Lost Along the Way (10 page)

I stopped at the store for the ingredients. Once home, I put on a bit of music and began to cook. My hopes were high as I chopped and mixed. I envisioned heartfelt promises and tearful reconciliation. We’d apologize for hurting each other, and remember why we loved each other. We’d watch the fireworks while holding hands. And then, after making love as we hadn’t done in years, we’d lie in bed, his head on my shoulder, and we’d laugh at what fools we’d been.

Yes. That’s how it had to work.

Don’t get your hopes up
, that traitorous voice in my head warned.
You’ve been faltering for months now. Maybe years. One dinner won’t fix that.

It might.

It won’t.

But it’s a special recipe. It’ll show us what we’ve lost along the way.

You don’t believe in magical food, remember?

Shut up.

I checked the recipe again. I’d added every ingredient, but I realized it didn’t include Worcestershire Sauce. Didn’t all meatloaf have Worcestershire Sauce? I frowned. I had no idea when the cookbook had been written, nor did I know when the condiment had become popular. Still, it couldn’t hurt to add it, right? After all, it was only meatloaf.

Or was it?

You can’t have it both ways.

Fuck you.

But I left the Worcestershire out.

I patted the ground beef into the pan, stuck it in the oven, and started on the gravy, my thoughts now straying to the past rather than the future. Where exactly had Chase and I gone wrong, anyway? How had we ended up at this place where I was putting my faith in magical meatloaf to solve our problems?

I didn’t have an answer, and neither did the snide voice in my head. Somehow we’d simply lost sight of what mattered. We’d lost sight of each other. We’d fallen into the snare of complacency. But I had to believe we could find our way out.

And yet as the seconds ticked by and the kitchen began to fill with the savory smell of meatloaf, my optimism started to fade. I found myself dwelling on the distance that had grown between us. The long silences. The strange stillness that descended on those nights when we actually went to bed at the same time and we lay there in utter silence, aware of our growing lack of intimacy yet neither of us willing to move across the empty expanse of mattress and initiate sex. Yes, sometimes I missed him. But what I really missed was the past. Now, looking forward, was this still what I wanted? Did I even love him anymore?

I jerked away from the thought.

Of course I loved him.

Do you really?

I have to. We’ve been together for fifteen years.

Love may grow into habit, but can habit really blossom back into love?

Yes, I told myself firmly. It can if we both make an effort. If we both make it our top priority. If we both make the necessary sacrifices.

Pretty words. But what do they really mean?

I didn’t have an answer.

Chase arrived, but not as I’d hoped. He was grumpy about work. He griped that he smelled like hamburgers, and seemed almost annoyed at the idea of spending the evening with me. I worried that he’d try to back out of our plans, but by the time he emerged from the shower, his attitude had improved, although the skeptical expression on his face as he regarded his plate full of meatloaf was less than heartening.

“How was your day?” I asked him once we were seated.

“I don’t know. Same as always. How was yours?”

High of eighty-seven degrees, breezy in the afternoon, with a 5 percent chance of thunderstorms later this evening.
“Other than my manager’s continued hints that I need to shed a few pounds? Uneventful.”

“He’s an ass. You look fine.”

My first instinct was to point out that Chase probably hadn’t taken a really close look at me in quite a while, but I swallowed the urge. Wasn’t I trying to mend things here? But afterward we lapsed into a painful silence, punctuated by the clinking of our forks on our plates and the occasional pop of firecrackers outside as kids got a jump on the holiday.

I studied him as we ate. When we’d first met and courted and moved in together, I’d marveled at how gorgeous he was. I’d watched him on the stage and counted myself lucky that a guy like him could be interested in me. And yet now I found it hard to revive those feelings. I didn’t see the quick smile or the flirtatious eyes. I saw the man who left his wet towels in a heap on the floor. The man who squandered my paychecks on designer shampoo. The man who hadn’t held down a steady job in ages. Fifteen years we’d sat across from each other, and yet it seemed we had nothing to say.

The little fledgling bird of hope plummeted from his nest to die on the hard, brutal reality beneath. There was nothing magic about Granny’s recipe. No mystical path to romance to be garnered from her gravy. No way to rekindle what we’d lost. There was only me. And Chase. And a sad, tired relationship that couldn’t live, yet refused to die.

My chair legs screeched brutally across the floor as I stood, taking my plate with me.

“Is everything all right?” Chase asked.

“Of course.”
Of course not.
I carried my plate in to the kitchen. Scraped the remnants of Granny’s ridiculous meatloaf with mushroom gravy into the disposal. Pulled out the bottom rack of the dishwasher. Set my plate between the bent pegs, my heart aching at the futility of it all, but stopped short as something pinged in the back of my mind. Some small thought, there and gone in a heartbeat. I stood frozen, entranced, bent toward the row of dirty dishes, my fingertips still resting on my plate, trying to chase the elusive psychic interruption. It was gone, but I found instead a flash of a memory: unloading the dishwasher on Monday evening. Putting the coffee cups into the cabinet, just as I’d done a thousand times over the years. The Slytherin mug I’d bought at Universal Studios on our vacation, five years before. The way he’d laughed at me for choosing that house.
What do you know?
I’d asked.
You’ve never even read the books.

“Daniel? What in the world are you doing?”

His voice startled me out of my reverie. I felt the strain in my back of standing for so long bent awkwardly over the dishwasher. I really needed to get to the gym more often. “Nothing. I was… remembering something.”

A coffee cup. A goddamn ridiculous mug. In my mind it had sprouted little arms and legs and mocking eyes. Its hands rested on its hips—if cups had hips—and it tapped its foot, watching me expectantly, a trace of Slytherin arrogance in its demeanor.

Look
, it said, in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Severus Snape’s.

It was ridiculous. I glanced down at the disposal, where I’d dumped the last of my food. Had the milk been bad? Or the eggs? Had the hamburger been tainted? Or maybe laced with LSD? It seemed as feasible as magical meatloaf.

Still, that goddamn coffee cup loomed in my mind, niggling at my confidence.

Look.

I glanced around our house. Everything was the same as it always was. I thought back to when I’d come home on Sunday night. The TV remote resting on the end table on my side of the couch, an empty water glass next to it. The TV, when I’d turned it on to check the forecast, tuned to ESPN. Monday morning, the little lever on the shower nozzle, left in the up position. All evidence another man had sat in my seat. Watched my TV. Showered in my bathroom.

No. I shook my head, trying to shake the images free. I was being melodramatic. Making things up. Confusing Sunday night with all the other nights I’d come home.

Except
, that traitorous mug in my head whispered,
for ESPN. And the shower. And the towels.

“Towels?”

“What about the towels?” Chase asked.

I jumped. I hadn’t even realized I’d spoken out loud. “I don’t know,” I said, feeling numb. “What about them?”

He blinked at me, confused.

Who could blame him? I wasn’t feeling too sure about things either. “I think I’m going to bed.”

“Already? It’s only eight. What about the fireworks?”

“I’m really not up for it tonight.”

“Are you sick?”

“No. I’m just….”
Suddenly questioning everything?
No, that wasn’t it.
Suddenly under the influence of Granny B’s mystical meatloaf?
No, that was even more absurd. I didn’t believe in magical ground beef, with or without Worcestershire Sauce. “I’m tired,” I finished lamely.

“Okay. Well, I’ll finish cleaning up. And then….” He sounded far away, lost in thought. “I don’t know. I might get out my guitar. I can’t believe it’s been so long since I played.”

I barely heard him. I went slowly down the hall to our bedroom, dread pooling in my gut. I didn’t look around our bedroom. I didn’t want to see anything else. I only wanted to take out my contacts, brush my teeth, take a sleeping pill—maybe even a double dose—and cease thinking.

I succeeded at the first task, and most of the second. But as I turned to dry my face and hands, I again stopped short.

On Friday, before I’d left, I’d thrown the gray hand towel into the hamper. I hadn’t replaced it. But when I’d come home on Sunday, the blue towel had been here, hanging from the little plastic hoop on my side of the dual vanity.

The world swayed. Or maybe it was my knees buckling. I groaned, closing my eyes. Did I really, truly remember tossing the gray towel in with the dirty clothes? Could I say with 100 percent surety I hadn’t taken a blue towel out of the closet at the same time? Maybe I’d done it Sunday night when I brushed my teeth. It was such a mundane task, there was no reason I would have remembered doing it. Or maybe Chase had noticed the empty towel holder and put one up for me before I came home.

But I knew it wasn’t true.

Was he really so low as to betray me in our own house? Would he really let another man stand here, in our bathroom, brushing his teeth on my side of the sink? My stomach turned as I considered who might have used the towel other than me.

I stumbled into the bedroom. Pulled down the bedspread. Stared dumbly at the sheets. Not the sheets we’d had on the bed last week. We’d definitely had the red solids on last week. Egyptian cotton. Five hundred thread count. Bought together at Target. But these? These were ice-blue, striped, 1200 thread count, bought online in a fit of indulgence.

Look
, that unsympathetic voice in my head whispered.

I’d come too far to stop now, even if I wanted to. My feet moved of their own accord, carrying me around the bed to Chase’s nightstand. I slid the drawer open. Took out the box of condoms. Fifteen years together and yet we still used them. How many times had I questioned the need? How many times had I wondered why we kept that barrier in place? My hand shook as I opened the end of the box and dumped the strip of foil packets into my palm.

It was the brand we always used. A new box held three strips of four. This one had one full strip left. Four condoms. I remembered with heartbreaking clarity the last time I’d taken one out. It’d been the next-to-last condom, leaving one in the box. I remembered thinking how we’d need to buy more eventually. Not soon, though. We had sex so rarely anymore.

When had that been? A month ago? Two? Maybe as many as four? We hadn’t made love in so long, I couldn’t even have said what season it had been. But I remembered exactly how many condoms had been left. He’d not only finished that box. He’d had to buy a new one.

And how many boxes between that one and this?
the voice in my head asked.

“Shut up,” I said, sinking to the floor. Tears welled up in my eyes. I choked, trying to fight back a sob. “Shut up!”

“Daniel?” Chase asked from somewhere near the bedroom door. “Are you all right?”

“How could you?”

“Excuse me?”

“You never use my Slytherin cup.”

“Your cup? What are you talking about?” But some note of alarm in his voice made me look up. He should have been downright confused. Instead he was worried. I saw the wariness in his eyes as he took in the little foil packets lying in my hand. “What are you doing?”

I dropped them on the floor and stood on shaking legs. “You actually brought another man here. Into my house. Into
my
bed
!”

He took a deep breath, holding his hands up in a soothing gesture. The tip of his tongue flicked nervously over his lips, and I fought the urge to run into the bathroom and vomit up every bit of Granny’s meatloaf.

“I’m not sure what you think—”

“You cheated on me!”

“I wouldn’t do that. I love you—”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“Dan, please. I’d never hurt you like that.”

“How long?”

“What?”

“
How long?
”

He wrung his hands together, his gaze skipping wildly around our bedroom.
You’ll have to be more specific
, the voice in my head said.
How long with this particular man? Or how long has he been unfaithful?

“Never mind. I don’t want to know.” I opened the closet and pulled out my duffel. Ripped the nearest three shirts off their hangers and shoved them inside.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m leaving. I’m going to my dad’s.”

“Daniel, please. Let’s talk about this.”

A clean pair of jeans and a handful of boxers went into the duffel. “I want you gone by the time I get home on Sunday.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I want you gone.”

“But…. But…. What about work?”

“Fuck them. And fuck you too.”

A moment of silence as I zipped the bag. He was rallying his defenses. He’d attack next. He followed me through the house as I gathered the things I’d need. My glasses, my keys, my laptop.

“Don’t act like you’re the perfect victim in this, Daniel. You said last week we hadn’t been a couple in months, and you were right. Are you telling me now you’ve never strayed? In fifteen years, you’ve never once made a mistake?”

I didn’t look at him. Just kept grabbing things I didn’t want to leave behind. Granny’s cookbook, my cell phone, and—for some reason I couldn’t quite explain—my Slytherin mug.