Page 10 of Truck Stop Titan

So, I lied to my dying mother. “I promise.” I kissed her sunken cheek, laid the book on the nightstand, and adjusted the thermostat.

It wasn’t until I was safely belted into my car that I let the tears fall, opening a new box of tissues, tossing the empty box behind my seat where it landed with the others.

When my sobs slowed, I drove home. I crawled into bed. Matthew rolled over, kissed my head, then tucked me against his chest. Always the same routine.

I couldn’t sleep, the weight of Matthew’s arm stifling. I pried myself free and stood at the open window. The rush of the river outside offered no solace, neither did the rustle of trees, or the drone of cars passing on the highway in the distance.

The heaviness in my heart weighed me down, that tiny organ swelling inside my chest, filling with vile, poisonous worry. Sometimes I feared the only way to make it stop growing was to pierce my heart, release the pressure, bleed out the pain.

Love wasn’t supposed to hurt, or make you sick with unease, or fear. God, how I wanted to take a knife, punch it through my breast and release some of the damn pressure.

Matthew moaned in his sleep, reaching for me. “Moe,” he grumbled. “Come to bed.”

“In a minute.”

A long sigh. “How was Liz tonight?”

“She talked more today. But it wore her out.”

I could practically hear his eyes rolling, screeching in their dried-out sockets. Although he was obliged to ask about my day, I knew he hated hearing my woes.

“I want to have a baby.”

“We’ve talked about this.” He rolled to his stomach, burying his face in the pillow.

“I want to have children, Matthew.”

“You want to replace your mom and sister.”

Maybe he was right on some level. And so what if he was correct? My childhood had been amazing. I had nothing but beautiful, cherished recollections of our family. I wanted a family, too. I wanted to build those kinds of memories with my own sons and daughters.

Matthew huffed. “You know work is my priority right now. I want kids, too, eventually. But I need to focus on my career first.”

And me, I wanted to scream.You need to focus on me.

Silence weighted the air between us.

“Are we ever going to get married, or am I just convenient?”

“Moe. It’s late. I have an early meeting. Come to bed.”

“I need you, Matthew. I need a hug. I need you to make love to me. To make me feel good. I need you to tell me you love me, and that you can’t live without me, and that if I want babies, you would do anything in your power to make that happen because that’s how much you love me.” I gasped for breath, then continued. “I need you to tell me that you’re sorry my mother is dying, that you’re so, so sorry, and that you wish you could make everything better.” Another pause to wipe the tears off my cheeks. “But you don’t. You don’t ever tell me those things.”

“You’re exhausted. Come to bed. Everything will be better in the morning.”

Defeated, wiped, aching, I crawled back into bed. I didn’t fall asleep.

Things were not better in the morning.

# # #

“Ready to go?”

“Not yet. Few more minutes.”

“Everyone has left.” His voice carried a hint of irritation.

“I don’t care.”

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