*
Gillian has a temper that flares from time to time, but rarely, and never without good reason. Since Kyung is almost always the reason, he’s learned how to defuse an argument by simply apologizing before it starts. Because she doesn’t like conflict any more than he does, this is usually enough to move on. Tonight, however, he thinks it might help to acknowledge that some of his choices this evening—most of them, actually—were neither considerate nor smart. Never mind that his stomach was empty when he started drinking or that he was sleeping it off in the car when the cop woke him up. Never mind the circumstances of the past few days or anything else that might sound like an excuse. Gillian is quick to confuse explanations for defensiveness, which is the oxygen that keeps everything burning.
He expects to find her waiting up for him, but when he turns into his driveway, the house is completely dark. It’s late, he realizes—too late for a man with a wife and child to come home like this, reeking of alcohol as if he’s been dunked in a barrel. Tim doesn’t pull in behind him, but Kyung feels no sense of reprieve as the cruiser disappears down the street. By morning, Gillian will know everything.
At the side door, he takes off his shoes and creeps through the house, seeking out what he needs in the order he needs it most: bathroom, water, aspirin, food. Every door and floorboard seems to creak louder than usual. The flush of the toilet sounds like a hurricane. In the kitchen, he finds a crusty pot and some dirty bowls in the dishwasher. It looks like they had spaghetti while he was out. He confirms that they left none for him, so he raids the cabinets for his dinner, starting with an expensive-looking box of crackers that he eats by the handful. Then he moves on to the fridge, cutting off oversized chunks of cheese and paté with a knife. These pricey foods aren’t meant for him, and he knows it, but he continues eating to settle his stomach.
Half a box of crackers and a block of cheese later, Kyung hears footsteps on the staircase and a flick of a light switch down the hall. Gillian walks into the kitchen, pulling on a furry yellow bathrobe over her nightgown. Her hair is lopsided, as if she’s been sleeping—bees’ nest on the right, flat and matted on the left—but she doesn’t look surprised to see him hovering over the island, demolishing a sixteen-dollar wedge of paté.
“I just got off the phone with Tim.”
“He called you from his car?” Kyung should have known. Tim was probably excited to tell her, like it was the best thing to happen to him all year.
“So you ran off to drink tonight.”
She says this in the form of a statement, not a question, so he doesn’t respond. Instead, he leans against a cabinet—head down, eyes to the floor, ready. Gillian circles the island and brushes the crumbs off his shirt.
“Look at you. You’re a mess.”
Bits of cheese and paté and crackers fall to the floor, snowing against the redbrick tile. He brings his fist to his mouth, trying to hold back a burp, but it’s too late. The air smells like meat and milk, laced with something bitter.
“Damn it, Kyung.” She covers her nose.
“Sorry…” He’s about to continue so she understands the apology wasn’t for the burp alone, but then he burps again.
She moves to the other side of the room, arms crossed, eyes hooded over with a frown. There are times when sorry alone won’t save him, when his behavior has to be dissected and discussed before anything resembling forgiveness can occur. It’s always the wait that he finds unsettling, that moment right before she opens her mouth when he can see it all building up inside. Gillian doesn’t hide anything from him; she says she shouldn’t have to.
“There are so many things I want to say to you right now—”
He raises his hand in the air to stop her. “Can I make a request?”
It was a bad impulse—they both know he’s lost the right to ask for anything.
“What?”
“Can you please not yell? I don’t want my father to wake up and hear us fighting.” He doesn’t bother to explain that his head feels like it’s being crushed, trapped between the metal plates of a vise. This is probably the least of her concerns.
Gillian crosses her arms tighter, holding herself in. “You know what? I’m not going to say anything right now. I’m just going to let you do the talking.”
He hates it when she does this. It’s the same as asking, What do you have to say for yourself? but without the motherly tone. He thinks for a second, making a careful list of everything she might be upset about.
“I’m sorry for leaving without an explanation and not answering my phone.… I’m sorry for going out for a drink … and I’m sorry for getting pulled over by that cop and asking him to call your dad.”
Her expression doesn’t change after his string of apologies. It probably sounded too much like a recitation. Gillian believes that people can say sorry but not sound sorry. The difference matters to her.