The Liar Next Door by Nicola Marsh
Twenty-Eight
Frankie
THEN
Walter’s decision to surprise me with the vacation cottage in the small seaside town of Ziebellville, near New Haven, on our wedding day proves to be a godsend during the first few years of our marriage.
It saves me, because I soon learn that what had initially drawn me to Walter—his stability, his calmness, his quiet inner strength—turned to boredom once we married.
At his prompting I joined a local community college and did a marketing degree. The classes were okay but what I really loved was the social interaction with people my own age. Most of them couldn’t believe I was married at nineteen; not without a kid, that is, pregnancy being the reason many youngsters in Hartford married apparently. I hung out with them during lunch and sometimes after classes, but I never quite fitted in.
Not that Walter minded me attending keg parties and staying out until all hours. He trusted me and while I did have a small crush on a long-haired guy who played in a rock band part-time, I never acted on it. I may have escaped Long Island but my parents’ morality—or lack of—ensured I would never cheat.
It surprised me that Walter waited until my twenty-second birthday to bring up the subject of kids. We’d talk about it occasionally, but in that laughing way couples do when they see an ad for diapers or formula on TV. I guess I should’ve expected it, with him now twenty-six and my course finished. It was like he’d given me permission to spread my wings, to get a feel for college life, but was rescinding the offer and wanted me back as a full-time wife with the mom moniker tacked on for good measure. I’d seen him with some of his friends from the bank, older couples who doted on their kids, and had known he’d want a family of his own sooner rather than later.
“How do you feel about having a baby?” he asks me.
We’re sitting on the back verandah at our beachside cottage, our wooden chairs perched on the end of the deck so I can dig my toes in the sand. A brisk breeze is blowing off the ocean, the tang of brine strong in my nostrils. I inhale, letting the familiar smell quell the rising panic. I don’t want to be a mother. And I’m increasingly terrified I don’t want to be married.
“I’m not ready,” I say, when I should tell him the truth: “I’m not sure if I’ll ever be ready.”
Because nothing eases my claustrophobia when I’m around him these days, not even regular weekend jaunts to this place. I’m suffocating beneath the weight of his expectations—he wants me to be someone I’m not.
It’s not his fault. I fell for him—and the idea of what he represented for me at the time, freedom—too quickly, and now I’m older I know I want more. Walter is far from controlling but that’s how I feel. I’m tired of being married, though I have no idea what to do.
He’s too good a man and doesn’t deserve to be with someone who’s second-guessing her decisions now. I hoped this weekend at my favorite spot would help clarify things but now he’s asked me this…
I’d loved our escapes here in the beginning, when we’d pack the car with enough groceries for two days and drive the forty minutes to another world away. Walter had been right about that too. I had been missing the ocean and hadn’t known it, so being here revived me. It kept me happy. It distracted me from my doubts.
I’d been foolish, saying yes when Walter popped the question. I should’ve expressed happiness in our relationship and asked for more time. Instead, I’d tied myself to a man who wants more from me than I can give.
And the thought of hurting him now kills me.
“We’ve been married three and a half years, Francesca. Our finances are stable, your course is completed. I think now would be a good time to start trying for a family—”
“I’m sorry, Walt, I’m not ready.” Sadness laces my response, a deep-seated sorrow that I can’t give him what he wants.
He swipes his hand over his face to mask his disappointment, but I see it nonetheless. “This is a good time for us—”
“Please don’t push me on this.”
I’m scared if he does I’ll tell him how I’m feeling and that will devastate him more than my reluctance to have a baby.
“I’m not pushing, but I want us to have this conversation. We need to be open about what we want and I think having a child now is perfect timing—”
“I said no!”
I leap to my feet and run down the path toward the ocean, thankful the roar of the waves crashing against the sand will drown out the rest of what he has to say.
He won’t come after me. He’ll give me time to calm down. This is what we do. How we argue. Me growing increasingly impatient and snapping at the slightest provocation, him annoyingly patient, giving me time to work through my angst before apologizing and him forgiving me.
How much longer can we do this?
It’s not a healthy relationship, me deliberately pushing him away in the hope he’ll end things so I won’t be the bad guy. I’m delusional. That won’t happen. Walter has the patience of a saint and nothing I do will drive him away.
Which means I’m going to have to tell him the truth.
And break his heart.
I stand at the water’s edge for an eternity, letting the waves wash over my ankles. I stare out to sea, scanning the horizon, wishing I’d made smarter choices. Wishing I loved a good man like Walter more.
“You’ve been out here a long time.”
I jump as he lays a hand on my shoulder, surprised he’s followed me down here. Usually, he waits at the house for my funk to dissipate.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say, my throat tightening with the hurtful words I have to say but can’t get out.
Slowly, gently, he spins me to face him and as I drag my gaze from his chest to meet his, my lungs seize.
He knows.
His eyes are filled with tears and the ache in my chest spreads.
“You want a divorce.”
A statement, not a question, and I can’t believe that even now, at a time like this when I’m cleaving us in two, he’s so calm.
I’m unhappy, but I haven’t thought that far ahead. Divorce is so final, so complete. I thought maybe some time apart will help clarify my feelings, but as he looks at me with more understanding than I deserve, I realize he’s right. There’s no other outcome for us. If I stay, I’ll continue to feel stifled and take it out on him, and this kind man doesn’t deserve that.
I nod, biting down on my bottom lip to stop the sobs from spilling out.
“I don’t make you happy?”
He almost whispers the question and something inside me cracks. I’ve hurt this man so much and he’s done nothing wrong. I’m a bad person. The worst.
I know nothing I say will help him understand but I have to try. I owe him that much.
I place my palms flat against his chest and feel his heart pounding erratically. “You’re an amazing man and I’ve loved being married to you—”
“But you don’t love me.”
His tone is flat, broken, and I hate myself for hurting him.
“I do love you,” I say, and refrain from adding “but I’m not in love with you.” “To be honest, I fell for you so quickly when we first met and allowed myself to be swept away into a fantasy that I secretly craved. I wanted to escape and you gave me that. You were everything to me at the time. But eighteen isn’t a great age to be making decisions that impact a lifelong commitment and—”
“We’ve been happy,” he mutters, sounding hurt and a tad resentful.
“For the most part, yes. But lately…” I shake my head. “I’m starting to take my discontent out on you and you don’t deserve it.” I clutch at his shirt, almost shaking him, trying to make him understand. “You haven’t done anything wrong. This is all on me. And I wish I didn’t have to hurt you this way.”
“Your mind is made up.”
Once again a statement rather than a question from this man who knows me better than I know myself.
“Yes,” I whisper, a second before he hauls me into his arms, our sobs mingling, our hearts breaking.