And Farrell took her back, like she knew he would. She told him he was her all, that he surrounded her, even in the corners, and nothing was like him, nothing.
Over time, she would withdraw again. At first it would show itself as a lack of warmth. And then the sarcasm, as if she were punishing him for the only wrong he had committed, which was loving her.
At times Farrell would push back, try to set boundaries. Once he left for a weekend. He told her he needed to get caught up on some projects from work. He would be staying at the home of a client who was going out of town. He assured Amy Raye that he still loved her.
She imagined him arriving at the client’s home, a high-end, three-room condo in Golden, elaborately furnished. She pictured him setting his duffel bag on the bed in the master suite, unpacking his laptop and setting it on a table in the living room that faced a window overlooking the mountains. Maybe he’d open a bottle of an expensive white wine he had purchased, pour a glass, and sit down at his computer. His intention would have been to work. But Amy Raye knew Farrell too well, knew him in a way that she believed no one else ever could. He would have been hoping for a call or a message from her, would have been checking his phone and his email, anticipating her apologizing for her ways, begging him to come home.
And so she sent an email. She could feel Farrell’s heart lighten as he saw a message from her in his inbox. But she knew how Farrell loved her, did not want to lose her, knew how important it was for him to hold the family together, and that was the power she had over him.
You say you need this time to get your work done. Where is your honesty? You stick your hand in a bee’s wick trying to extract some honey . . . and you get stung . . . who would have ever thought? I didn’t look for your hand to sting. It’s just who I am. Nor do I wish to sting anyone’s hand. I feel something man/woman missing between us. Most likely it’s just me. When all else fails, I’m a good bucket to throw it into.
She got the children tucked into bed that night, did the evening chores, crawled into her and Farrell’s bed, and began to read. Several pages in, she heard the door downstairs open and close, heard Farrell’s gentle footfall as he climbed the stairs. She did not look at him as he entered the room, removed his clothes, and climbed in next to her. She set the book down and turned out the light.
At other times over the years he’d wanted them to talk to someone, but she had refused, telling him he was making too much of things and that if he wanted to leave her he could. But she would be gentler and kinder after those conversations. And though she had always worked hard, she would work harder, folding laundry at midnight, hosing down the floor in the garage, spending even more time with the children, playing War and Trouble with them late into the night, even though she’d have to get up early the next day for work. She would lift the covers for Farrell when he’d crawl into bed with her, and wrap her body around him and whisper to him that she loved him. She would prove to Farrell and the children, and herself, that everything was good. These were the times she would go the longest without acting out, when she would convince herself she could get a handle on things. She could see everything during these moments, see camping trips and graduations and grandchildren, see Farrell and her living out their full potential and just how glorious it all would be.
But after eight years, Amy Raye knew she had tired Farrell out, and he’d begun to wear his fatigue like a submission. Instead of telling her he was leaving for a weekend, he would put more time into his work. The lovemaking had waned until it was barely lovemaking at all. The thrill was gone.