How to Ruin a Wedding(19)
With all its faults, my apartment was my sanctuary. The insistent drip of the kitchen sink was a sound that became a song that lulled me into relaxation, away from whatever the day outside the crooked, double-locked doors weighed on me. A place similar to our childhood home; a place my heart put loose roots into.
The memory of the sound, the tap, tap, tap, plays in my head. It’s enough to lull my body into a state of comfort that brings my heavy eyes to a close.
On the cusp of sleep, the door slams.
Mathew walks in, loafers on, to loom over me. It’s the first time we’ve been alone together in seven days. I knew the moment would come but foolishly prayed I could somehow avoid it if I worked around his long hours.
He doesn’t speak. He crosses his arms, the sleeves of his blazer tight against his biceps. It must be a power move he does to assert dominance over his clients.
A sliver of pettiness makes me want to remain silent, to see if I can get him to break first, but it’s hard to be petty when I’m living rent free in his house.
“Mathew,” I greet him. Not Matt. Mathew. No nicknames allowed. I learned that the very first time we met, and he shook my hand as if we’d just closed a multi-million-dollar deal.
“Have you been applying to jobs?” he asks, his tone clipped, final, as if he doesn’t want me to answer his question. His default tone when speaking to anyone other than Taina.
“I have been,” I respond, wanting to fold into myself. “Now and for months.”
He sucks his teeth. “That scene you pulled at work was foolish. Word gets around. Now what? There’s only so many jobs you qualify for.”
“And what jobs do I qualify for?”
“Jobs that won’t pay you enough to move out of here fast enough.”
“Fast enough? Don’t you want me gone yesterday?”
“If you know, you shouldn’t have moved in.”
“I’m not moving in.” My voice is a tiny thing now. “This is just until I find a new place.”
I hate feeling myself becoming smaller under his scrutiny. It feels like he’s shoved me in front of a studio audience ready to laugh at a moment’s notice, planted a spotlight over me, and is waiting for me to say something that’s as pathetic and stupid as he believes I am.
It’s humiliating, trying to reach for my pride and finding only shame in its place. There’s no place for it here, no shield I can grab to defend myself from his condescending glare. I have no place to go, no jobs lined up, and a maxed-out credit card. I can’t say anything for fear of pissing him off. I have to let him speak to me in whatever demeaning way he wants to.
It’s hard to believe that this is the man Taina would keep me up at night talking my ear off about, with tales of all the romance and charm he radiated. The way he speaks to me makes me think I’ve warped all those stories.
Surely he couldn’t be the man who made customized playlists and burned them onto CDs (Who even has CD players anymore?), or named a star after her, or brought flowers for her on every single date they had, or painted her nails?
Under his continuous glare, I add, “I’m trying my best.”
“Clearly, that’s not enough.”
Heat builds beneath my eyes from the growing embarrassment flooding through me. “What more can I do if my best isn’t enough?”
At the sound of my voice cracking, Mathew pinches the bridge of his nose with manicured fingers. The way he’s smoothed his ashy hair back allows me to see every line of disappointment and irritation framing his square face.
“Don’t make me out to be the bad guy here. You’re the one who lost your job. Now I have to pick up the pieces.”
“I’m trying to pick up my own pieces.”
“I don’t mean yours.” He yanks his hands from his face. “I mean Taina’s. You know those nightmares she used to have? The ones of you and your family in the car, a crash, and then she crawls and crawls to find you? They’re back. Every night, she screams awake or keeps herself up until she’s exhausted so she doesn’t even risk having them. Two years straight, she didn’t have a single one. Now they’re back.”
My vision grows spotty as panic slides down my throat.
Of course I know the nightmares. Before Mathew, I was the one who had to lull Taina back to sleep or spend hours consoling her, reassuring her I was fine, we were fine, and everything was fine.
I wasn’t in the car crash that killed my parents; neither was Taina. But since they died, like me but worse, Taina has had this paranoia that I would be next, a worry she’d deny during the day and cry about in the middle of the night. She told me how real the dreams felt, how she felt every piece of shattered glass sinking into her knees as she crawled from the flipped car, following a blood trail she knew was mine, screaming for me over and over, and I would never appear.
Stress made them come more frequently, or whenever I was going through something. A breakup, a divorce, a job loss. Anytime my life felt like it was scrambling, it was as if Taina synchronized with my emotions and they became hers, but worse.
“I didn’t know,” I whisper.
“Of course you didn’t, because she’s my wife. I’m the one who has to deal with anything you throw her way. You couldn’t just keep your problems, your problems.” His voice tinges with disgust. “When I signed my marriage certificate, it only had Taina’s name attached. I didn’t sign up to become a caretaker too.”