I waved my hand, defeated. “Whatever.”
Drew looked pained. The last few weeks had taken their toll on him. He smiled tentatively. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” He touched my hand lightly. I laced my fingers through his. He massaged my palm with his thumb and looked down at the counter thoughtfully. “One day at a time?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Drew. Yes, right now, one day at a time. Will Greg move in here? No, probably not. Do I know what will happen? No, not at all. I’m so scared. He still has no idea he and I aren’t married anymore.” I dropped my head into my hands and stared at the counter.
Drew moved behind me and massaged my shoulders. “I’m sorry. Again, Claire. I’m sorry. I’m… I guess I’m scared.” He rested his cheek against the top of my head.
I hugged his arms around me, leaning back into him. “I know. Me, too, you know? And I’m pissed. Who does Rebecca Riley think she is? I picked her because her writing was so damn boring. Why did she get all sensationalistic on me?”
We sat in silence for a few minutes, digesting the morning, another new kink in our lives.
“Do you still love Greg?” Drew asked.
I knew he’d wanted to ask that question since I had started commuting to Canada every weekend, leaving him to take care of my kids in my house. Our house. I considered how to answer. “Yes. I do. He’s the father of my children. I’ll always love him.”
I saw his eyes go blank, defensively shutting down. He looked down.
Placing my hands on either side of his face, I forced him to look me in the eyes. “I will always be his family. Can you understand that? Can you live with that? Forever?”
Drew didn’t respond. I didn’t expect him to; it wasn’t a question he could answer on the fly. I was asking him for some serious considerations. Things had been strained between us, my trips to Toronto interrupting any chance of the two of us connecting. Forging our own life together had been temporarily put on hold. I had nothing left in me to devote to our relationship.
My closest friends were supportive after the article was published. Robin brought me a bottle of wine one night to “drink my anger away” and then stayed to share it. Sarah ranted and raved on the phone as much as I needed her to. Mom wrote a letter to the editor. Even Melinda called to ask me if I needed anything, saying she thought Rebecca Riley was a muckraker, which I found rather humorous, considering the source.
But strangers and even acquaintances were not as kind. At my yearly checkup, the receptionist was borderline rude. A few women from church wouldn’t even say hello to me when I volunteered to help with the rummage sale fundraiser. Since I wasn’t going to be around to help with the event, I offered to help set up a few days early. My offer was received with cold glares and an offhand comment about it “being taken care of.” I resisted the urges to grab people by the collars and yell, “Do you realize he was cheating on me? That he lied about where he was?” I doubted doing that would convince anyone of my sanity.
Since our conversation in the kitchen, Drew stayed close to my side, protective and, conversely, insecure. He frequently touched my hand or my shoulder, making sure I was still there, anchored in our life as much as I could be, with one foot in Toronto. He kissed me goodbye every Saturday morning at six o’clock, as if I were off to work or shopping with Sarah. I wondered what lengths he was willing to go to for me, and if I could ever repay him. I doubted it. I pondered the debt I owed and what a toll the situation had to be taking on him. Then, I swallowed my guilt, pushing it down, deep into the place I only acknowledge when I’m alone. And sometimes, not even then.
Chapter 38
The fifth Friday, while I packed, we fought. He stood at the foot of the bed, silent and brooding, watching me fold shirts and jeans and place them carefully into my red Samsonite. Without looking up, I asked, “What?”
He sighed like a petulant child. “What’s going on, Claire?” His voice held a pleading, almost panicky, note.
“I don’t expect you to understand.” Socks, underwear, an extra pair of shoes. I packed virtually the same suitcase every weekend with Dr. Goodman in the back of my mind. Even something as simple as wearing the same shirt can help. Greg’s condition and his recovery were my only thoughts anymore. “You’ve never been married.”
“I’ve only ever wanted to marry one person. Who doesn’t seem to want to marry me.”
I looked up from my packing, astonished at his childishness. “Really? You’re going to pick this fight? This time?” The worst time in the world.