Down the Rabbit Hole

Jeremy was surprised—shocked, even—to hear that she thought their relationship needed to be rejuvenated. It cut him to the quick; he was devastated for three solid days.

Yes, there was a time for all of that and then some—like the niggling notion of other women. And if she was truthful, there were also times when she gave as good as she got in feeble attempts to take back her self-esteem. But it became harder and harder to flip the switch between overjoyed and offended; between joining in and faking it; between faking it and making no effort at all.

“Are you bringing that sexy bod to bed anytime soon?”

She looked up at him and smiled; her cheeks felt stiff. “Absolutely. I just want to finish this chapter real quick, okay?”

“Sure.” He turned to walk back down the hall. “But don’t be long. I’m beat. I may pass out.”

Please do, she thought and then she turned the page and started chapter twelve.

She didn’t get through the second page before she shoved her candy wrapper bookmark into the crease of her book and tossed it onto the end table.

She covered her face in shame. “What am I doing?”

She wanted to follow him; she loved making love with him. But her feelings were hurt and her expectations had deflated. Was she pouting like a child; a stubborn, grudge-holding child . . . or was she a woman cocooning herself in a protective shell?

She knew that doing nothing changed nothing, and yet she couldn’t make herself get up and go to him—not this time. Her mind and emotions snapped back and forth so fast she went numb. It was her marriage, her life, and she was disengaging, withdrawing and shutting down. She felt it.

Elise crossed her thin Daria arms across her chest, but couldn’t meet the look in Hank Hill’s eyes . . . Martin’s look. “You’re right. I do shut down and run . . . Well, if he hadn’t run first, I probably would have. But I still wonder, if he hadn’t taken all the money and left, if I could have—”

“Uuuuuuuaaaaaagh!” he said, showing his teeth. “You’re chasing your tail, girl. No number of ifs will change what is. Slow down, step back and just think.” He tipped his head to the space where outfits were coming back into view. Strawberries, lemons and grapes—fruit suits. “That’s when you did all the right things; when your instincts were telling you something was wrong. That boy ain’t right. And deep down you knew it. But you didn’t want it to be true, so you didn’t listen to what your gut was telling you—that he needed to be taken out behind the barn and shot. And I’ll tell you what, that ain’t the worst part of it. No, the worst part is that when all was said and done, and you knew you were right about Jeremy, you suddenly got giblets for brains and decided you couldn’t trust yourself to trust your own good sense anymore. And that’s overthinking to the point of not thinking at all.”

“Yeah, well, where was my amazing intuition when I first met him? Or the whole time we dated . . . or during the first year of our marriage?”

“It was there—it’s always there, watching for yellow flags. Maybe there was just nothing to see. What if he wasn’t looking to fleece you in the beginning? Could be that didn’t occur to him until after he took up with that floozy—and that’s when his game started falling apart. He got sloppy, took too many chances, made too many fouls, and flags started falling all over the place.” He raised his hands palms up. “Maybe not. Maybe he was a rat bastard all along. Maybe you made a mistake. Hell, even Tom Landry made mistakes from time to time.”

“What if I keep making mistakes?”

“What if you do? And what if the mistake is seeing red flags where there aren’t any? What if it’s choking under the slightest pressure? What if it’s shutting down and running in the opposite direction if someone tries to . . . well, you know . . . love you? What if you keep living in fear or you quit and never play the game again? Isn’t that like scoring for the other team? Who wins then?”