Nomi’s at school and you and Phil are with Layla—sorry to miss out on our therapy, but my car needs to stay in the driveway in case Nurse Oliver pops. I slink out the back door of my house, into the woods. I make it to your house—thank you, woods, for the camouflage—and I walk into your house and I put my coffee on the counter. I go room to room and I remove every one of my high-def cameras and it’s not fair. Even with this kind of access, you shut me out. I didn’t know about your little talk with Nomi about Melanda because that must have happened in your car or at the library and now how am I supposed to keep up with you fucking DiMarcos?
I’ve got all my cameras in a reusable tote bag and I leave the way I came in and I won’t be like Phil and allow myself to turn blue on you. I’ve always been good at lifting myself out of the muck. Okay, so the TV show is over but you know what? I was getting a little sick of watching the three of you anyway. Last night it was more of the same and I can remember it word for word as I walk on the trail by the sea.
You swore you’d get almond milk, Emmy.
You swore you’d assemble that dresser.
Well I would if the Allen wrench was where you said it was.
Are you calling me crazy?
Am I that stupid? Hell, no, Miss Perfect. I know I can’t call a woman crazy.
You know what, Phil? Maybe this hiatus is bad. Maybe you should go back to your damn show because your moods are out of control.
Well, maybe I wouldn’t be in a mood if there was some coffee in this house.
I bought coffee. I told you it’s in the freezer.
Emmy, I’ve been in the freezer. There isn’t any coffee.
Coffee. My coffee. I drop my tote bag and the cameras fall out and oh heck it’s up to my neck and I shove the fucking cameras into the fucking bag and I am backtracking, running faster than I did in New York, faster than I did in Little Compton and this isn’t happening but this is happening and it’s not as bad as the mug of piss. It’s worse. It’s a paper cup of coffee with my name on the label and it’s on your kitchen counter and this trail is fighting me every step of the way, roots and other joggers—get out of my fucking way—and this is why all you people drink your coffee out of travel mugs because my name is on that cup.
My name.
It’s a common name but there’s no Joe in your house and now I’m in your house and the cup of coffee is a mug of piss, the one that nearly ruined my life. I grab it—yes—but no because the front door just opened and it’s you. It’s him. I can’t open the slider and I slip into your guest bathroom and there’s no shower in here and there’s no window and I can’t turn on the light because what if there’s a fan?
I close the bathroom door—was it open when you left the house?—and what if you have to pee and is this how it ends? Because we’re all slaves to caffeine?
“Well,” you say to him, not to me, and you should be at work. “Should we do it?”
Oh no. This is not a time for you to get Closer. Not while I’m so close. He mumbles and you open a drawer and you riffle with your hands and every sound is an engine in my head.
“Okay,” you say. “So the contract. I promise to stop nagging you about stupid stuff.”
“Stupid stuff,” he says. “Can we get a little definition here?”
“Christ, Phil, don’t nitpick already. We have to start somewhere.”
No you don’t, Mary Kay. You can leave.
He sighs. “Well all right then. But what do we mean by ‘stupid stuff’？”
You, rat. You are the stupid stuff and it’s hard being a statue, holding this mug of piss. Coffee. Coffee.
“You know what it means, Phil. You were there. The dresser. House stuff.”
He is silent and the silence is worse than the engines because what does the silence mean? Are you making eyes at each other? Are you noticing that the bathroom door is closed when it’s usually open?
Your voice is flat. “Okay, just say it. What’s wrong? And don’t bullshit me about how it’s hard to be vulnerable. This only works if you are vulnerable.”
I love you like crazy and look at me in here. The definition of vulnerable.
“Well I dunno,” he says. “I was hoping that ‘stupid stuff’ was more about… Emmy, for fuck’s sake, you know I don’t wanna go to this movie night thing.”
“And you know I do, Phil. You know I planned it.”
“I know.”
“And I have to go.”
“Emmy…”
“I don’t know, Phil. You used to like the way I am…” I like the way you are. “You used to say how you needed me because I plan things, because I care, because I’m someone who makes the world go round. And now… it’s like I repulse you.”
“Em, the guys are only here one night.”
“Right. Same way they were here last month. And the month before.”
“But they’re playing.”
“And tonight you’re busy. As a lot of married men are every once in a fucking while.”
“See, I try to talk and you get nasty.”
“You think this is nasty? You call this talking?”
You throw your pen at the window and thank God you didn’t throw it at my door. You lay into him and you call him out on his bullshit—yes—and you remind him that you are there for him. You take care of him. “My whole life, I go to things alone. Open houses at school because you’re sleeping or birthday parties at night because of your show. And do I complain? No. And I want one night from you and this is how it is.”
“Hey now, gimme a little credit. I’m on hiatus. Layla said it, Em. You wanted me to take a break from the show and what did I do? I took a break.”
“Right. And that’s how you want to spend your hiatus. With the guys.”
You’re crying now. You miss me so much and you can’t take it anymore. You’re trying so hard and he’s not trying at all, patting you on the back, literally, like you’re a dog. He’s walking now. He picks up the pen and he signs the little unnotarized contract. “I will go to the movie thing and I will do the dresser so you don’t have to keep asking me to do to the dresser.”
You sigh, pleased. I think you touch him. “See,” you say. “We got this, we do.”
No, you fucking don’t and he is not going to that movie night—contracts are like promises, made to be broken—and he grabs his coat so aggressively that he nearly takes down a chair. “Okay,” he says. “I gotta split. I gotta go to a meeting…” The manipulation, Mary Kay. What he really means is My addiction is all your fault, just like my life. And it’s bullshit. He’s the luckiest man on the fucking planet.
You blow your nose—probably on a harsh napkin, no Kleenex on your table—and you tell him you’re sorry. “But, Phil, sometimes it’s like you don’t remember any of the good stuff. I mean come on. You know why I chose this movie…”
He makes a noise and whistles and this is TMI. It’s obvious that a hundred years ago you went down on him in a theater and Alanis Morissette would be disgusted—I’m sorry but he’s just not a very attractive man—but I am a good guy. It’s ancient history and I forgive you. You were young and look at you trying so hard to spice up your bland marriage. You really are a fighter and it’s your right to try to save your marriage. I will allow it. I do allow it. Because in our relationship, we give each other space to breathe. Like now, you’re pushing Phil to leave so that he can go to the hardware store to get a wrench before his meeting as if you know I need him outta here. You have to get back to the library—you told them you needed to run errands and your marriage is an errand—and the front door opens and the front door closes and finally both of you are gone.