Page 60 of The Ruin
“Gotta go,” he said, hanging up abruptly.
That was about the extent of our conversation, but ever since then, I’ve felt even more determined to win my wife back. No matter what it takes. And as much tension as there’s always been between Brooklyn and me over her super close friendship with Mateo, I meant what I said on the call with him—I’m glad to know she’s with someone who’ll look out for her.
Finishing up the Thai food takeout I ordered, I give the kitchen a cursory clean and then take Mr. Kibbles for his evening walk, but it doesn’t do much to clear my mind. Everything seems lifeless and empty without Brooklyn around.
When we get back, I slump on the couch. I channel surf for a few minutes, but finally give up and pick up my phone, checking my wife’s Insta feed. It’s still radio silent. Looks like I’m not the only one she’s hiding from since the news hit.
Against my better judgment, I call her number. It’s futile, I know, but I can’t help myself. It rings through and goes to voicemail. No surprise there. Still, I leave another message.
“Hey, it’s me. I just wanted to say…look, it’s incredibly generous and caring that you gave that interview to protect me, to protect all of us at the agency, but God—did you even think it through? Why do you always have to be so bullheaded? We could have figured it out together. Dammit, I still want to figure this out together. Okay? I just…please, call me. Love you.”
Frustrated, I hang up and toss the phone onto the coffee table. Mr. Kibbles comes over with his head down, tail tucked.
“Sorry, bud,” I tell him. “It’s not you.”
I scratch behind his ears and let him climb onto the couch next to me, feeling another long, lonely night coming on.I’m an idiot. Maybe she’d actually answer my calls if the voicemails I keep leaving didn’t jump back and forth so much between me complimenting her kind heart and getting frustrated that she went behind my back and plotted her own destruction. But can you blame me? It’s impossible not to be aggravated at her choices. Especially since she seems to have decided that our marriage is over, without even consulting me. And the worst part of all is that I know we still love each other. But I don’t know how to fix this.
Nothing has gotten through to her. I can’t bear the thought that we’re really over, though. I guess that’s why I keep calling. Living in hope.
Grabbing my phone again, I shoot off a quick text.
Brooklyn, please stop being stubborn. Mr. Kibbles needs you. I need you. We both want you home.
A few minutes pass, and I tap out another text.
Don’t do this.
Realizing it might have come across aggressive, I send one more.
I love you.
Sighing, I rub my hands over my face. I feel like I’m going crazy. One thought keeps banging around in my head. How the hell did we get to this point? Where did I go so wrong?
I never see the forest for the trees. Things are generally black or white to me, and I always overlook the most obvious things when emotions are concerned. That’s why it took me so long to realize that I love my wife, and even longer to actually tell her. Maybe I haven’t said it enough. Maybe if I’d said it sooner, she would have leaned on me through this.
The way I leaned on her during my father’s trial.
It kills me that it’s my turn to hold her up and she won’t even speak to me.
My phone rings, and I’m so startled that I almost jump off the couch. It’s Emzee, of course. “Hello?”
“Hey,” she says, in the same quiet, concerned voice that she’s had since Brooklyn left. “How’s it going?”
“Same,” I answer flatly. “She still won’t talk to me. No other news to report.”
“I’m sorry,” Emzee says. “I’m sure it won’t make you feel any better, but she hasn’t returned my calls either.”
I start pacing the room, trying to let out some of the restless energy coursing through me. “Yeah. I don’t know. Do you think I should send flowers to Mateo’s or something?”
“Well…I probably wouldn’t,” my sister answers carefully. “You’ve called her so many times already, and it really seems like she needs some time to herself right now. You don’t want to overwhelm her. I mean…more than you already have. No offense.”
I let out a breath. “Yeah, no. You’re right. I’m just out of ideas. I don’t know what to do. I feel…powerless.”
“Of course you do. This whole situation is out of your control. And it sucks. It all sucks. It’s okay to feel like shit about it,” Emzee says. “But it won’t be like this forever.”
“Thanks. I really hope you’re right.”
We talk for a few more minutes, making plans for a doggie playdate later in the week, and then I turn off the lights and head down the hall for bed, even though it’s still early.
