“I know how to love,” I argued. I didn’t believe it.
No, you don’t. You know how to alleviate your anxiety. You know how to live an orderly life. You know how to put everything in its right place. You know how to count and arrange and organize—
“I know how to love,” I interrupted.
Pause.
You’re not doing it now, the voice pointed out.
“Because I hurt.”
You won’t do it tomorrow or the next day or the next day or the next day . . .
I listened as the record stuck—needle jumping the band, then back again—and I knew she was right. I didn’t need to be browbeaten into making the decision. I already made the decision hunched over on the floor, cradling my father’s boat in my hands. I was never good for Reece. I have a mental illness; I’m not good for anyone. I’m a burden—a heavy yolk around my lover’s neck, weighing him down down down. I didn’t want us to hit bottom. I wanted to save him the heartache. So I dried my eyes and took a deep breath.
“I love you, Reece,” I whispered. And then I went to him.
***
She emerged from the bedroom. He’d spent several hours earlier cleaning up the office floor, arranging her tiny wood pieces and trying to figure out what could be salvaged on the boat. He made a list of new pieces to order—ones to replace those that were splintered beyond repair. He promised her he’d make it right, and he went to work immediately to fulfill that promise.
He sat on the couch staring at the TV. He wasn’t really watching. It simply provided background noise and a moving picture to distract himself from thinking about earlier. He was so ashamed, feeling his face burn every time the memory resurfaced—his hand swiping the desk clean, damaging her psyche, her father’s boat, her father.
He looked up and saw her standing, staring at him. He turned off the TV and sat up.
“I’m having a hard time coping with the loss of my father,” she said finally.
“What I did didn’t help,” Reece said. “Bailey, please forgive me.”
“I forgive you,” she said. “And I know why you did it. I understand that you’re angry and frustrated because I’ve been absent. I’ve been consumed with me. I think that’s how you put it.”
He hung his head. Another bad memory resurfaced: the argument in the kitchen months ago when he accused her of selfishness.
“You’re right, I’ve been consumed with me. Only thinking about me. But right now, I don’t know any other way to be,” she said.
“It’s okay. We’ll work through it together,” Reece said.
“No.”
He flinched.
“No, Reece. We can’t work through it together. I’m . . . I’m sick. I need help. I need to be alone for a while to deal with my shit. I need you to be happy, and right now, you’re not happy.”
“Bailey, I’m happy,” he replied. His heartbeat ramped up, and he jumped from the couch toward her.
“You’re miserable!” she countered. “I’m making you miserable!”
She shrugged off his embrace.
“Bailey . . .”
“No, Reece,” she said, backing away. “Please listen to me. I’m not well. I need time alone. You shouldn’t have to deal with all this stuff. You shouldn’t have to deal with a person like me. There are tons of great women in the world who don’t act this way—who don’t have these problems. You deserve a girl like that.”
“I don’t want any of those women,” he argued. “I just want you.” He held out his arms to her.
“No, Reece. You don’t want me. You want the Bailey I was months ago, but she’s gone. And I don’t know if she’s ever coming back.”
“Bailey, please.”
“I need you to go,” she whispered. The tears coursed down her cheeks, and his instinct was to wipe them away. She would have let him do just that, a long time ago, when she trusted him. When she wanted him.
He was determined to keep her. “No. This is my home, too. And we’re getting married. And we love each other. And we stick together no matter what we’re going through.”
“Jesus, Reece!” she cried. “I’m not asking you to fight for me! I’m telling you that this is what I need. I need to be alone! I need to figure it out!”
“Why can’t you figure it out with me?” He tasted the salt tears on his lips. He didn’t realize he was crying. He only knew that he was losing, and he was running out of battle plans. He had no strategy left.
“Because you can’t help me.”
“But I can be there for you.”
“No. I need to do this on my own. Can’t you understand that?”
“But we’re a team,” he whispered.
His heart broke then. He felt the ripping. No cracking. It was ripping, like his heart was made out of construction paper. He thought that made sense—that he didn’t have a stronger heart. How could he when there was never anyone in his childhood to help grow it? Nurture it? It remained in its papery infantile state—easy to crumple, easy to tear, easy to blow away in the changing wind.
He tried again. He knew it was a lousy tactic to make her feel guilty, but shouldn’t she? She was sabotaging their life together!
“How could you do this?” he asked. “How could you discard me like this?”
“I . . . I’m not discarding you,” she replied. “You have to believe me. I know it seems like that, but I’m doing what’s best for you. I’m not trying to hurt you.”
He said nothing. He walked past her to the bedroom and packed a bag. He didn’t know where he would go. He thought a hotel room for the night. Everything would look different in the morning. Different and better. They would apologize, and everything would be all right again.
He emerged, bag flung over his shoulder, and stood in front of her. Waiting. Waiting for her to change her mind. Waiting for her to say it was all a big mistake. But she just stared back.
“Don’t do this,” he said. It was a last ditch effort, and he prayed hard she would suddenly come to and realize the absurdity of her request.
“Reece, please,” she whispered. “I need you to go.”
There was nothing more to say. He loved her. He wanted her. But he was also a man with pride. And his pride steered him out the door into the darkness of a new reality.