If I Break

April 1st, 2011

It's been three days since Cal got back from his last trip. Working. It's funny—well, not really. His out-of-town trips have become more frequent, and not only that, but impromptu. Apparently, they can happen in the middle of the night, with little notice, as I've come to learn. I wake in the morning to not find my husband next to me. It isn't too bad. I try to think of it as exciting, not knowing if he'll be home or not, kind of like a game. There's nothing strange or disrespectful about it at all—according to Cal.

I think back three months to our first fight about his lack of communication. How it was out of character compared to the trips he took before we were married. Well, as it turns out, communicating with me like a normal person... that was actually out of character for him.

The only thing he's retained from that little verbal spat is to send text messages. Oh, how lucky I am to get those. Usually two words; if I'm lucky, three. "Made it." "Be home soon." "Don't be mad." He probably has them auto-typed.

I've decided after this last business trip that I'm done pleading with him to act like a decent human being, to respect me and not cut me off. Now I'm just tired. I'm tired of trying to compromise. I'm done asking. I'm coming close to being done with him and this marriage.

He can say all he wants that it's his job or whatever the hell he thinks I'm stupid enough to believe, but I'm sick of it. He thinks this is fun for me. Being here, waiting around until he decides to show up is not fun. Whenever I see that overnight bag appear, I feel myself slipping into a rage. There is something more than work going on. There has to be.

We haven't been on speaking terms for the past two days. He came home from this last "business" trip after being gone six days, leaving with less than an hour's notice on the very night he promised to go with me to Saginaw to visit Raven. I couldn't bring myself to say a word to him since he's been home. He doesn't want to talk about what I want to talk about... things like who the hell he's with when he's gone. I know he probably has a mistress somewhere, maybe one in every freaking state. He laughed when I told him that. It was apparently hilarious, based on his reaction. When I told him his job title should be "Dexter's Bitch," he didn't find that as funny. And now he's not talking to me either.

The screwed up part about all of this though is that even with me being so mad at him, so furious I just want to hit him, I miss him. I miss him so much that it makes my stomach turn. I miss him, despite us sleeping in the same bed. He hasn't tried to touch me since the first night I pushed him away and told him to keep his hands off me. Still, my body craves his touch. I want to lie on his chest and feel his fingers tracing his name on my back. I'm furious that he makes me feel like this, that he's doing this to us. He thinks I'm overreacting, but I think he is underreacting to the effect this is having on our relationship.

Today, I've been in the gym for the past two hours, beating the track with my sneakers instead of destroying things in my house. I don't know what's happening to me, but I'm becoming someone I don't want to be—a mean, vindictive shrew.

I take deep breaths as I walk into our bedroom and see him shuffling through his drawer, his luggage case near his feet. My stomach tightens, and I feel my pulse beating in my head. He's leaving, and he just got back three days ago.

"I'm going to Seattle tomorrow. In case you give a fuck," he says sardonically. He has to feel my gaze burning into his back.

I turn down the music and snatch the buds out of my ears. "What?" I say angrily, even though we both know I heard him plain and clear.

"You heard what I said," he says shortly.

I laugh angrily. "Of course you are. Thanks for the heads-up on the location, but FYI, I'm starting to not give a fuck." I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth, but they came out so effortlessly.