Page 7 of The Marriage Game

Suffice it to say, this was definitely not the reception I was expecting to receive from my husband after putting so much effort into my appearance. Passed over for a phone.

I clear my throat. Nothing. I clear my throat more loudly. Still nothing. I let out a cough so loud I sound as if I’m on the verge of death—and they finally look.

“Jill, are you okay?” Max asks with a frown, taking a step back lest he catch my sudden onset of the plague. His concern is touching. “Are you sick? Because I really can’t afford to get sick right now. Maybe I should sleep in the guest room.”

Okay, how did my evening go from date night to separate rooms? I have to rectify this. Get Greg out of here and show Max what this dress can do. But wait—

“What do you mean you can’t afford to get sick right now?” I demand, my antennae having shot up. “Why not? We don’t have anything important coming up.”

Max and Greg exchange a look. “Actually,” Max says slowly, a smile spreading across his face, “that’s not exactly true.” He draws in a breath and claps his hands together, rubbing them vigorously. “Jill, honey, I’ve got exciting news. I was approached by a focus group; they want me to run for attorney general in the fall.” He grins. “Isn’t that great?”

I don’t answer. Can’t answer.

“Aww, look, she’s speechless,” Greg comments. “Knew she’d be excited.”

Excited? The word is so far from what I’m feeling right now that if he’d said the earth is flat that would be a truer statement. Seriously. I know the earth is round, but there are parts that areflat. All of Kansas for instance. Conversely, there are no parts of me that are excited. Ergo, the earth is closer to being flat than I am to being excited that my husband wants to run for attorney general.

“Jill?” Max peers at me. “Did you hear me? I’m going to run for attorney general.”

This snaps me out of my fog.

“Going to?” I echo. “As in you’ve already agreed to?”

For the first time Max’s excitement slips a little. “Well, yes,” he says. “That’s why I was at the office so late—we were talking through some campaign points and readying press releases and such to announce my candidacy.”

Readying the press releases to announce his candidacy? The finality of this statement scrapes across my auditory system like nails on a chalkboard. “I see,” I say tightly. “And you didn’t think it was pertinent to discuss this decision with, oh, I don’t know…your wife?”

Max actually appears surprised by my censure. “I didn’t think you’d mind,” he says, then seeming to belatedly realize what a lame excuse this is (saving me the trouble of having to point it out), he hurries to add, “You’ve always been so supportive of my political career.”

This is true. Historically I have been very supportive of Max’s career. But has he not lived in the same house as me for the last two years?

He darts a glance over at Greg, then steps toward me. “You’re upset,” he says, and I bite back a sarcastic comment about his awesome detective skills. He steps even closer, then adds in a low voice, “Is this about Greg? Did you want to manage this campaign?”

I experience a weird floating sensation then, like I’m surveying the scene from above…an outside observer of sorts. Maybe even a student scientist, attempting to figure out whether objectssink or float. A sponge: floats. A plastic water bottle: floats. My husband: no stinking way because clearly he is denser than water. So dense that he thinks the reason that I’m upset is because Greg is his campaign manager and not me.

I open my mouth to tell him just how off-base he is, but then pause as an idea starts to form in my mind. “Yes,” I hear myself say as the idea burrows further in, wrapping and twisting around in my brain until it’s formed a root system worthy of a giant hickory tree. Strong and immovable. “That’s exactly it. I’ve taken a break from the world of politics long enough. Our kids are older now. They need me less. I want to step back up to that role.” I jut my chin out defiantly, daring him to push back.

“You do, really?”

I nod. A furrow of concern appears on Max’s brow. Like mine, his brow has begun to line with age, but unlike me it gives his handsome face an extra air of distinguishment. This new line, though, is a temporary one. It comes and goes in keeping with his emotions, doubling as both a worry line and an irritated line. Lately I’ve seen far more of the irritated version, but this one tonight is definitely of the worry variety.

So I stick my chin up even further, willing myself to look calm, cool, and capable. Sure I had what some may classify as a breakdown four years ago, but I am not that same person anymore. I have grown so much.

For example, I know now that I have limits. Or at least I’ve accepted that it’s a distinct possibility. My old therapist—the one I saw for exactly three weeks before I threw in the towel— insisted that we all have limits, but obviously it behooved her to say that. I was paying her to help me, after all. I had to have some sort of problem for her to fix. It should be noted that Max is supposed to have limits too.Termlimits. As a state senator he can do four two-year terms, and then he’s not allowed to run again. Clearly he’s ignoring those limits by redirectinghis attention to this attorney general role. So ifhegets to be limitless, why can’t I be too?

Besides, even if I do have limits, stepping up to take on the role of Max’s campaign manager won’t test them. Not the way I plan to do the job, anyway, because I know two things for sure. One: I don’t want Max to be the attorney general. Two: If I’m his campaign manager I can make sure he never is.

Chapter 4

Max

Istareatmywife as she tilts her chin defiantly up at me, a spark of challenge in her pretty blue eyes. A hundred different thoughts chug through me. Is she serious? If I say yes, where does that leave Greg? Then again, up until a few hours ago he was planning to find someone else to work for since I thought I’d be retiring from politics after this last senate term ended. He can still do that. But can Jill really handle being my campaign manager again?

My mind travels backwards in time to that day almost four years ago when I walked into the house to find Jill curled up in the fetal position in the middle of our living room, crying. I’d never seen my wife in such a vulnerable state. When I hurried over to her, she barely seemed to register my presence. After getting two phone calls informing me that one: no one had come to pick up Ellie and Max from their respective after school activities and two: Jill hadn’t answered their calls asking her to come, I’d had to leave work to pick up them myself. Which meant they were with me when I walked into the living room.

Seeing their mom like that had them both crying too, and in my panic state I yelled at them to go to their rooms. Even then she still didn’t move from where she lay curled in a ball. I truly thought someone had died. What else could paralyze my strong, capable, fiercely independent wife?

But of course in the end nobody had died. Instead she’d crumbled under the pressure of life. She spent two whole weeks in bed— which honestly may have added up to more total time in bed than she’d spent there our entire marriage up to that point.

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