Page 74 of The Illusion
I used to greet him with a smile and a kiss. Now, I just want him to leave.
"What are you doing here?"
"You didn’t come home last night.”
“Well, if you were worried, you could have texted or called,” I point out. Because yes, it hurts like hell that he didn’t care enough to check in on me.
He sighs. “I knew you’d run to Jamie’s to process. I figured you wanted to be left alone.”
Run to Jamie. Jesus. Who is he? “Okay.”
It’s far from okay. But there’s nothing else to say.
“Anyway, that’s why I’m here. I had to see you before I went to work."
He hasn't done this in so long I can’t remember the last time he just showed up at the shop to see me. To be near me. There was a time when he'd stop by a few mornings each week to bring me coffee and steal a kiss while I was elbow-deep in a project. There was a time when seeing him in my doorway would make me smile.
Now it just spikes my anxiety because there’s something off about it. Performative, maybe. Or perhaps he’s just taking my temperature. Either way, I don’t like it.
He steps into the room, and I'm suddenly aware of how small the space is. How close he is. But how far away he feels. I used to look forward to my husband’s nearness. I don’t anymore.
His eyes move over the counter at the rows of empty bottles waiting to be filled, the melted butter mixture in the double boiler, the bottles of essential oils lined up like soldiers. He's looking at everything except me.
"Smells good in here," he says.
"Sweet almond oil."
"Oh. It's nice.”
Nice. God. How fucking benign. Nice is a pair of new curtains, your neighbor dropping by with a pie, or the bagger at the grocery store helping you load your trunk. How did we become this?
The silence stretches. I turn back to the double boiler, checking the temperature even though I just checked it thirty seconds ago. Behind me, I can feel him watching. I can feel the weight of whatever he came here to say pressing against the air between us.
"Julie."
"I need to keep an eye on this," I tell him, gesturing at the mixture. "The timing is critical." It's not critical. But I need something to do with my hands, something to focus on that I'm not sure how much more of this I can stand.
"I really am sorry about last night," he says.
No, he's not. If he was, this wouldn't keep happening. Period. "It's fine," I say.
"Clearlyyour attitude tells me that it's not fine."
He’s got nerve putting so much salt into what he just said. My attitude. Mine. He’s out of his mind. If I had any fight left in me, I might snap and start yelling. But I cried it out at my sister’s last night so now, this is just another nail in the coffin.
I turn. He's closer than I expected, just a few feet away, and the look on his face is regretful. I’m just not sure he means it. Sometimes I think he’s just going through an arsenal of facial expressions he’s making to appease me.
I wipe my hands on the towel beside me, the one with the faded logo of our shop embroidered in the corner. "I understand that she’s mentally fragile."
He winces, and I know he wants to argue. But if he does, his reason for leaving dinner last night will collapse beneath him.
After a beat he says, "You just need to hang in there.”
Oh, yay. Now he’s tossing out motivational poster slogans. I’m tempted to tell him to grow a set.
"She lost her mother and stepfather," I say, repeating the words I've been telling myself like a mantra. "She's traumatized. She needs support."
"That’s true, butyouaren’t doing well. You’re imagining things, you’re angry, you’re suspicious. This competition you imagine you're in with her isn't right. You feel more like a warden than a wife.”
