The silence in the cabin only adds to the tension as Thatch pulls up to the house and turns to Serena. “Screw that noise. I know how to have a good time. You’re the one who’s always the fucking buzzkill.”
Grenade pin pulled, Whitney immediately turns to me. “Get out of the car. Right now.”
Not needing a second warning, I fly out of my door and wait at the trunk for Thatch to release it as I watch Serena through the back windshield, her head seeming to turn in slow motion, Exorcist style, her voice muffled as she starts to read Thatch the riot act.
“Nope, Eli, forget the bags for now, this way,” Whitney instructs, motioning for me to join her as she heads behind the garage, safely out of the warpath. Not ten seconds later, Thatch and Serena exit the SUV and charge through the side door of the garage, door slamming just before yelling ensues.
Whitney and I brave a peek around to see the back of the SUV open and shoot towards it before wordlessly starting to gather bags. We both pause as Serena’s voice rings clear from the other side of the garage door.
“You want to know what happened? I heard a song about how marriage takes a toll as I was shopping and started crying in a fucking superstore because I related to it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Jesus Thatch, do you not know me at all anymore? Can’t you see how bad it’s gotten between us, how much we’re growing apart, and how upset it’s making me? Can’t you read me at all?”
“I mean, I knew we weren’t connecting lately, but I didn’t realize you were this unhappy.”
Whitney’s posture deflates as she slows her efforts in gathering the bags. Physically, I feel the ache in her. It’s when Serena starts to cry that Whitney hangs her head.
“I’m sorry. Tell me what to do,” Thatch pleads. “Talk to me.”
“I can’t make you feel what you obviously don’t feel for me anymore. I guess I just miss the man I married.”
“The boy you married was an irresponsible pothead without two kids and a mortgage to pay. We used to fight about me taking more responsibility in case you’ve forgotten, and now you’re saying I’m too responsible? I’m too boring? Jesus. I’m so lost.”
“No, Thatch, no. It’s not that. I…fucking miss you. I miss my best friend. I miss the man who could read my mood in mere seconds and actually gave a shit. It’s like you can’t stand me now.”
“Whit,” I say softly, my front flush to her back as she sniffs, “this is not for us to hear.” She nods, and I coax her away from the SUV, several bags in both our hands as we leave the rest in the trunk. Wordlessly we walk around the cabin to the back porch. Whitney clears the steps and turns to stare at the mountain view, bags still in hand, confusion in her expression as if she doesn’t know what to do.
I set my load down and eye the back door, thankful the curtain covering the glass door is closed.
“That was so stupid,” she croaks. “I didn’t mean to start a fight.”
“You didn’t,” I say, gently pulling the bags from her hands and placing them at her feet.
“As selfish as it is to say,” she whispers as she brings watering eyes to mine, “I don’t know what I’ll do if they don’t make it.”
“It’s just a fight.”
She shakes her head. “I’ve never seen her this way. And I’ve never heard him be so venomous with her. He’s losing his patience with her when she needs it most. They can’t break up. They can’t. There’s got to be something I can do. Maybe I can watch the kids so they can spend some time alone. Or—”
I tip her chin, cutting her off, so I have her full attention.
“When did their marriage become your responsibility?”
“What?”
“Matter of fact, let me ask you this. When did being the caregiver for this entire family become your responsibility? When did you decide everyone else’s well-being was on you, Whitney?”
She averts her gaze.
“Stop fucking looking away from me. I’ve watched you, closely, for the last four days, and you’ve done nothing but cater to them—every single one of them—even when they’re capable of fending for themselves.”
“I love taking care of them. It’s who I am.”
“No, it’s a selfless part of who you are, and there’s nothing wrong with it to a point, but you’re exhausted. How in the hell are you supposed to enjoy yourself—your own holiday—if you’re running around trying to please everyone?”