The Lie

She’s shaking her head violently, walking to the other side of the living room. “No,” she says, standing against the mantle. “No, I won’t give you a divorce. I won’t let you leave. You can’t leave me. You…Brigs McGregor could never leave Miranda Harding McGregor. You would be nothing without me.”

I let her words deflect, even though my belief in them is what’s led to this moment. “Miranda,” I say softly, and her name is starting to sound foreign, the way it can when you say a word too many times in a row. “Please.”

“No!” she yells, and I flinch, hoping she doesn’t wake up Hamish. “Whatever foolish ideas are coming over your brain, I don’t know, but a divorce isn’t the answer. This is just…a flight of fancy for you. You being unhappy at your job. This is you not feeling like a man. This is you not performing like a man.”

A dig below the literal belt. I should have known that would be her first line of defense. Our problems in the bedroom for the last year. I can’t fault her for that.

“No,” she says again. “I can live with that, I can. And if I never have another child, so be it. But my family…my reputation…it will not come to this. We have a good life, Brigs. This house. Look at this house.” She points wildly around the room, a feverish look in her eyes. “Look at these things. We have everything. People look up to us. They envy us. Why would you throw that away?”

My heart sinks further down my chest, to my stomach, and burns there.

“Please,” I say softly, not wanting the whole truth to come out, but ready to wield it if I have to. “I’m not…I don’t want to hurt you. But I’m just not in love with you anymore. It’s the honest truth, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She blinks like she’s been slapped. Then she says, “So? What married couples are in love with each other? Be realistic here, Brigs.”

Now I’m surprised. I frown. I didn’t expect her to fight for us so much. And to fight for a loveless marriage she’s okay with.

She’s watching me closely, tapping her nails against her lips. Plotting. The rain spatters at the windows, and in the distance, thunder rumbles, the first autumn storm. The room seems smaller than ever.

“We can work it out,” she finally says, her voice back to being eerily calm. “This is just a hiccup. We can work it out. You can love me again, and if you can’t, then it’s okay. It’s fine. No one has to know. We both love our son, and that’s enough. Don’t you want him to grow up with a father, a complete family? Don’t you know a divorce would destroy him? Is that what you want for him?”

I take an ice pick to the chest with that one, the cold spreading through me. Because of course, of course, that’s what I want for him. It’s what’s held me back and back and back. But kids know, they know when their parents aren’t happy. Hamish deserves better than a childhood tainted with angst.

“Separated parents are better than two miserable parents together,” I tell her, pleading now. “You know it’s true. Hamish is smart, so smart. So intuitive. Children pick up on so much more than you realize.”

Her eyes narrow. “Oh? What self-help book did you steal that from? Bloody hell, Brigs. Just listen to yourself. Talking out of your arse.”

“Do you want him to grow up in a house where I don’t love his mother? Is that what you want? Don’t you think he’ll see? He’ll know.”

“He won’t,” she says viciously. “Stop making excuses.”

I get to my feet and raise my palms, feeling helpless to the core. Guilty as sin. “I have no excuses. Just the truth.”

“Go fuck your truth, Brigs,” she snaps.

The thunder crashes again. I pray it drowns out our argument, that Hamish is still blissfully asleep and unaware that his future is changing. Not for the worst, please God, not for the worst. Just changing.

She walks over to the antique bar cart and pours herself a glass of Scotch from the decanter, like a heroine in a Hitchcock film. Playing the part.

Can’t she see how tired I am of pretending?

Doesn’t she get tired, too?

“Do you want one?” she asks over her shoulder, almost coyly, the glass between her manicured fingertips. Her father gave us those, and the decanter, as a wedding present.

I shake my head, trying to steady my heart.

She slams back the Scotch, and in a second it’s down her throat. “Suit yourself. I’ll have your share.”

She pours another glass, holds it delicately, and glides over to the couch, sitting down in front of me. She crosses her legs and stares up at me, cocking her head, a wave of blonde falling across her forehead. She’s buried her emotions again, pretending, acting, as if that will make everything okay.

“You’re a fool, Brigs. Always were. But I forgive you. We all have lapses in judgement sometimes.”

I sigh heavily and close my eyes. She’s not getting it.