“I can understand that, but I want you to know, I’m not here to pick battles with you, I’m here to support you, and no matter how much you try to push me away and fight about meaningless things, I’m not going anywhere. I’m here, babe.”
“Are you sure you want to be?”
“Of course,” he answers. “I’m all yours.”
I sigh into him, and I can feel my ugly emotion start to trigger again. “I wish that really were the case,” I say, causing him to force me to look at him by lifting my chin.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it’s the truth.”
“No, the truth is, I’m yours. No one else’s, and I’m not going anywhere. Even when this baby is born, I’m still yours.”
If he’s mine . . . then why doesn’t he feel like it?
Because he doesn’t understand the definition of love, Penny. His actions show love, but maybe he simply doesn’t know that.
And there’s absolutely nothing I can do to help him understand.
Eli is a very neat person.
I realized that from living with him in his apartment. He likes to fold his shirts a certain way, his jeans are always hung, and his shoes must be lined up properly. Suits are all stored in protective bags, and socks are folded together, not inside each other, and then lined up specifically in his top drawer.
I’ve never seen anything like it.
Drawer open, I drag my finger over the fabric of his socks, wondering what would possess a human to spend so much time perfecting the appearance of a sock drawer. This seems like such a waste of time. And would he even notice if something was out of order? What if I put one of his ankle socks with a dress sock—why does he even have dress socks? I never see him wear them. Nonsense.
Never hurts to conduct a few experiments.
I pick up a few of his running socks and replace them with some dress socks. I then open his underwear drawer and gag at the organization. He folds his underwear into little squares. What an annoying habit. It’s underwear. Toss it all in a drawer and be done. Why, as a civilization, have we found it necessary to fold underwear?
Irritated with the mere sight of it, I stick my hand in the drawer and make an utter mess of it all. Smiling, I shut both drawers. That’s better.
Needing something else to do, I wander over to the baby’s room, where I lean against the entrance and stare at the perfectly neat sample squares of paint Eli painted on the walls the other day. Variations of gray on one wall, blue on another, and green on another. They’re so precise.
And he’s starred the ones he likes.
Presumptuous if you ask me.
Inside the bedroom, I spy one of the paint cans with a paintbrush on top.
Don’t mind if I do.
I pick up the paintbrush, pry the can open with a paint can opener, and see it’s the dark gray that Eli didn’t really like. It’s so dark, it’s almost black.
Well, at the moment, I think it’s quite nice. And babies really only see black and white at first, so why not give him a color that he can appreciate?
I dip the paintbrush inside and then lift it to the wall where the blues are painted. I slap the gray onto the wall and start writing with it. I don’t bother taking my time. Instead, I let the paint drip down the wall in gobs as I scroll across all three walls. It’s cathartic.
It’s been a month and a half since the day I told him I loved him, since I confessed my most confident of secrets. And a month and a half since he visibly froze with fear. Has he changed his mind since? Not that I can tell. Does he blow steam up my ass every day?
Yes.
Should I be happy? Probably.
But I’m sad.
I feel . . . depressed.
Used.
Nowhere close to the woman I once was.
Blakely thinks I’m insane.
Winnie believes I should give him more time.
My mom even chimed in and told me that it might be harder for him to express his feelings.
But at this point, I’m not even sure I love him anymore.
God, could you hear how bad that lie was? Because it was a very bad lie. I try to convince myself that I don’t love him. I try to tell myself all of the annoying things that he does, but they don’t seem to have an impact, and with every day that goes by that he doesn’t say it to me, I feel like I’m nothing more than a sexy buddy who’s carrying his baby, I get angrier. More frustrated. More irritated.
More depressed.
More needy for something more. Anything that will make me feel whole again.
Hence, the sock drawer, the underwear, what I’m currently doing, and the smoothie I made him this morning before he went to work out that I “accidentally” put salt in and then happily watched him make a queasy face as he swallowed. I don’t think I’ve ever been more satisfied than watching him try to figure out how I ruined his drink. Pure gold.