When we get there, Greg is quiet, sullen. I ask him what’s wrong, and he says nothing. We go through that several times. There is something, I know, but I also know he will not tell me. He never does, and I leave it alone, then it passes. There are only two other couples there. They know each other, but we don’t know them. Melinda introduces them as friends of theirs from church—their names leave my memory as soon as she says them; it’s a fatal social flaw of mine. One of the couples has a baby. I stop to admire the baby and make small talk. Greg stands behind me, withdrawn. The husband tries to chat, but Greg is short with him and somewhat rude.
We walk away after a while, and I snap, “If you’re going to be rude to people, we can leave.”
He shrugs. “Okay, then, let’s leave.” He seems serious.
“Greg, we can’t leave. We just got here. This is Annie’s birthday party, and she’s Hannah’s best friend.”
“Then why did you say we can leave?”
“Because I thought you would say no.” I falter then, unsure if this argument is my fault. I see Hannah and Annie playing on the swing set and Leah walking unsteadily around the playground mulch to get to the baby slide. I keep one eye on Leah and turn to gaze at Greg. His jaw is working, his teeth clenched. He won’t return my look.
“Greg, look at me,” I say softly.
He turns, but says nothing.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“You don’t let me be me.” He folds his arms across his chest, and we stand facing off. “I’m always not good enough, somehow not enough. I had a headache this morning, but I’m not talking, or making potato salad, or doing what you think I should be doing, so it’s constantly, ‘What’s wrong?’”
“But you didn’t tell me you had a headache,” I protest, sure that it would have been a different morning. Pretty sure.
“It wouldn’t matter,” he says, looking away. “When I do tell you, you roll your eyes.”
“Do you really want to leave?” I ask, meaning it for a moment.
He shakes his head, laughs, and walks away. I walk to the playground area to tend to the girls. A mother with a toddler is there. We chat, laugh, and introduce our kids. I forget about the argument, about Greg.
A while later, the picnic has picked up, and Melinda’s yard is filled with people. I search the crowd, find Steve, and give him a small wave. Hannah spills juice on her dress, so I head to the kitchen to retrieve a paper towel. To my surprise, Greg is there. He and Melinda are sitting together at the kitchen island, their knees touching. Each has a glass of wine. They are looking at pictures in an album. Greg is laughing in a way he has not laughed with me in a long time, his head bent close to hers. I stop short, and they look up, startled.
Greg coughs. “Melinda was showing me pictures of their vacation in Hawaii.” But his eyes are looking at my chin.
I cock my head to the side. Melinda slides off the barstool, unsteady. A bit too much to drink? Possibly. I am cemented to the floor. Greg comes over and puts his arm around me, kissing my forehead. Slipping out of his grasp, I step over to the sink, retrieve a paper towel, and move past him, back outside to clean up Hannah’s juice. I look back into the house through the French doors, and Greg and Melinda are talking. He looks uneasy now, his body angled toward the door as if to inch away. Melinda leans in closer to him. She puts a hand on his arm and gestures with her wine glass. Greg looks surprised, and then laughs, his head tipped back, mouth open.
He glances out at me, but I look away. I think of how beautiful Melinda is, with her long blond hair and gym-toned body. A size four to my size ten. She has a small waist and long legs. One of the playground moms once suggested that she may have breast implants. When I look back at them again, she’s standing so close to Greg that one of those implants is touching his arm.
I pick up Leah and tell Hannah, “Let’s get going. Time to leave now, sweetie.” I try to be cheery, but the flirtation stings. I poke my head inside the door. “I think we need to get going. Leah seems cranky.”
Greg looks surprised. Ignoring him, I turn and walk toward the car. He jogs after me and tries to take the diaper bag from my shoulder. He’s smiling now. His headache has been cured. We drive home in silence. He knows I’m angry, but won’t give me the satisfaction of talking about it.
When we get home, I put Leah down for a nap and settle Hannah in front of Cinderella. I find Greg sitting on the couch in the living room, watching ESPN.
I move to stand in front of him. “I want you to talk to me like that, look at me like that. Laugh with me like that.” I wince at how pathetic I sound.
He says nothing.
I take the remote, turn off the TV, and sit next to him. “Why do you stonewall me?”
“Why do you nag me?” he shoots back.
I am momentarily stung silent. “I’m not nagging you. You were flirting. With Melinda. The way you were with her, you haven’t been with me in a long time.”
“She was friendly. We were talking. She is flirtatious; I’ll give you that. But it felt… nice. You’re always trying to make me into a different person. ‘Greg, you should be happier.’ ‘Greg, doesn’t this movie make you sad?’ ‘Greg, be more social,’ and now, ‘Greg, be less social.’” He shakes his head. “Melinda was happy talking to me, Greg, exactly the way I am.”
I fold my arms. “I want to talk to you the way you are. But you don’t actually talk to me.”