Page 52 of The Other Side of Apart
CHAPTER 28
For the millionth time, I push away memories of my argument with Marcus two nights ago, but they’re persistent, relentlessly piercing holes in me. My life is slowly leaking from them, and I’m desperately trying to patch them, but I don’t have anything strong enough.
Marcus usually picks me up after work, but he had late games, so I’m hurrying home on well-lit public streets, grateful for the time to think, even if it’s freezing. San Francisco is chilly year-round, but nothing compares to the biting wind and snow flurries dusting my nose.
But the real chill I’m feeling has nothing to do with the temperature.
Everything I’m experiencing—the body aches, the nausea, and feelings of inadequacy—are a byproduct ofus.
Marcus is right: I don’t talk about what happened with Nick. I want to pretend it never happened. If I do, it will fade and lose any power to destroy me. It’s my decision if I want to let the past out, and I don’t. I think Marcus finally gets it because he’s been trying so hard to make it right ever since our fight, working to show me he’s happy, even if his words during our fight said otherwise. But the harder he tries, the more obvious it is thatsomething has to change. Also, the harder he tries, the more clearly I remember what I saw in his eyes before I shut down.
Resentment.
I knew we couldn’t live in our happy little bubble forever; sooner or later, we would pay the price for all our hasty decisions, and now, I’m afraid of the cost.
I rush into our tiny studio apartment and shut the door, rubbing my arms to get the blood flowing again. Our apartment isn’t much warmer than outside, though, since we set the thermostat at a cozy sixty-five degrees to keep the heating bill low. Our argument the other night heated it up enough.
On any given day, at least one of my female co-workers is complaining about some misunderstanding she had with her significant other, and I know it’s normal. Marcus and I are no exception. We even had a small argument on our honeymoon after I told Marcus I believe in the Loch Ness Monster as well as Big Foot and aliens. He’d passionately argued against their existence, and we’d quickly learned there are some subjects we should avoid.
I open the fridge and pause, staring at a note from Marcus propped against the orange juice: a lopsided heart-shaped pie chart divided into six sections where he’s written things he loves about me, including percentages. Picking it up, I smile, my heart and body thawing a little. Allison at work told me if couples don’t fight, it means one person is holding too much back and will explode someday. Marcus and I haven’t held much back lately. But…that also includes the good stuff. I bite my lower lip and smile, remembering our day off last week, still hoping and praying our neighbors weren’t home.
I position his note on the windowsill, and it pulls my mind back to a night in Vegas when Marcus and I disagreed about drink coasters. Marcus is pro-coaster while I think they’re pointless, and that disagreement led to other ways we saw thingsdifferently. It sucked the hope out of the stale, hot motel room, and Marcus had left to go for a very frustrated run, and I’d retreated behind the closed bathroom door.
About thirty minutes later, a note had slid under the door with a pie chart and question:Chance of Mei forgiving me?
I’d grabbed a pen and written:87%,sliding it backunder the door and waiting until it came back with another note:Possibility of me earning the other 13% if I promise to watch those 3 (stupid) movies I vetoed last week and do that other thing we talked about yesterday that I can’t bring myself to write here?
I’d held in a laugh, written100%,then opened the door. His arms had wrapped around me and when I’d protested about his sweaty shirt, he’d held me tighter until we were both laughing. I forgave him then and every time since. But forgiveness hasn’t stopped the tormentors in my mind from whispering how unhappy Marcusreallyis behind his brilliant smile. They tell me he’s better at hiding things than I ever imagined he could be, that I’m not good enough for him, that I destroyed his future, his relationship with his dad, and one day, I’ll destroy us.
I fill the teapot, set it on the stove, and turn the unit on high before picking up Buddha and rubbing his belly. Tonight, I’m going to talk to Marcus—really talk to him. I want him to say all the things he might be holding back to protect me.
Placing Buddha back on the table, I grab Magic 8. Shaking it, I ask the question that’s been on my mind since our fight:
Will things get better between Marcus and me?
Turning it over, I wait for its all-knowing response:
Ask again later.
Rolling my eyes, I set it beside Buddha. The teapot whistles, and I pour the steaming water into a cup and drop a tea bag in. I need to talk to someone real—sort my thoughts before Marcus gets home so my emotions don’t sweep through and scatterthem. I’ve almost called Guo Mama multiple times this week, and now Marcus won’t be home for two more hours. Plenty of time. I haven’t talked to Guo Mama since we left Seattle. When we got here, we bought new cell phones and promised each other we wouldn’t call or text anyone from our past, which includes Lin, Johnny, and Guo Mama. But Marcus lied to me about Nick, so maybe me calling Guo Mama won’t be that bad.
I dial and hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
“Wei?”
“Guo Mama?”
“Xiao Mei?” she blurts, and I smile, picturing her standing in her shop with the phone to her ear. “It is so good to hear your voice. Everything is okay, yes?”
“Probably?” I say through a light, noncommittal laugh. “Maybe? I think so…?”
“Are you in danger?”
“No.” I shake my head. “No. We’re fine.”
“What is it, my beautiful girl?”
I sigh and throw my head back, talking to the ceiling as I lean against the counter. “Please don’t tell anyone I called. And you have to delete this number when we’re done talking, but I just…things are a little…heavy…between Marcus and me. I need some advice.”
