Greg glared at me, straightening his back and crossing his arms. “So, passive-aggressive is how you’re going to play this?”
“Well, it’s either that or aggressive aggressive. And I’d prefer not to be arrested for domestic violence today. Maybe tomorrow.”
“I know you’re angry—”
“You have no clue how angry I am,” I hissed before taking another bite of ice cream.
“But I’m not sorry I left you in Enugu. I can’t be sorry for wanting to keep you safe.”
I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “You are arrogant and selfish—”
Greg held up his hands, his tone turning severe and unapologetic, “Hey, I’ve never claimed to be otherwise. When it comes to you and your safety, I will always be selfish.”
I stared at him for a long moment, not knowing what I wanted to say first, the weight of his disregard and duplicity weighing on my chest like an anvil, the force of it chaotically propelling me down an uncertain path.
He claimed to have left me because he wanted to keep me safe, and I believed him. That was certainly part of it. But the other part—the part with which I was struggling—was his complete disregard for my abilities, talents, contributions. Never mind what I wanted or needed.
If the tables had been turned, I wouldn’t have left him behind. Not because I loved him less, but because I respected him more.
But it hadn’t always been this way.
“What about Jack and Grace? Hmm? What about soccer?”
The muscle at his jaw jumped, his teeth clenched as he scrutinized me. “Do you want to talk about that now?”
“No. I want to resolve that now. Because when you leave again—because you always leave—I want you to know I’ll be taking Jack to soccer every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”
“We’re not discussing Jack and soccer, because what you really want to discuss is me leaving.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, that’s so. Because why else would you say, ‘because you always leave’?” Greg adopted a sotto voice as though to mimic me.
I narrowed my eyes at him, dropping the spoon to the ice cream because it suddenly felt like a weapon in my hands. “I do not sound like that.”
“You’re right, you don’t sound like that. But then, I don’t always leave, either.”
“That’s bullshit. You always leave. You’re always leaving. And I don’t want you to leave anymore. As of right now, no more leaving.” I was being completely irrational. . . fuck it.
Embrace the irrationality!
“And how do you propose we make money, Fe? Do you have a magical money tree growing on the balcony? Perhaps a tiny leprechaun hiding in your purse?”
Frustration growing, I decided to skip past all my little gripes to the sum of their parts. When taken all together, his actions left me at a loss, so I asked the big question. “Tell me the truth. Are you really happy? With us? With kids and a wife? Or are you looking for a way out?”
Greg flinched as though I’d struck him; his expression equal parts incredulous and irate when he responded, his voice raised to a dangerous pitch, “That’s like asking me, ‘Are you happy your heart beats?’”
I glared at him for a long moment, seeing he believed his words, though I still doubted them. I doubted he wanted a partner.
So I pushed, “Then why did you do it? Why did you accept the assignment? And don’t tell me it was for the money, so you could spend more time at home, because that’s not the whole reason. You knew for a fact that it was dangerous. Kidnapping of oil workers in Nigeria happens all the time. Why did you risk so much, why risk yourself when your family needs you?”
He made a loud sound of disbelief. “My family needs me? Really?”
“Of course!”
“Not of course, Fiona!” He charged me, backing me up until my bottom connected with the counter, shouting, losing all premise of control. “When have you ever needed me?”
“Greg—”
“You don’t need me. When I’m at home, I might as well be . . I might as well be fucking furniture!” He gestured to the kitchen table with a flick of his wrist.
“Are you serious?”
“As a brain tumor,” he said through gritted teeth, and his eyes flashed with malice.
My mouth dropped open and a sound of strangled shock forced itself from my throat.
I squeaked my outrage for several seconds before he interrupted me with his tirade. “By the way, if you had another tumor, would you have told me? Or would I find out about it from the shirtless boy wonder next door?”
“You’re still mad I didn’t tell you about the headaches?”
“No. Of course not. I’m not allowed to be angry with you about anything. I’m not even fucking needed here!”
“You are.”
“Then tell me to stay. Tell me you need me. Lie to me.” He was all sarcasm and bitterness.
I set my hands on my waist and squinted, because my eyes were stinging with the same hot rage ballooning in my chest. “You want to be needed? Fine. Poof. You’re needed! In fact, I need you right now. I need you to do your breakfast dishes.” I gestured to the pot he’d used to make oatmeal, still caked with residual oats and left to soak on the counter.