Page 41 of Curveball: The Baby and the Grump

I know he wants what’s good for me too. He’s kind and generous, and never stops texting me. But he never asks how I am, either. He never listens to my stories or wants to hear about my day. I can’t keep feeling like I’m giving everything to him and he isn’t hearing me. I know it’s not on purpose, and it would kill him to know he was hurting me, but I can’t see a way that he’s ever going to change. And I just can’t live like this.

He stops for breath, and I interrupt, asking quietly, “Jackson, can we talk?”

“We already are, aren’t we?” he says, his brow furrowing.

“Yeah. No, we are, but I mean properly.”

His face falls even harder as he realizes what I really mean by that. Artificially lightly, he says, “Oh, okay. Sure. What’s up?”

I take both of his hands in mine and squeeze them tightly. The last thing I want to do is cry, but it feels inevitable. “You’re a great person, Jackson. You really are.”

“Thank you,” he says, still seeming confused about where this is going.

Time to put him out of his misery. “I think we have to break up,” I say, so quietly that he does a double take, thinking he might have misheard me.

“I — what?” he stammers, and the heartbreak is written all over his face, as easy to read as a picture book. I hate doing this to him. “Why?”

I squeeze his hands and take a tearful breath. “I know you love me, Jackson. You have such a big heart, and you care so much. And that’s what makes this so hard. You’re a good person.”

“But?” he asks, his own voice cracking.

“But… you don’t listen. I know you love me and want me, but since you went back to playing… it’s like you don’t listen to a word I say. Sometimes, when we go out, I feel like I’m just there so you can have someone to talk baseball at.”

“You’re not,” he tries desperately.

I let out a tearful chuckle and shake my head. “I know that’s what you think. God, that’s why I love you, too. But I can’t keep feeling like this. I mean, look at today. You didn’t even ask me how I was. Can you honestly sit there and tell me that you feel like you showed any interest in me at all?”

His eyes dart to the ceiling, then to the floor and then back to me, like he’s watching the evening in rewind. “I don’t know,” is the only answer he can give.

“Yeah. That’s what I mean. It’s just starting to stress me out too much, looking after you like a nurse and not a lover.”

He opens his mouth to speak, and I squeeze his hands again, bringing his knuckles to my lips to kiss them. His palms are sweating, his own grip on mine tight, like that might stop me from letting go. “Please don’t fight me. I’m tired, and I don’t want to fight with you. I don’t want to remember us like that. Sometimes, things just don’t work, and that can be okay.”

“We can work,” he says. “I can give you anything you need.”

I can’t help but smile at that. “Not everything can be fixed by giving. I wish I didn’t have to hurt you, and I’m sorry that I am. You’ve given me so much, and I am grateful for it. But I guess I just needed you to say it a little more often. That you care.”

“I do,” he whispers. “I do. I love you, Freya.”

“I know,” I say again, getting to my feet and kissing him on the forehead. “I’m sorry.”

A tiny part of me is hoping that he’ll jump to his feet now, that he’ll rage against the way I’m giving up on us and swear that he’ll be better, that he’ll listen to everything I have to say and be the wonderful man I know he can be. It’s unlikely, of course it is. But for just the tiniest second, there’s a look in his eye that makes me believe that just maybe he’s willing to fight for me.

And if he’s willing to fight that hard, to apologize and recognize the issues, I can forgive him. Forgiving him wouldn’t be hard at all. I just need him to show me he can do it.

He stares at me and takes a breath, and my heart leaps into my mouth unbidden. This is it, surely? This is him saving our relationship.

Then he stands up and says, “Okay. If this is what you need, then okay. I guess it’s for the best if it’s not working.”

My mouth drops open, my ears still trying to catch up with the answer they’ve been given. Sure, I’m pulling the plug on us, but he’s rolling over and taking it, too. Maybe I never was that important to him after all.

I need to get out of here before I start wailing.

“I should go,” I say, choked, pulling away from him. He’s resistant to let me go, our hands burning with the friction between us. It feels like severing a tether, and my hands are too empty, too cold without his.

This is a mistake. Is this a mistake? All I want to do right now is run back into his arms, to be held against his safe chest and to tell him this was some sort of sick joke, that of course we’re okay, and I love baseball really, and I don’t want to go. But none of this was about wanting to go.

Sometimes things just don’t work, and you need to go before you get stuck.

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