I think about that, I do. I think about the time I caught him looking at Olivia like she was the only fucking thing that mattered on the whole fucking planet, and the time he kept her ice cream/finger in the freezer for two years. What type of love was that? Obsessive? What had she done to get his brain wired to her circuit board? I am so out of breath after I am done thinking these things that I spin for the doors that sit off the kitchen and shove them open. The air outside is thick and still. It feels like jello, and I feel like every bone in my heart is breaking. I pace the patio, and in seconds, I can feel my shirt sticking to my back. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Caleb follow me outside. He has his hands in his pockets, and he’s biting his upper lip.
I rifle through my bag of tricks. I look at his face: hard, determined, sorry. I don’t want his sorry. I want what Olivia has. I want to be enough for him.
Honesty is sticky, and I hate it. It always has consequences that fuck up your life … God, I’d rather just wade around the truth and find a lie I can live with. That’s what I call compromise. Knowing that my husband loves someone else and living with it … that’s a truth you don’t look in the eye, and now he was forcing me to.
I stop pacing and stand in front of him with my hands squared on my hips.
“I won’t sign the papers. I’ll fight you.”
I want to slap him when he narrows his eyes and shakes his head at me.
“Why do you want that for yourself, Leah?”
What I want for myself is the family I put together through blood, sweat and toil. I want it all to mean something. I won, fair and square. The bitch had him between her fist, and I took him back. Why is my fucking prize trying to divorce me? I collect myself, all the shredded angry pieces, and I rope them back together so I can take control. Vicious doesn’t work with Caleb. You can reason with him. He has stout British honor and American practicality.
“I want what you swore to give me. You said you’d never hurt me! You said you’d love me for better or worse!”
“I did. I didn’t know…” He covers his face with his hands. I’m not sure if I want him to go on. His accent, his goddamn accent.
“You didn’t know what, Caleb? That you were still hung up on your first love?”
His head comes up. I’ve caught his attention.
“I found the ring. After you had the accident. Why did you buy me a ring if you still loved her?”
His face is ashen. I keep going.
“It’s not real. Those feelings that you have are for someone and something that no longer exist. I am real. Estella is real. Be with us.”
Still he says nothing.
I take a minute to sob. Where does he come off thinking that he has the answer to happiness? I thought I had the answer, and look where it got me. Caleb once told me that love was a desire and desire was an emptiness. I remind him of this. He looks shocked, like he can’t believe I was capable of even understanding those words. Maybe I’ve played stupid with him long enough.
“It’s not that simple, Leah.”
“You do the best you can, with what you have. You can’t leave us. We are your truth.” I slam my fist into my palm.
He swears, laces his hands behind his neck and looks at the sky. I don’t feel bad for using the guilt card. The guilt card is solid. It always pays out with interest. When he looks back at me, he’s not wearing the contrite face I was hoping for.
“You and I don’t know how to play the truth game.” He blows air through his nose.
I would have let that comment slip by in abeyance, but I can sense an underlying meaning beneath his words, and I am compelled to dig.
“What are you talking about?”
Caleb’s eyes park on my face. I squirm. “Why did you do those things? Blackmailing Olivia … trashing her apartment? ”
I don’t hesitate. “Because I love you.”
He nods, seeming to accept it. I feel hopeful. Maybe he will see what I did as a fight for love.
“You and I are not so different.” He scuffs the toe of his shoe against the tile and smiles like he’s just swallowed a mouthful of grapefruit. His eyes are clear and wide when he looks up at me: maple syrup without the sweetness.
“Leah…” he sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. I brace myself for what he’s about to say, but nothing can prepare me for what comes out of his mouth.
“That ring was hers, Leah.”
I feel the shock move through me, as if it is a physical thing like blood. It rushes and pulls and tears. Then, he says the words that change everything.
“I faked the amnesia.”
I hear each word separately. I have to mentally latch on to each one and put them back together so I can understand. But, I don’t understand. Why would he do that?
“Why? Your family … me … why would you do that to us?”
“Olivia,” is all he says.
It’s all he needs to say for me to put all of the pieces together. I decide that I hate the color of maple syrup. I’d rather choke and die on a mouthful of dry pancakes, than ever eat maple syrup again.
“Fuck you,” I say. Then, I say it again. And again. And again. I say it until I am in a fetal position on the ground, and all I can think about is throwing every bottle of fucking maple syrup out of my fridge and out of my life forever.