You never fall asleep on the couch.”

  There was a time when he came back from trips and would wake me up so we could make love for hours. Now we’re almost uncomfortable to be in the same room with each other.

  “There’s a first time for everything.”

  He nods, but he’s skeptical. He knows it’s nearly impossible to get a good night’s sleep on the Couch of Death.

  “Do you want me to make breakfast?” I ask, walking toward the fridge.

  “I grabbed something after my run,” he says before I get a chance to open it.

  “Oh.”

  “But I can sit down and eat with you,” he says quickly, but I don’t want his pity breakfast time.

  “No, I’ll probably just eat a bagel or something,” I say, trying to hide my annoyance with him and myself. I bite my lip and grab a pack of bagels. I hate this feeling. I hate how we feel like we’re roommates rather than husband and wife, two people who love each other.

  “I missed you.”

  His words stop me in my tracks. I close my eyes and wrap his words around me. I missed him too—so much. I look back at him. All the feelings I’ve ever felt for him stir up in me, but I swallow them.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” I ask, fighting with the stubborn bagel that doesn’t want to leave the pack.

  “I didn’t know if you wanted to talk to me,” he says quietly.

  My face heats up, and I pull the bagel out of the bag.

  “Did you… want me to call?” His voice sounds tired and cracked, exhausted.

  He’s exhausted with me. I’ve drained him. I did want to hear his voice, but at the same time, hearing it makes me feel so guilty.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say with a half shrug and a fake grin, and I see a brick wall being built on top of those weeds between us.

  “That’s not what I asked you,” he says sternly.

  My eyes dart to his. They’re hard. I focus on putting the bagel in the toaster. The silence between us is like a person, and I hear him let out a frustrated sigh.

  “I wish you would tell me what I did,” he says, his voice strained. It makes me want to hug him, but I don’t know what it is I want or if what I want is what’s best for him.

  “You didn’t do anything.”

  I hope he sees that the problem is me and not him, but he lets out a frustrated groan and rakes his fingers roughly through his hair. His head lowers, and he waits a moment before he looks back up at me.

  “Is this going to be it for us?”

  His question makes anxiety course through me. When I look at him, my heart wrenches. His face is blank, but his eyes are full of confusion and sadness, and my heart beats wildly. Is this going to be it for us? Is it too much? Can I ever get over this pain, this fear of not being good enough for him, that he deserves more than what I can give him? Looking at him, I see the love in his eyes and I can’t imagine giving him up, but I’m not ready to give in, to break, to have him fix me at the expense of himself.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, my voice revealing a tremble I didn’t intend.

  I start to feel angry too. Yes, we’ve been distant with each other because I’ve kept to myself more than normal, but how can we heal when we barely see one another? He’s gone so much, and if he wasn’t, then I wouldn’t have had a chance to make distance my friend. Is he ready to give up on us just because things aren’t perfect anymore, because we’re going through a rough patch? This man promised me forever.

  “Why would you say that?” I ask, feeling tears come to my eyes.

  “Why wouldn’t I say that? You’ve completely shut me out!”

  I flinch. He hardly ever yells. Well, when he’s watching football games with his friends and brothers, he does, but not at me. I guess I’ve never deserved it before.

  “Don’t blame this all on me,” I say, my own voice raising.

  “This isn’t about blame. I don’t care whose fault it is, mine or yours. I want to know if we can get past this! If you’ll let us.”

  His nose is flared, his beautiful face contorted in anger, his voice passing decibels it never has with me. This is what I’ve made him become. My stomach sinks and I feel sick as I cry.

  He approaches me and lifts my face to make me look at him. “Do I not make you happy anymore?”

  My heart breaks that he thinks this is his fault. I love this man with everything in me, and I’d rather him be happy without me than unhappy with me. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve a woman who is so screwed up she can’t function, who’s so stuck on the past she can’t bring herself to get over it and love her husband and rest in his support. That’s not who he deserves. It’s not what I promised him when we married.

  “Chassidy, tell me what’s wrong, please.”

  He’s practically begging me, but my words are buried under fear, stubbornness, and pain. I can’t force them up, so I just cry. But he holds me, and he kisses my head, my neck, and my lips.

  “Just let me in,” he begs.

  His fingers reach my skin, climbing underneath my clothes, and they come off. His do as well, but I don’t feel passion or yearning. All I feel is a secret between us. When I look into his eyes, I see the eyes of our little girl, and it freezes the fire that used to ignite between us. I can’t concentrate on how good his lips feel on my neck, how warm and hard his body is, how he knows me inside out. I only notice how cold the floor is, how useless my body is, and how I don’t know if we can ever get past this. My body becomes tenser, my breath shortened.

  But he needs this. If I can give him this, maybe it will ignite something, or at least give me time to let him know I haven’t checked out. I look at the ceiling and try to relax, but when he grips my chin, bringing my gaze to his, his eyes bore into mine and he stops. I panic because in his eyes, I see disappointment and frustration. He shakes his head, and he presses his lips so firmly together that they’re swollen when he parts them. He pulls himself from inside me and sits next to me, his knees pulled toward his chest.

  I sit up and wipe the tear from my eye. “I’m sorry.” I feel terrible because he doesn’t look angry, but sad and confused. “Let’s try again.”

  I grab
his arm, but he pulls it from me. He looks at me with a sad smile. “You didn’t think I’d notice.” His voice is sharp but distant. “You weren’t even going to say anything. You didn’t think I’d notice that you weren’t here? You think I want to make love to just a body?”

  He stands up, his body chiseled and defined, a gift to women, and I cover my face with my hands. I’m so embarrassed. He grabs his clothes off the floor, and I stand, grabbing my own clothes.

  “I’m trying,” I say, but it comes out flat.

  He laughs, but it’s full of annoyance and fury. “I don’t want you to have to try. You know me, I know you. Should we be trying at this point?”

  He heads to the bedroom, but I don’t follow him. I put on my clothes and sit on the couch, wondering how we got here, how I let things get this far. I just wanted some time and distance to clear my head.

  After about twenty minutes, he comes out dressed and freshly showered. I start to ask where he’s going, but I decide not to. I probably don’t deserve the answer right now. He clears his throat, and I look at him, giving him my full attention.

  “I don’t know if you remember, but tonight we have dinner with Jax and Tiffany. If you can feel up to it, that’d be great.” His tone is even and void of any emotion.

  I nod at him, and he heads to the door. I search for something to say to redeem myself.

  “Bryce?” It comes out urgent and panicked.

  He stops, his hand on the knob, and looks at me. The words I want to say are blurred and seem stupid.

  “Do you want me to pick up some wine?”

  His face falls, and he chuckles. “Sure, Chas, whatever you like.”

  He leaves and slams the door, and I don’t even jump. I deserved that.

  Should I pick up wine?

  I’m an idiot.

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