August 25, 2023 - 5:55 pm
I sat back, looking at Russel, trying to figure out exactly what my feelings were.
"I feel strongly for you. All of this," I waved my arm around in an all-encompassing motion, "has been such a surreal experience." He shook his head.
"No, Elliot. I mean, how do you really feel about me?" He was starting to tear up now, his bottom lip quivering and he begun to shake a bit. "I feel like there are issues here. I really like you. So much, Russel. But I think we both know this is an uphill battle." I sighed deeply and put my hands in my lap.
"Okay." Russel said. A moment of silence pressed into the room. Then he took a sharp breath in. "Well, I think I'm in love with you. And I don't know what to do with that." He stood and walked to the kitchen. I followed.
"Okay. Well maybe we-" He cut me off. "I slept with a guy at the concert." He forced out. "It isn't like I'll ever see him again, but it really sucks. Because I feel like that is what made me realize what you mean to me. I feel guilty, and Elliot, I don't think it's fair. I shouldn't feel guilty when you refuse to let me in to your life."
What he had said stung, but I wasn't mad about him sleeping with someone else. I was mad that he had called me on my bullshit. Painfully, this was one of the most real, honest conversations we had probably had all summer.
"You told me from the beginning you weren't emotionally available!" I said louder than necessary, "and it isn't like I'm the only one that's a stranger here." Russel was crying now. I pressed further, "How many times have I tried to talk to you about your dad? Or about how it feels when something crosses your mind, and you clearly push it off? You explode. You get so angry with me, and I don't pry."
"And you are going through a breakup. A divorce. What the fuck are we doing, Elliot? Because I don't even know anymore." He sniffled and let himself fall into a sitting position on the dining table, tears collecting in his beard.
"I don't either, Russel." I said.
He pressed his fingers to his temples and blew out a breath.
"I don't know how to love you when it feels like you can't love me back." He whimpered.
I felt the tears begin to well in my eyes, and I looked at him. Everything he had said was true. I had wished I could say what I was feeling: I love you too. I'm sorry. This is my fault. We shouldn't have let it get to this point. But I couldn't will myself to get the words out.
"Where do we go from here?" I asked. Russel kept his eyes down, looking at his lap.
"I think you should go."
She flicked her cigarette butt into a pile of snow near the door. "It will be okay either way."
"I know," I said, "it's just a lot to process." I gave her a hug and we went inside. The rest of the night went fine, and now it was morning. I got dressed and made a cup of coffee.
Vincent was finishing up ironing when I came into the living room.
"Can we talk?" I asked, clutching my mug and focusing on keeping composure.
He looked up and sighed. "Sure."
I sat down next to him on the couch and forced myself to get out what I needed to.
"Are you happy?" I asked him.
"Yeah. Why?" he said, an undertone of irritation present in his voice.
"I mean, like, actually happy, Vincent. Because lately, I'm not."
He sat quietly for a moment before responding. "I mean, I don't know. I guess so. I don't really know what to say." He looked at me. "Why aren't you happy?"
I took a breath. I'd rehearsed this conversation in my head more times than I could count, but now that I was sitting there, the words seemed to come out in the wrong order.
"I just feel like we're not really together anymore. We're living in the same house, going through the same routines, but it feels like that's all we're doing. There's no connection. No effort. I don't feel like you see me anymore."
He shifted on the couch.
"What do you mean, no effort? I do plenty around here."
"I know you do. I'm not talking about the ironing or the house or whatever else needs doing. I'm talking about us."
"Well, what exactly do you want me to do?"
I hated that question. Not because it was unreasonable, but because I felt like I had already spent so much time trying to explain it. I didn't want to have to write out a set of instructions for how to love me.
"I want you to want to spend time with me. I want you to ask how I'm doing and actually care about the answer. I want to feel like I'm your partner, not just somebody who happens to live here."
"That's not fair," he said.
I looked at him. "What's not fair?"
"You make it sound like I don't do anything. Like I'm some terrible person who doesn't care about you."
"That's not what I said."
"It's what you're implying."
I took another sip of my coffee, mostly to give myself something to do with my hands.
"This is exactly what I'm talking about, Vincent. I try to tell you that I'm unhappy, and somehow we end up talking about how I've hurt your feelings by bringing it up."
"Well, what am I supposed to say? You're sitting here telling me I'm not doing enough, that I'm not making you happy. Do you think that's easy to hear?"
"No. I don't. But do you think it's easy to feel this way every day?"
He looked away.
I continued, now finding it harder to stop myself. "I feel lonely. And I don't mean lonely because you're not physically here. You're right here. You're sitting next to me. But I can feel completely alone in this relationship."
"You're acting like I'm not here for you."
"Sometimes it feels like you're only here because it's convenient."
His expression changed.
"That's a pretty shitty thing to say."
"Maybe. But that's how it feels."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "So what, you just want to throw everything away? Is that what this is?"
"I didn't say that."
"Then what are we doing?"
"I don't know, Vincent. That's why I'm trying to talk to you."
There was a silence between us. Somewhere in the house, something hummed. The iron had been left cooling on its stand, and I remember noticing how ridiculous it was that even in the middle of a conversation that could change our lives, there was still laundry to finish.
"I just don't think you're happy with anything, Elliot." he finally said. "It doesn't matter what I do. There's always something wrong."
I felt the familiar urge to backtrack, to soften what I'd said, to reassure him that I wasn't attacking him. I had become so accustomed to managing the temperature of our conversations that I sometimes forgot I was allowed to be upset, too.
"I'm not asking for everything to be perfect," I said. "I'm asking for something to feel different. I'm asking you to meet me somewhere in the middle."
"And what about what I need?"
"Then tell me. I'm sitting right here. Tell me what you need."
He didn't answer immediately.
I waited, hoping he'd say something that would give me a reason to believe we could still find our way back to each other.
Instead, the conversation circled back to the same familiar territory. What I wasn't doing. What he felt I expected of him. How things had changed. How difficult things had become. Every time I tried to explain the emptiness I felt, we found another reason to argue about the circumstances surrounding it.
And somewhere in all of that, I realized that we weren't really having the conversation I'd come to have.
I wasn't asking him to defend himself. I wasn't asking him to prove that he was a good person or that he'd done enough. I was asking whether he was happy, whether I was happy, and whether either of us still wanted to do something about it.
I looked down at my mug. The coffee had gone cold.
"I just don't want to spend the next 50 years feeling like this," I said quietly.
Vincent shook his head.
"Well, I don't know what you want me to do. I can't keep having this conversation every time you decide you're unhappy."
"Every time? Vincent, when was the last time we actually talked about any of this?"
"We talk all the time."
"No. We talk about bills, the house, what needs to get done tomorrow. That's not the same thing."
He stood up, gathering the shirts he'd been ironing.
"So what, nothing I do is good enough?"
I felt something inside me begin to give way.
"Why do you keep doing that? Why does everything have to become about whether you're good enough? I'm trying to tell you that I'm hurting, and you keep making me feel like I'm wrong for even saying it."
"Because you make me feel like I'm the problem!"
"Maybe because there are problems, Vincent! And neither of us seems willing to do anything about them!"
He turned toward me. His voice had gotten louder now, and mine was following.
"You think you're the only one who's unhappy? You think this is easy for me?"
"Then tell me! Tell me what you're feeling. Tell me what's wrong. Because I can't keep guessing. I can't keep dragging every bit of emotion out of you while pretending that everything is fine."
"I don't know what you want from me!"
"I want you to care that this isn't working!"
The words hung between us.
For a moment, neither of us said anything. I could feel my heart pounding, and I remember trying to steady my breathing. I'd come into that room wanting to have an honest conversation. Somehow, we'd arrived at another argument, another familiar exchange where neither of us was really listening.
"Maybe you're just never going to be happy," he said.
I looked at him.
"Maybe I'm not happy because I'm here."
He stared at me, seemingly caught off guard.
I hadn't planned to say that. Or maybe I had been thinking it for much longer than I wanted to admit.
"Is that what you want?" he asked. "You want to leave?"
I looked around the living room. At the familiar furniture, the ordinary things we'd accumulated, the life we'd built together. It was strange how much of your life could be sitting right in front of you and still feel so far away.
"I don't know," I said. "But I know I can't keep living like this."
"Then what are you saying?"
I swallowed.
"I'm saying I think we're done, Vincent."
His expression changed. The anger seemed to give way to something else, though I couldn't tell whether it was disbelief, frustration, or hurt.
"You're really going to do this?"
I didn't answer immediately.
I wanted him to understand. I wanted him to recognize how long I'd been hurting, how many times I'd tried to make things better, how much of myself I'd spent trying to hold us together. I wanted him to say something that would make me reconsider.
But the conversation had brought me to a place where I couldn't keep waiting for the right words.
I stood up and set my mug down.
"I'm sorry."
And just like that, the conversation was over.
I don't remember every word that followed. I remember the intensity, the feeling of everything happening at once, and the strange detachment that comes when you realize you're actually doing something you've spent so long imagining.
I packed a few bags and loaded them up into my car, and headed over to Taylor's house. She was kind enough to let me stay in her guest room while I figured out my next step. I thought again of Russel and what that looked like, and guilt gave way to a realization that, whether he was in the picture or not, this conclusion with Vincent was inevitable.
I had walked into that living room hoping to find a way back to each other, knowing I could cut ties with Russel and put all of my focus back on us if Vincent could show me, just a small fraction of a percent, that he was still in.
I walked out knowing I couldn't stay.
No comments:
Post a Comment