Rooms on Fire

Fourth.

Six weeks have passed and I am miserable. Miserable and lonely. Stevie has been on tour for a month now and I miss her. For years I'd been happy on my own but then Stevie came into my life and that all changed. I miss her body. I miss the way my body fits against hers. I miss her hands kneading my aching back and I miss the way her body feels under my hands as I massage her hips. I miss her moans of relief as her tension finally fades. I miss her voice. I miss her singing as she moves around the house. I miss feeling whole. We talk everyday, for hours sometimes and it isn't enough but it is all we have. She is finally coming home tomorrow. The first leg of her tour done. 26 cities in 32 days. She sounds exhausted when we talk on the phone. I am exhausted too. I started maternity leave two weeks ago and it feels like not working is more exhausting than working was. I've reached 37 weeks, full-term, and every twinge, every niggle has me on edge. I am not afraid of labor but I am afraid of doing it alone. That had been the plan, before Stevie came along but now I can't imagine having the strength to do it without her.

It is 9pm and I'm struggling to stay awake. Last night was rough and I only got a couple of hours sleep. I was awake until 3am, I just couldn't get to sleep. I'm am insomniac at the best of times. Pregnancy has made it worse. At 4am a bout of strong Braxton-Hicks contractions, painful and unpredictable, woke me up and kept me awake until 6am. Sleep only came in fits and starts after that. Only the promise of hearing Stevie's voice is keeping me awake. She is in Boston and it is midnight there now.

The phone rings and I stifle a yawn. 'Hey baby,' I say trying to cover up my exhaustion, 'how was the show?'

'Terrible. I am fat and tired. I am too old for this,' Stevie responds and I sigh. Most nights she comes off stage on a high. Other nights she is deflated. I know that she is standing in the hotel bathroom in her underwear, or naked even, examining every little perceived flaw in a full-length mirror. I can hear the echo of the room down the phone line.

'Stevie,' I begin before she cuts me off.

'I am so bloated I look like I am five months pregnant. I emailed you a photo earlier if you don't believe me,' she says.

I reach for my laptop, an indigo iBook, connect the ethernet cord and open the mail app, an email titled 'Stevie fat photo' is sitting in the inbox, I open it and sure enough Stevie does look pregnant in it, maybe not five months along but definitely pregnant. 'You do sort of look like you are pregnant,' I tell her with a gentle laugh.

Silence on the other end of the line and then a quiet sob and I know I've put my foot in it. Big time. 'You aren't supposed to agree with me,' she says and I can tell she is trying to keep her emotions under control.

What was I supposed to do I think to myself as I try to figure out what to say next. She shut me down when I tried to reassure her and she started crying when I agreed with her. I hate moments like this. They happen in every relationship but to me they feel like a disaster. I am too socially awkward and anxious to know what to do. To know how to fix my mistake. These moments play on my mind for days, weeks, months, even years after they happen, long after the other person has forgiven and forgotten. Or just forgotten. 'I'm sorry,' I eventually say for lack of a better response.

'I'm just gonna go to bed,' she responds after a moment and her voice is choked with tears. I feel like I have failed her. She needed me to comfort her and I didn't know how. Now she knows that I am not enough for her. That I can't be enough for her. It took her a while longer than most people to figure me out but she knows now.

'Okay,' I respond, resigned.

---

Three hours later and I'm wide awake now. My conversation with Stevie playing out over and over again in my mind. I try to tell myself that the conversation we had was normal, healthy even. A degree of conflict and tension in relationships can be a good thing. That is what my therapist tells me but my brain doesn't know that. My brain responds to the slightest of social faux pas, the tiniest amount of conflict, actual or perceived by releasing huge amounts of stress hormones into my system. My brain tells me that I am unworthy of love, unworthy of friendship, unworthy of social connection. Stevie had made me feel safe, she had lulled me into a false sense of security but now she knows too, she knows how unworthy I am.

The phone rings and it startles me. 'Hello,' I say stiffly as I pick it up.

'I love you,' Stevie says, 'I just need you to know that. I can't wait to see to see you tomorrow.' My brain doesn't know how to respond to that, I've been spiralling all night, convinced that I have ruined everything but her voice is so sincere that I think I might believe her.

'I love you too,' I say, hoping she can tell how much I mean it. I need her to know how much I mean it. She has become my world and I can't imagine my life without her.