My stomach churns at the thought. What if she is cheating again, but instead of going somewhere else, she is taking him to the house? My house. I shake my head in an attempt to clear my thoughts because that’s the last thing I want to think about. And just like the past few days, everything runs through my mind over and over again.
Part of me reluctantly knows that I can’t completely blame her. Well, I can’t blame her for being in such a position. That’s my fault. I wasn’t making her happy. I wasn’t giving her what she needed. The memory of her promotion surges forward and makes me feel even worse.
She’d come home, yelling out my name the moment she walked through the door. I was lying on the couch because I had a game later that day and a muscle in my leg had been bothering me a little bit. I was in the midst of a nap when she called my name. Unfortunately, I’m one of those people who can be grouchy the first minute or two after I wake up.
“Jax! I got the promotion!” she squealed from the excitement.
Her words didn’t really register, so I simply replied, “That’s great, Avery,” and closed my eyes again. She continued to talk. I stretched my leg out, and a cramp twisted my muscles in pain.
“Jax, are you listening? I got the promotion!” She was standing behind the couch and pushed my shoulder to get my attention.
I sat up to rub my calf and snapped, “Yes, I heard you. That’s fantastic. Damn, this hurts.”
And that was that. I don’t know if she stayed behind me or if she walked away after that. I was too busy massaging my muscles so they wouldn’t be a pain later during the game. Once the cramp was gone, I grabbed my things and told her I was leaving early to make sure I stretched my legs really well. Nothing else was ever said about her promotion. I got caught up in work and the following road game.
No wonder she slept with another guy the first chance she got. I’ve been more concerned with hockey and myself than with her. It still doesn’t make it right, not even close, but I can see where I went wrong, too. For now, I shove that all to the side and do what I apparently do best, focus on my job and nothing else.
My life still intrudes on the game somewhat. I don’t chirp the other players; in fact, I don’t talk unless I need to. All I want to do is lose myself in the way I skate across the ice, the sounds of the crowd, slamming against the boards, the puck gliding over the surface, the stick making contact with the puck, and everything else that is pure hockey. Somehow, I manage to silence my mind. I don’t think. I act and respond to what’s happening on the ice. Nothing else.
The game becomes my escape, where the only thing that matters is my performance, where the puck is, and where every player is. Today, I’m not here to have fun and enjoy the game like usual. I’m here to do a job, do it well, and forget everything else. If only that could last.
The moment I walk back into the hotel, it all comes crashing down again. As I ride the elevator up to my floor, I check my texts and there’s one from Avery. Half of me wants to sigh and the other half is happy to hear from her.
Avery: Good game. :) You played well.
Even the smiley in the text seems forced. I lazily scroll through past messages and see that’s the longest text there, except for me asking her to do things with our finances. Our texts are one to two-word replies and the longer I scroll the more I see it. The ding of the elevator momentarily takes me away. W
hat has happened to us? As I change and lay in bed, my heart aches.
I hate where we are, the things that happened to put us here, and I hate that I want to sleep in a different place than Avery. Hell, I even hate that I miss her. That’s not how I should feel about my wife, but I do. For a while, I debate texting her back. Eventually, I do, keeping up with the one-word trend we have going.
Me: Thanks.
~ ~ ~
After the second road game, I’m lying in hotel room, feeling lonely. Being away from home has never really been a problem for me. It’s always been a part of the job, so I don’t really mind it. Yet today, I’m battling with myself about wishing I was home with Avery and not wanting to be anywhere near her.
I’ve been thinking more about how she said I treated her like my accountant and scheduler; the evidence is in these texts. That’s something small I can change. Besides, if we do end up getting a divorce, it’s not as if Avery would still do it. Either I need to do it myself or hire an assistant.
I’ve never wished that I didn’t have my job. I’ve always loved what I do. Maybe I’m not cut out to do both. Maybe Avery isn’t cut out to handle both. Maybe we shouldn’t have gotten married in the first place. It did happen pretty quickly. What if we were so in love with the new relationship that we jumped into a marriage when we shouldn’t have? Sighing, I dismiss those thoughts. We had a good marriage before, so we were doing something right. Somehow, we have to get over this. Somehow, I have to decide if I can get over it, if I want to.
The days are long until I head back in Vegas. When I get home, everything looks the same, not that I expected any different. Our house doesn’t show any signs of the turmoil we’re going through unless you look in the guest bedroom and see a few of my things in there. I’m tired of the hotel, but there’s no way I’m staying in our bedroom.
Today, I decide that it’s time for me to take care of my own life. I grab the laptop and sit at the table. I hate computers. They frustrate me to no end, and typing with one or two fingers doesn’t help. I go to check my email, something Avery did, and I’m thankful she automatically saved my password because I don’t remember it. When it pulls up, there’s only one unread message, and it was sent two minutes ago.
A long breath passes through my lips as I see all the emails just from today that have been read. Avery must still be doing this. A bunch of them have been answered as well. As I scroll through all the emails, I realize that Avery has two full-time jobs. Her job at the hospital, which she is paid for, and then everything I ask her to do for me that she does with few complaints to me.
Deciding to worry about the emails later, I go and get the desk calendar. Everything I have to do is penciled into the little blocks for each day, written in Avery’s handwriting. Taking over my own schedule is my first task. I think I can enter this into the calendar connected to my email and have reminders sent to my phone. Then Avery won’t have to remind me or keep up with it.
Slowly, I start to enter things into the calendar and set reminders. There are about ten instances where I want to throw the laptop across the room because I hit the wrong thing. I want to do this myself. If all else fails, I can hire an assistant. I don’t want Avery doing it anymore.
When she comes home, she stops short at seeing me hunched over the table, glancing back and forth between the calendar and the laptop.
“What are you doing, Jax?”
My body tenses as she steps closer to me. “I am trying to add everything to this online calendar, so it can remind me what’s on my schedule.”
“Oh. Do you want help?”