Page 93 of Love What's Left
“Iced tea.”
“I wasn’t sure.”
I nod. “Sydney said she was proud of me. For staying sober.”
“We all are.”
“Then she had a memory from when I was drinking.” I swallow, then shrug. “She hates me.”
“I don’t believe that.”
I rub the tattoo on my chest. “She said ‘I hate you.’ Is that clear enough?”
“If the memory was new, it would have felt fresh. Maybe she just needed time to cool down and put it into perspective.”
“Can we talk about something else?”
“Yes. Of course.” He spins his plastic toy. “Did I tell you how sensitive to smells Franki was when she was in the early stages of pregnancy?”
I shake my head.
“One morning, she said she hated my deodorant and asked me to use something else next time. I told her I’d have Spencer pick up another brand. Then I went about my day. Two hours later, I put my arms around her. She shoved me away, said, and I quote, ‘You’re revolting,’ and puked in a potted plant. When I followed her to rub her back and see how I could help, she called me a monster who didn’t love her.”
“Poor Franki,” I say.
“See? You recognized immediately that my marriage wasn’t in crisis. I, unfortunately, took her statement at face value.” He hesitates, then admits, “I was rude to my sick, pregnant wife.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“We’re discussing your problems, not mine,” he says blandly.
“We were talking about you and Franki, Henry.”
“Yes. I said, ‘Oh yes, I do love you.’ But, my tone was . . .” He appears to struggle with the word. “She called itbutthurt.”
My lips twitch.
“I showered. She brushed her teeth. I apologized for not addressing the problem immediately. She said she was sorry for lashing out at me. Now we laugh about it.”
I rub my forehead. “It’s not the same with Sydney.”
“If you ask her, she’ll tell you if she really meant it or spoke out of distress.”
The waitress delivers the drinks. Henry thanks her, then slides his fidget spinner into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and shoots off a text, I assume to his wife. He waits for a reply, then types again before sliding it back into his pocket and folding his hands across his flat middle as he leans back. “How did you decide on this place?”
“It’sclose to the house, open late, and has good nachos.” I nod toward the large casement doorway. “The bar is separate from the restaurant, which I appreciate.”
“You ordered tea, then sat there tying paper while you waited for me. You were never planning to drink.”
I shake my head. “No, but accountability never hurts. So here you are.”
“Here I am.”
“I want to talk to my wife . . .about my wife.How messed up is that?” I blurt.
“It makes perfect sense. If I were dealing with a stressful issue, I’d want to be able to talk to Franki about it.Especiallyif it involved her.”
I fold both hands into a single fist on the tabletop. “Sydney needs me to be a rock, not run off to lick my wounds.”
