it’s clear that eventually, he’s going to say something.
“Just say it,” I say.
“No,” he says. “It’s not worth it.”
“Well, clearly, it is. Because you can barely stop yourself. So get on with it. I don’t have all fucking night.”
“Why don’t you take it down a notch, OK?”
I shake my head at him. “You are such a dick sometimes.”
“Yeah, well, you’re a bitch.”
“Excuse me?”
“Here we go. Her Royal Highness is offended.”
“It’s not hard to be offended by being called a bitch.”
“It’s no different from you just calling me a dick.”
“It is, actually. It’s much different.”
“Lauren, get over it. OK? I’m sorry I called you a bitch. Pretend I called you whatever you want to be called. The point is, I’m sick of this. I’m sick of every little thing being a disaster of epic proportions. I can’t even go to a goddamn Dodgers game without you moping through every inning.” Thumper moves from my feet and heads toward Ryan. I try not to worry that he’s choosing sides.
“If you don’t want me to be upset, then stop doing things to upset me.”
“This is exactly the problem! I’m not doing things to upset you.”
“Right. You just get tickets to the Dodgers game even when I tell you I don’t feel like going. That’s not to upset me, that’s because . . . why, exactly?” I move toward the dining-room table, getting a better angle at him, looking at him even more directly, but I’m not doing a great job of paying attention to the speed and force of my body. I hit the table so hard with my hip that I almost knock over the vase in the middle of the table. It wobbles, ever so slightly. I steady it.
“Because I want to see the Dodgers, and I really don’t fucking care if you’re there or not. I got the extra ticket to be nice, actually.”
I cross my arms. I can feel myself crossing them. I know it’s terrible body language. I know it makes things worse. And yet there is no other way for my arms to be. “To be nice? So you wanted to spend Friday night by yourself at the Dodgers? You didn’t even want me to go with you?”
“Honestly, Lauren,” Ryan says, his voice now perfectly calm, “I did not want you to go with me. I haven’t wanted you to go someplace with me in months.”
It’s the truth. He’s not saying it to hurt me. I can see that in his eyes, in his face, in the way his lips relax after he says it. He doesn’t care if it hurts me. He’s just saying it because it’s true.
Sometimes people do things because they are furious or because they are upset or because they are out for blood. And those things can hurt. But what hurts the most is when someone does something out of apathy. They don’t care about you the way they said they did back in college. They don’t care about you the way they promised to when you got married. They don’t care about you at all.
And because there is just the tiniest part of me that still cares, and because his not caring enrages that tiny part of me, I do something I have never done before. I do something I never thought I would ever do. I do something that, even as I’m doing it, I can’t believe is actually happening.
I pick up the vase. The glass vase. And I throw it against the door behind him. Flowers and all.
I watch Ryan duck, yanking his shoulders up around his neck and ears. I watch Thumper jump to attention. I watch as the water flies into the air, the stems and petals disperse and fall to the ground, and the glass shatters into so many pieces that I’m not sure I even remember what it used to look like.
And when all of the shards have landed, when Ryan looks up at me stunned, when Thumper scurries out into the other room, the tiny part of me that cared is gone. Now I don’t care anymore, either. It’s a shitty feeling. But it beats the hell out of caring, even the tiniest bit.
Ryan stares at me for a moment and then grabs his keys off the side table. He swipes the water and
“Just say it,” I say.
“No,” he says. “It’s not worth it.”
“Well, clearly, it is. Because you can barely stop yourself. So get on with it. I don’t have all fucking night.”
“Why don’t you take it down a notch, OK?”
I shake my head at him. “You are such a dick sometimes.”
“Yeah, well, you’re a bitch.”
“Excuse me?”
“Here we go. Her Royal Highness is offended.”
“It’s not hard to be offended by being called a bitch.”
“It’s no different from you just calling me a dick.”
“It is, actually. It’s much different.”
“Lauren, get over it. OK? I’m sorry I called you a bitch. Pretend I called you whatever you want to be called. The point is, I’m sick of this. I’m sick of every little thing being a disaster of epic proportions. I can’t even go to a goddamn Dodgers game without you moping through every inning.” Thumper moves from my feet and heads toward Ryan. I try not to worry that he’s choosing sides.
“If you don’t want me to be upset, then stop doing things to upset me.”
“This is exactly the problem! I’m not doing things to upset you.”
“Right. You just get tickets to the Dodgers game even when I tell you I don’t feel like going. That’s not to upset me, that’s because . . . why, exactly?” I move toward the dining-room table, getting a better angle at him, looking at him even more directly, but I’m not doing a great job of paying attention to the speed and force of my body. I hit the table so hard with my hip that I almost knock over the vase in the middle of the table. It wobbles, ever so slightly. I steady it.
“Because I want to see the Dodgers, and I really don’t fucking care if you’re there or not. I got the extra ticket to be nice, actually.”
I cross my arms. I can feel myself crossing them. I know it’s terrible body language. I know it makes things worse. And yet there is no other way for my arms to be. “To be nice? So you wanted to spend Friday night by yourself at the Dodgers? You didn’t even want me to go with you?”
“Honestly, Lauren,” Ryan says, his voice now perfectly calm, “I did not want you to go with me. I haven’t wanted you to go someplace with me in months.”
It’s the truth. He’s not saying it to hurt me. I can see that in his eyes, in his face, in the way his lips relax after he says it. He doesn’t care if it hurts me. He’s just saying it because it’s true.
Sometimes people do things because they are furious or because they are upset or because they are out for blood. And those things can hurt. But what hurts the most is when someone does something out of apathy. They don’t care about you the way they said they did back in college. They don’t care about you the way they promised to when you got married. They don’t care about you at all.
And because there is just the tiniest part of me that still cares, and because his not caring enrages that tiny part of me, I do something I have never done before. I do something I never thought I would ever do. I do something that, even as I’m doing it, I can’t believe is actually happening.
I pick up the vase. The glass vase. And I throw it against the door behind him. Flowers and all.
I watch Ryan duck, yanking his shoulders up around his neck and ears. I watch Thumper jump to attention. I watch as the water flies into the air, the stems and petals disperse and fall to the ground, and the glass shatters into so many pieces that I’m not sure I even remember what it used to look like.
And when all of the shards have landed, when Ryan looks up at me stunned, when Thumper scurries out into the other room, the tiny part of me that cared is gone. Now I don’t care anymore, either. It’s a shitty feeling. But it beats the hell out of caring, even the tiniest bit.
Ryan stares at me for a moment and then grabs his keys off the side table. He swipes the water and
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