"Leo, I'm sorry," John said.
I rolled my eyes and huffed. "Whatever, John. You say that, and then what? Okay, you're sorry. I forgive you. But what does that fix? Nothing. Just leave me alone. Take me home."
"Please, baby. I can do better. I'll change."
"Yeah. Heard that too. Just last week, in fact." I stared out the window of John's VW Golf, watching the suburban side-streets flicker past, rain-drenched and gray and dull.
Like my life.
"Well what the hell do you want me to do? I said I'll do better, I said I'd change. And I will. I promise. Haven't I always fixed things before?"
I didn't want to answer that question, so I didn't. I toyed with the half-carat ring on my finger, placed there a month ago. Four long, painful weeks, in which we'd argued more than we'd kissed, f**ked in anger more than we'd made love, ignored each other more than we'd gone on dates.
"Come on, baby. Please, talk to me." John put his hand on my leg, and I brushed it off.
"What is there to say? We've gone in circles, John. Yes, you're right. We fight about something, and I tell you the problem, and you fix it, as best you can. I recognize that, and it's great. The problem is, there's always problems. If it's not one thing, it's another."
"People have problems, Leo," John said. "Couples have problems. We can work it out."
Again, I didn't want to answer. The only response was one that would lead to more arguing, more break-ups. We'd broken up four times in the three years we'd been together, the last time less than a week before John proposed. He'd proposed as an apology, and it had been pretty romantic, and had led to some pretty spectacular sex. By spectacular, I mean he'd fingered me first, so I'd actually had an orgasm, and he hadn't fallen asleep right away afterwards. We'd actually gone a second time, which we hadn't in months. It was that second time that had me worried.
I was late. Yeah...Aunt Flow was running a few days behind, and I was like clockwork usually, so I was in a bit of panic. I hadn't taken a test yet, and I certainly hadn't told John. Kids were a hot button with him; he didn't want a kid for a few years after we'd been married, he maintained. I wanted them sooner...or at least I had thought I did. Now, with the way things were going with John, the idea of actually having a baby with him scared the ever-loving shit out of me. I was not ready to be tied to John forever, and I wasn't ready to be a mother yet. I wasn't sure which of those two was the more imperative not-ready.
Now, the words were bubbling on my tongue. I owed it to John to tell him. I was cranky and touchy about everything since I'd first realized I was late, and I was taking it out on him. It wasn't exactly fair, even though he had been a royal dick earlier, leading to our current argument. We'd been out on a nice date, all dressed up with reservations to my favorite restaurant, a bottle of not-the-cheapest-kind wine, some good conversation in which I'd been briefly reminded why I loved John. He'd been charming and funny, and he was pretty hot, in a boy-next-door way-which was how I'd met him. He was my next door neighbor at my downtown condo. He was, literally, the almost-sexy boy next door.
But then, in the midst of an inane section of conversation, I'd mentioned my latest diet and exercise regimen, and he'd made some stupid, snarky comment about how it was "actually working this time."
What did that mean? A natural question to ask, of course, right? Oh...oh, baby, I'm sorry, that just came out wrong, I just meant you were looking thinner and fitter recently is all...
His comment helped so much of course. So much I'd slapped him and walked out.
Now, don't get me wrong: I'm not a petite, pixie little thing, size zero with A-cups that seem like B's next to a toothpick frame. I'm a woman with a body. I'm five-eight and half, size never-you-mind but not a zero. I've got an ass that wants to absorb more of my food than I'd like, and a pair of tits that tends to draw attention even when I wear loose clothing. John always said this was what he loved about me, that I'm a real woman, not a model-thin girl with no assets. But then that comment drew into question all those claims.
I'd catch him looking, of course. Men look at the women around them; they're visual creatures. I get that and allow him some leeway, as long as he's not ogling and doing double takes. But that comment: "it's actually working this time," God, it just made me think. My brain whirred on overdrive all the way home, clicking through memories of the girls he tended to look at when we were out. They were thin, svelte, he'd call them. Little nubbin tits and no booty. Expensive clothes, platinum blonde hair, blingy jewelry, all that.
I'm not that girl. Curly blonde hair that doesn't like to cooperate, and I don't like a lot of bling. A tasteful necklace to offset my outfit, which isn't expensive since I'm not exactly rolling in money working as an ER nurse, and neither is John managing a bank.