Slip of the Tongue (Slip of the Tongue 1)

He smiles wryly, but not at me. At a heap of jeans. He pulls a pair out. “You hate the soup kitchen.”

“I don’t hate it. I’m just not one of those people who loves it. I don’t get the satisfaction you do from—”

“Being selfless?”

A lump forms in my throat. It makes it hard to swallow. Nathan insinuating I’m shallow bothers me, because compared to him, I am. I don’t cross the street to give a homeless man my boxed leftovers. I’ve never spent a Sunday morning calling friends to find a home for a stray dog. That’s Nathan, not me.

Am I selfish? I look around the room. My nightstand is piled with books and magazines I’ve been meaning to start. My drawer is a collection of displaced things—coins, paperclips, pens, birth control, receipts, lip balm, an old watch, and more. On his side sits The Martian with a bookmark in it. I thought he was reading Erik Larson, but it turns out he’s burning through his stack. His drawer holds a flashlight, an extra phone charger, and no clutter. He’s been watching less TV.

I swallow any shame and raise my chin. Maybe I don’t often put others first. Maybe I don’t notice the small things like he does. Does it make me a bad person? Do I deserve to be shut out? No. He isn’t being fair. I’d rather spend my Sunday taking care of him instead of others—that’s how I’m selfless. It was my idea to get Ginger from a shelter instead of a store. I’m messy sometimes, because doing dishes or laundry can wait and sated, post-meal cuddling on the couch shouldn’t. I’ve always been this way, and he knew it when he married me.

“I’m not as good as you,” I say. “That’s what you’re trying to say?”

With his back to me, he pulls on his jeans. “No . . .”

“What then?”

He sighs, muttering. “I don’t think I even know.”

I latch onto the hint of concession in his words and his puzzled tone. “I am making an effort, Nathan,” I say. “I’ve been taking Ginger out more to help you. I’m coming to the shelter with you on Thanksgiving like you always wanted. I came to your bowling game.”

“Yeah,” he says, turning back to me. He puts his hands on his hips. “That is pretty selfless, trudging down to Brooklyn like that.”

I can’t tell if he’s teasing me. “Well, it is Brooklyn,” I joke.

He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. He’s not playing.

“Come on,” I say, exasperated. “You’re defending that place to the death. It’s the home of skinny jeans and vegan booze. What happened to the guy who once moved a ‘stroller parking’ sign in Williamsburg from a restaurant to a trashcan?”

He walks around me. “We’re overstaffed as it is,” he says, both ignoring me and shutting down my offer in one sentence. “Apparently, everyone’s in the holiday spirit.”

I follow him through the living room, and Ginger follows me. “Then why do you have to go?”

“Because it’s part of my job.”

“No one else in your office does it as often as you.”

“And because I like doing it, Sadie.” He picks his hoodie off a hook by the front door. “It reminds me why I do what I do. I don’t have a religion. Serving others is how I get clarity—you know that. Is that a crime?”

“No,” I say immediately. “I love that my husband is such a good person. Even if he can be a real fucking jerk.”

He freezes in the middle of zipping up his hoodie. Even Ginger sits back and stops panting.

“Nathan,” I say to his profile when he doesn’t respond.

“What.”

“We need to talk.”

He runs a hand through his damp hair and scratches his scalp. “I know.”

I chew the inside of my lip. I can’t feel him here, and it scares me. I want to touch him, but if he recoils, I don’t know what it would do to the fight building inside me. And I can’t lose that now that I’m starting to find it. “I’m ready. Now.”

“Not now.”

“Why not? Work can wait.”

“I need time to gather my thoughts.”

“What thoughts?” My stomach aches. This is real. Whatever’s happening, we can’t ignore it anymore. “I’m afraid.”

He closes his eyes. His jawline is sharp, not with anger, but as if he’s holding in tears. He doesn’t cry, though. Not ever. I know my Nathan—he shows his love by hiding his pain from me, and sometimes I forget it’s even there. “I don’t think I know what I want yet,” he says, “and I’m afraid if we talk now, I’ll get even more confused.” He swallows. “I need to come in with a clear head.”

I almost don’t speak, because just the threat of his tears stuns me. He really is hurting, and that means he still cares on some level. It’s not enough for me, though. I need him to care enough to turn to me. “I can’t keep going like this, Nathan. You won’t even look at me.”

He meets my eyes. “Helping others always puts things into perspective for me. So I’m going to go do that. When I’m ready, I’ll come to you.”

“This isn’t fair. You can’t shut me out indefinitely. We fix this by talking, not by each trying to do it on our own.”

“You don’t think I know that?” he asks. “Who’s the one that concedes in every argument we have? Who goes the extra mile to fix problems in our marriage before they even reach you? Me. I do.” He stabs a finger in my direction. His face is red now, and any pain has cleared. “And you just float along, never paying attention to anything other than yourself. I’ve held your hand through this entire marriage. Maybe, for once, one goddamn time, you could be the one who—” His face falls when he realizes he’s yelling.

My heart pounds as my face heats. I can’t remember Nathan ever raising his voice at me. How long must this have been bottling up for him to explode? Does he mean what he says, or is he just trying to hurt me? I can’t decide if I want to scream back at him or burst into tears, but the look on his face stops me. Finally, I see the awareness and compassion that disappeared two and a half months ago. I think he might even close the distance between us, wrap me in his arms, tell me everything is fine. Everything will be okay. It’s all I’ve wanted for months—for him to lower his shield and show me the path back to him.

“What?” I ask. “Keep going. I can take it if it means we end this horrible silence.”

He picks his keys up from the bureau. “I’m too amped right now, and outbursts like that’re exactly what I’m trying to avoid. I already told you, I’m not trying to hurt you, and—just . . . I’ll see you later.”

“Think you’ll be sleeping here tonight?” I ask, letting the sarcasm drip. At some point, I curled my hands into fists. If I thought I could get it out without my heart stopping on the spot, I’d throw Gisele and Joan in his face. Even though an affair is unlikely, at least it would shake him up. “Or will you find somewhere better? Maybe Family-kind has an extra bed.”

He says nothing and sticks his feet in his tennis shoes, not bothering with the laces.

I don’t want nothing. I’d rather he told me to fuck off than remain mute. I’d take the worst thing he could think of over nothing. “I’m sick of this asshole bit, Nathan,” I warn. “I want my husband back.”

He opens the door.

“I’m going to check on you. I’ll call all the soup kitchens in the city.” I know he wouldn’t lie about volunteering, but at this point, I’ll say anything to get a reaction. “You better be there. If you’re not, I won’t even give you a chance to explain.”

He glances back at me, a look of pure confusion on his face. Then, his furrowed eyebrows draw inward. His expression sours. He shakes his head at me like I’m begging for

a second chance I won’t get. I’m not begging, though, so why does it make me feel pathetic?

I wait through the few seconds it takes him to decide how to proceed. I wait for him to tell me I’m insane. I want him to. I want him to lose control and call me names if it means we’ll finally have it out.

When he leaves, he doesn’t even care enough to slam the door.

TWENTY

Each step beyond the entryway where Nathan left me feels like a great distance. The mysterious gulf in our relationship is murky and flooding over. Will the gap get even bigger? I don’t know if I’d be able to build a bridge over an ocean. Or if Nathan even wants to.

His silence echoes louder in our apartment than his words. Ginger is sprawled on the floor as if it’s just another day. On the TV console, Nathan’s watch, hastily left behind, ticks loudly from under some discarded receipts. Movies line the shelf beneath it. I’ve never purchased a DVD in my life, but all my favorites are there.

A few winters ago, Nate brought home groceries and a movie. While I made popcorn in the microwave, he came up behind me, wrapped me in a blanket, and kissed my cheek. I never wondered how he knew when I was cold. I didn’t remember mentioning The Princess Bride. Nathan just knew these things. I thought it was normal. I was happy without realizing it was because of those small details. I thought they made him as happy as they made me.

I inhale a deep breath. Why does that small, insignificant memory hurt this much? There are so many to choose from. Our wedding day. The first time Nathan kissed me. The night, early in our relationship, when he let me stain his dress shirt with mascara and never made me tell him why. But no, it’s a random night in front of a microwave.

I pick up a receipt for fifty-seven dollars worth of Subway sandwiches. Once a month, he treats his office, even though I’ve asked him not to. It’s not his job to be a hero. I crumple it up, my small act of rebellion.

His open laptop stares at me from our desk in the corner. I go over and tap the space bar until the screen flickers alive. There isn’t a single thing on his desktop. Mine is cluttered with folders, photos, files.