On the way home I picked up four different flavors, unable to settle on just one. I also ordered shawarma from a takeout place near our apartment. It was another soul-deep necessity.
I arrived home just past 11 a.m. to a grim-faced Greg. He greeted me with a stoic glower, hands on his hips. I ignored him—not because I was playing games or trying to make him suffer. Not at all. Rather, I ignored him because I wasn’t yet ready to engage. Not until I fed my soul some ice cream and shawarma.
Avoiding his gaze, I walked past him to the kitchen and deposited my bags on the counter. He trailed after me. I felt his eyes track my movements as I pulled a bowl from the cabinet, a spoon from the drawer, and turned back to the ice cream and spiced meat.
The kitchen was silent for several moments save for the sound of me spooning food onto my plate until Greg demanded, “Didn’t you get my messages?”
“No.” I took a bite of my shawarma, followed by a spoonful of ice cream. “I turned my phone off.”
“Why would you do that?” He sounded aggrieved, which part of me found ironic. He was perfectly fine leaving me tied up in Enugu while planning to hand himself over to goons, whereas I couldn’t leave him for two hours in Chicago without him throwing a glower-party.
I sighed, still not looking at him. “Because I needed some time.”
He waited a beat before pressing, “Fe, we just arrived home yesterday. We haven’t spoken—not really, not with any gravity—about what happened. And then you disappear this morning.”
“And now I’m back.”
“You can’t just leave like that, not without a note or a text, not after everything that’s happened.”
I lifted my gaze to his, my movements stilling. “I’m sorry, did I worry you?” The words were out before I could stop them, dripping with accusatory sarcasm. “How incredibly thoughtless and selfish of me.”
Greg glared at me, straightening his back and crossing his arms. “So, passive-aggressive is how you’re going to play this?”
“Well, it’s either that or aggressive aggressive. And I’d prefer not to be arrested for domestic violence today. Maybe tomorrow.”
“I know you’re angry—”
“You have no clue how angry I am,” I hissed before taking another bite of ice cream.
“But I’m not sorry I left you in Enugu. I can’t be sorry for wanting to keep you safe.”
I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “You are arrogant and selfish—”
Greg held up his hands, his tone turning severe and unapologetic, “Hey, I’ve never claimed to be otherwise. When it comes to you and your safety, I will always be selfish.”
I stared at him for a long moment, not knowing what I wanted to say first, the weight of his disregard and duplicity weighing on my chest like an anvil, the force of it chaotically propelling me down an uncertain path.
He claimed to have left me because he wanted to keep me safe, and I believed him. That was certainly part of it. But the other part—the part with which I was struggling—was his complete disregard for my abilities, talents, contributions. Never mind what I wanted or needed.
If the tables had been turned, I wouldn’t have left him behind. Not because I loved him less, but because I respected him more.
But it hadn’t always been this way.
“What about Jack and Grace? Hmm? What about soccer?”
The muscle at his jaw jumped, his teeth clenched as he scrutinized me. “Do you want to talk about that now?”
“No. I want to resolve that now. Because when you leave again—because you always leave—I want you to know I’ll be taking Jack to soccer every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”
“We’re not discussing Jack and soccer, because what you really want to discuss is me leaving.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, that’s so. Because why else would you say, ‘because you always leave’?” Greg adopted a sotto voice as though to mimic me.
I narrowed my eyes at him, dropping the spoon to the ice cream because it suddenly felt like a weapon in my hands. “I do not sound like that.”
“You’re right, you don’t sound like that. But then, I don’t always leave, either.”
“That’s bullshit. You always leave. You’re always leaving. And I don’t want you to leave anymore. As of right now, no more leaving.” I was being completely irrational. . . fuck it.
Embrace the irrationality!
“And how do you propose we make money, Fe? Do you have a magical money tree growing on the balcony? Perhaps a tiny leprechaun hiding in your purse?”
Frustration growing, I decided to skip past all my little gripes to the sum of their parts. When taken all together, his actions left me at a loss, so I asked the big question. “Tell me the truth. Are you really happy? With us? With kids and a wife? Or are you looking for a way out?”