Page 11 of Every Promise Broken

I hate apologizing when I’m not actually sorry, but he looks like I just kicked his dog. It seems like the right thing to say, but it leaves a sour taste in the back of my throat. It does the trick, though, because after a quick kiss on the cheek, he grabs his groceries, and leaves.

Once I finish loading the dishwasher, I wipe down the counters before taking a nice, hot shower. I don’t feel any better by the time I’m out, but at least I’m clean. Making a mental note to call my therapist and schedule the appointment I’ve been putting off all month, I fix a quick quesadilla, taking that and the book I’m currently reading out to the porch, and I eat as the sun sets on the horizon.

The house call to Conrad’s tomorrow morning weighs heavily on my mind. I’m dreading it, and desperately hoping he won’t be there again, but I have a feeling I won’t get that lucky twice.

6

Conrad Strauss

Five Years Ago

“Goddamnit!”

Slamming the closet door, frustration bubbling inside of me, I stare down at the mess at my feet. How it covers the hardwood floor, and the way emotion swells in my chest, striking me with such intensity it sends me to my knees. Shards of ceramic mix in with the ash.

Bile rises in my throat.

Footsteps sound in the hall. They’re hurried. “Conrad?” There’s concern etched in my name. Pain in his voice. “What’s the matter?” Whit comes to an abrupt stop when he rounds the corner and takes in the scene before him. “Oh, God. Let me grab a bowl.”

Like the problem solver he is, my husband kicks into gear, brushing past me into the kitchen. He comes back a momentlater, falling to his knees beside me, while I’m stuck in place, unable to move.

“Connie, what happened?” he asks.

“What the fuck does it look like happened?” I bite back.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him wince, and I know I should feel bad. He doesn’t deserve my harshness, but I can’t seem to help it.

Instead of calling me on it or snapping back at me, he touches a hand to my forearm. “It’s okay,” he says gently. “Let’s get this cleaned up, and then I can pick up a new urn tomorrow.”

“I can do it,” I reply, ripping the bowl out of his hand, placing it on the floor beside the mess of ashes that used to be my mother.

“I don’t mind helping.”

“Whit,” I snap, slicing my gaze over to him. “I said, I got it.”

He swallows roughly, biting the inside of his cheek as he flinches from my tone. “Okay, then.” Standing up, he runs a hand through his hair. “If you want to leave the broken pieces of ceramic on the floor, I can sweep it up when you’re done.”

Disappearing back down the hall, Whit leaves me to clean up the mess I’ve made. Alone. Like I demanded from him.

Lately, all I seem to do is snap at my husband. I bite his head off for the littlest things, things that aren’t even his doing at all. He’s tried to talk to me more times than I can count, and I just can’t seem to let him in. I don’t know what’s going on with me, or why it’s impossible to accept his help. The anger burning inside of me since the death of my parents is stronger than I am, and it feels like I’m drowning in it.

My vision blurs as my hands dig into the spilled ashes. Scooping them up, I place them in the plastic bowl Whit brought me.

“Ouch, fuck.” Pulling my hand back, I pluck the shattered ceramic out, watching as a drop of crimson forms between my first and second knuckle on my index finger. A dark, unforgiving cloud surrounds me as I sit back on my haunches and let my head fall onto my shoulders. Staring up at the ceiling, I wonder how I got here. How tragedy struck, and is simultaneously ripping me away from my one saving grace.

I miss Whit so much.

I miss him, and we live in the same house. We sit at the same table every night and eat dinner. Yet he’s so far away, and I have nobody to blame but myself. Every night, I tell myself that it’ll be different. I’ll crawl into bed, roll onto my side, and hold my husband. I’ll sink into him and let myself be surrounded by his love. I’ll fall asleep to the steady, even sound of his breathing in my arms.

But it never happens.

All he wants is to be there for me, and I can’t seem to let him.

I’m pushing him away, and I don’t know how to stop.

I’m going to lose him soon, I know it. I watch him grow more distant by the day. How he shields himself from me. I can see the lashes I’m leaving across his skin like physical cuts. I’m destroying my husband, and I don’t know how to stop.

Once I’m finished cleaning up the ashes, I grab a broom and sweep up the ceramic. Leaving the bowl filled with my mother on the counter, I rip open the cabinet and grab the bottle of whiskey, slamming it shut behind me. I twist off the cap and bring it up to my lips, taking a large swig, letting the harsh amber liquid fill my mouth before it burns a hot, fiery path down my throat. Taking two more for good measure, I hold the bottle by the neck as I stomp outside.

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