Coming Clean

After we got home from the hockey game my husband commented on my mood.  "What's wrong?  You're not being yourself." 

I didn't realize it was that obvious but everything mood related is obvious to him.  He reads me like a book, which should be flattering, but you don't know the history.  He grew up in a broken home where it was necessary to be up to snuff on the moods of all household members in order to survive.  I love that he knows me so well, but I hate why he feels like he has to.  I wish the scars would just go away.  I wish he could relax and I wish he didn't have to be on guard all the time looking for the hint or whisper of trouble.

"You're right.  I need to tell you something."  I sat him down ominously in the living room and recounted everything from the beginning.  "I'm sorry, I didn't tell you sooner.  I just was embarrassed about it because I thought it was nothing.  I thought I'd freaked out on the phone to Mark for no reason and I was trying to forget about it."

I saw a flicker of anger cross his face and I braced for the worst.  "You shouldn't have to do this.  If you go it's just going to feed his problem.  It's going to destroy you, and when you come back I'm going to be the one who has to put you back together again.  As always."

I fidgeted with my ring.  "You think I want this?"

"I know you want this, even if you won't admit it to yourself.  You never really got over him and it would make you feel good, temporarily, if he desperately needs you.  You know he doesn't actually love you.  He isn't capable of caring for anyone but himself.  He'll destroy you to rebuild himself."

I nodded.  "What you haven't taken into account is how long it has been.  We've barely spoken in the past fifteen years.  I'm not a fool.  I know a man doesn't go from that to love in two weeks.  I'm not going to be had.  I know he doesn't really feel the way he's pretending.  More than anything, I'm just curious to know what he wants.  What could he want badly enough that he'd fake a suicide to get my attention?"

"Maybe... I don't know, your attention?"  he snapped.  "I think it's fairly simple.  You're complicating it.  Why is it so hard to imagine that he's been secreting feelings for the past 15 years. It's not like you haven't been."

"I haven't been."

"That's a lie."  his face contorted.  "You don't talk about it, but I know you still feel the way you always felt."

I was at an impasse.   I couldn't think of a way to convince him.  So I just crawled onto his lap and took his face in my hands.  "I love you.  I will always love you.  I will come back to you.  I don't want anyone else."

He relaxed a bit and kissed me.  "I want to believe you.  I shouldn't have to compete with a ghost."

"You don't.  Would you like me to tell Carly no?  I don't have to go.  If he kills himself, that's his problem."

"I don't want you to go."

"Okay."

We held each other for a long time, until we both fell asleep. 

The next morning he asked me, "What time is your flight?"