"I wrote down 'couple's counseling,' 'living separately,' and 'open marriage,'" I say, sitting at our dinning-room table. I have a piece of paper in front of me. Lauren has a piece of paper in front of her. I am not open to the idea of open marriage. I am just spitballing. But I know, I am positive, that an open marriage is not on the table.
"Open marriage?" Lauren asks. She is intrigued.
"Ignore that last one," I say. "I just... I didn't have any other ideas."
"It's not a bad idea," Lauren says, and the minute she says it, I hate her. Of course, she would say that. Of course, that would be the one she jumped on. Leave it on Lauren to ignore that I said "couple's counseling" but jump at the chance to screw someone else.
"Just..." I say, annoyed. "Just say what you wrote down."
"Okay." Lauren looks down at her paper. "I wrote down 'date again' and 'trial separation.'"
"I don't know what those mean," I say.
"Well, the first one is kind of like your thing about living apart. We would just try to see if maybe we lived in different places and we just went on a few dates and saw each other less, maybe that would work. Maybe take some pressure off. Make it more exciting to see each other."
"Okay, and the second one?"
"We break up for a little while."
"You mean, like, we're done?"
"Well, I mean," she starts to explain, "I move out, or you move out, and we see how we do on our own, without each other."
"And then what?"
"I don't know. Maybe some time apart would make us... you know, ready to try again."
"How long would we do this? Like, a few months?"
"I was thinking longer."
"Like, how long?"
"I don't know, Camila. Jesus," Lauren says, losing her patience at all of my questions. It's been a few weeks since we told each other we didn't love each other anymore. We've been tiptoeing around each other. This is the beginning of pulling the Band-aid off. A very large, very sticky Band-aid.
"I'm just asking you to clarify your suggestion," I say. "I don't think you need to act like this is a Spanish Inquisition."
"Like, a year. Like, we take a year apart."
"And we sleep with other people?"
"Yeah," Lauren says, as if I'm an idiot. "I think that's kind of the point."
Lauren has made it clear that she no longer thinks of me the way she thinks about other women. It hurts. And yet when I try to break down why it hurts, I don't have an answer. I don't really think of her that way, either.
"Let's talk about this later," I say, getting up from the table. "I'm ready to talk about this now," Lauren says. "Don't walk away."
"I'm asking you nicely," I say, my tone slow and pointed, "If we can please discuss this later."
"Fine," Lauren says, getting up from the table and throwing her sheet of paper into the air. "I'm getting out of here."
I don't ask her where she's going. She leaves often enough now that I know her answer will be harmless. I resent her so much for being predictable. She'll go to a bar and get a drink. She'll go to the movies. She'll call her friends to play basketball. I don't care. She'll come back when she feels like it, and when she does, the air in the house will feel sharp and tightened, so much that I will feel like I can barely breathe.
I lie on the couch for hours, contemplating a year without my wife. It feels freeing and terrifying. I think about her sleeping with other women, but the thought quickly transforms into the thought of me sleeping with someone else. I don't know who this person is, but I can see they're hands on me. I can feel they're lips on me. I can imagine the way they'll look at me, the way they will make me feel like the only woman in the room, the most important woman in the world. I imagine being nervous, a type of nervous I haven't been in years.
When Lauren finally does come home, I tell her I think she is right. We should take a year apart.
Lauren sighs loudly, and her shoulders slump. She tries to speak, but her voice catches. I walk over to her and wrap my arms around her shoulders. I start crying. Once again, finally we're on the same team. We wallow in it for a while. We let ourselves feel the relief we have given each other. That's what it feels like, ultimately: immense relief. Like cold water on a burn.
When we disengage, Lauren offers to move out. She says I can keep the house for a year. I take her up on it. I don't argue. She's offering me a gift. I'm going to take it. We sit quietly next to each other on the sofa, holding hands, not looking at each other for what feels like hours. It feels so good to stop fighting.
Then we realize we both thought we were the one keeping Thunder.
We fight about the dog until five in the morning.
