Page 34 of Two Friends in Marriage
I know Evan understands that I will relate this story in a much different way than I told it to him.It won’t include my complicated relationship with my father.And yes, Gina has decades of memories with her mother, whereas I had much less time with my own mom.But I still think it would be nice to add more than a generic expression of condolences.
“I don’t know what it’s like to lose a parent,” he says, “but I think that would be fine.You know your friend better than I do, though, even if you haven’t seen her in years.”
“Will you read it for me later?”
He nods, and we sit in silence for a while as kids shriek in the distance.
“I often wonder what my dad was like with Peyton when she went through puberty,” I say.“I’m not around enough to know if it changed their relationship.If Peyton didn’t have a mother, I would have, um, offered my help.But she does, so I didn’t say anything.It’s not like we’re close.”I study my empty mug.“I sent the wedding photo link to my dad, and he finally responded yesterday.He said they were pretty and he’s sorry he couldn’t be there.”
And that was it.
Well, he asked for my new address, too.Maybe he intends me to send me an impersonal card—that’s all I can hope for.
I wipe my eyes with my hand, and Evan goes inside and comes back with a box of tissues.I murmur my thanks.
Why am I talking so much today?Why am I so emotional about this?
Once again, I think back to my preteen years.When I shed a few tears, it freaked my father out.I learned not to express myself around him.But Evan is fine with it.I can let down my guard around him.
I’ve lived with people as an adult before, but just roommates when I was in university.It’s different from living with someone now, someone who’s building a life with me.I feel like I made a really good choice, even if our marriage might not be “conventional.”
This was another thing I struggled with as I grew up.It slowly became apparent that I didn’t think about boys the way many girls did.I occasionally had minor crushes, but something about it felt different, and I didn’t have the words to explain it.
Everything with sex and relationships has always been very fraught for me.For multiple reasons, yet somehow, I’m sobbing quietly in the backyard while my husband holds my hand, and it’s all okay.
Except it’s not.Gina’s mother is dead.She couldn’t have been all that old—under sixty-five, I’m guessing?Cancer, like my mom.
I feel all tangled up; I don’t like being overwhelmed by my emotions.But Evan is here, and his touch grounds me.It’s always been comfortable to talk to him, but before we got married, I know I wouldn’t have shared all this.
I look up at him and before I know what I’m doing, I trace his jawline with my finger, while my other hand is still gripped in his.The first time I looked at his face this closely was two days ago, when I did his makeup.I feel like I never saw it, not really, until recently.I study the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the freckle near his temple.
But this sort of touch is different from holding hands or cuddling.Worried I might have overstepped, I pull back, though we continue to sit in the backyard for a long time.
That afternoon, I sit cross-legged on my bed and draft an email to Gina on my laptop.I’ve written a grand total of one sentence when I start to doubt myself.Maybe her mom was one of those people who could be generous outside her home, but with her own family, it was a different matter, and my email will cause more hurt…
I don’t think so, but it’s been well over a decade since I talked to Gina.
The thing about death is that so many people are afraid of saying the wrong thing, and they end up saying nothing at all.
I write a couple of paragraphs, expressing my condolences and briefly describing my memories of her mother.I’m debating what to put in the subject line when Evan knocks on my door, as if he knows I’m almost finished.
“Hey.”He gestures to my laptop.“Are you ready for me to read it?”
I shift over on the bed, making space for him to sit beside me.I’m a bit embarrassed by the number of tabs open in my browser—it’s not like me—but I quickly shove down that feeling.It’s not as if my husband is seeing me naked.
And oh my God, why am I thinking about that?It’s completely inappropriate.
Evan skims what I’ve written.“You’re missing a word here.”He points to the screen.
“Right.Thank you.”I’d read it over and over, but sometimes when you do that, you can’t see it clearly anymore; you need a new perspective.“Is it okay otherwise?”
“Yeah.It’s good.”
I add a subject and send it to the email address that I used for talking to Gina on MSN Messenger, back when we were in high school.Then I close the laptop and put it aside.I lie down on my bed, and Evan hesitates before lying down next to me, his arm loosely slung over my waist.It’s similar to cuddling on the couch, which we often do when we watch TV, but something about being in bed makes it seem a little different.
I feel a prickle of guilt.Evan should have more; he should have love.
Instead, he has me.
