Respect Me, Part 1 by Nia Arthurs
Harriet
I thoughtall I ever needed to do for my marriage was hold this wrench.
Then my husband hired a private investigator.
Then I discovered he splurged on other women. Women who didn’t have his last name, his ring on their finger, or his commitment.
The world is falling apart.
I’m holding on by a thread. A thread that’s splitting from the weight of my agony.
Everything about the pain is familiar. The sharpness of it between my ribs. The way it drags my entire world to nothing. Burns it until there’s only ash. The remnants of my self-confidence. My smiles. My hope in the rubble.
I dig my fingers around Doc’s wrench and yearn for a solution. Some way to fix this. To make the pain go away. But it feels like every time I reach for it, the magical solution disappears. A cruel game of hide-and-seek.
I’ve never told anyone about this. Not Pax. Not my other friends.
I don’t know exactly what makes me pour it all out today. A sacrifice on the proverbial altar. Doc’s eyes burn into me like flames, licking at the charred edges. His hands go still on the engine. Dark fingers never reach for a tool.
I’m tired of choking on fake confidence. Tired of the bravado that makes me slip into designer jackets, well-fitted clothes and sharp words just to make the world believe I’m okay.
I’m over that.
There’s no room to act pretty when your heart’s been gouged. When an ambulance has to show up, they couldn’t care less what you’re wearing, only that you’ll die if you don’t get care.
Doc says nothing when I talk of my husband’s cheating. He lets me pick up the thread and follow it wherever I want. Detours. Up and down. History and the present. Rambling.
His attention never wavers. Like those eyes of his. There’s no shock when I tell him of the women. As many as I can remember. There’s no judgement. Why I stayed. Why I still slept with him. Why it still hurts even though I’m used to it.
Has the silence ever sounded so safe? Has the cadence of my voice in a giant room, bouncing off the ceiling and against cars, broken rims, bent fenders… has it ever been so sweet?
When I’m done, my body is loose and my emotions are removed from the moment. I’ve emptied myself in this garage that’s more soothing to me than a therapist’s office. Engine oil has replaced the burning scent of lavender, tea tree oil or whatever new fragrance is supposed to calm the patient.
Doc gestures to the table and chairs. I follow him. Every step is a day. A thousand years in my miserable life, rolling and ebbing like waves in my memories.
He sits across from me. Takes the mug of lemon water. Pours out a glass. “How long have you known of his cheating?”
The question is quiet. Not hesitant exactly, but very careful. Like he’s holding a tool in his hands. Like he’s picking at the most dangerous wires in a car’s engine. Any sudden movements, any slip, will damage the system.
“I’ve been having hunches for a long time, but I only…” My head drops because I’m too ashamed to face him, “I only had the courage to confirm it recently.”
“So how long have you known for sure?” Doc wraps his fingers around the glass. Water drips from the bottom of it and plops to the table.
“It’s been about two months. Right after I found out, I came to see you.”
“Apart from seeing me,” he sets the glass back on the table and sighs, “what else have you done to try and fix it?”
My eyelashes begin to flutter. Guilt burns my veins, growing like an antsy tide in the ocean. I come face to face with all my flaws. Stark reminders of all the things I did and didn’t do.
“At first,” my fingers pick at a loose thread in my T-shirt, “I thought the problem was intimacy. We both have demanding jobs and we don’t really have time to connect.” Sweat beads on the back of my neck. “When I first felt him slipping away, I thought the problem was just physical. I put more effort into the way I dressed. Changed my hair. Fresh weaves. Nails done. Exercise to tone my stomach.”
He gestures to me. “Go on.”
“I-in the bedroom, I tried different things. You know. Positions. Toys. Whatever would keep his attention. And I never said no.” Tears pulse at the back of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I’m so tired of crying over this. My voice breaks. “Whenever he rolled me over at night, I didn’t complain. I kept my mouth shut. I tried to get into it and be open to him whenever he needed me.”
“Did the cheating slow down when you did those things?”
It hurts to speak. Hurts to breathe. Hurts to exist. “No.”
“How do you know that?” Doc asks gently.
“Right around that time, I found receipts for lingerie in his pocket. Lingerie he never gave me.” My voice is thicker than molasses. Much huskier than I’ve ever heard it. “There were lipstick stains on the collar of his work shirts. Perfume. I could smell her on him. I could smell the scent he made with other women.”
The knife in my gut is doing more than cutting me. It’s brutally stabbing my insides.
“Did you talk to him about it?” Doc asks. So careful. So gentle.
“I did. Jerrison told me it wasn’t any of my business. That I was overreacting.”
Doc slides a tissue box over to me.
“Thank you.” I blow my nose. Force a smile. “Allergies.”
He doesn’t smile back.
“The other day, I put empty suitcases in the hallway and threatened to leave.” It’s difficult to talk with the lump of emotions balling in my throat. I think of the night my husband made love to me. The way our fingers slid against each other. The way his touched burned my flesh. Burned straight through to my lungs. Lit every nerve in my body.
I felt so connected to him. Every second in his arms felt like a reclaiming of what truly belonged to me. To us.
But it was just a mirage.
Our bedroom isn’t sacred.
Our lovemaking isn’t special.
He probably held other women just as tenderly. Probably whispered how beautiful, how tight, how amazing they were in their ears. Probably meshed their fingers and rocked their worlds, just like he did mine.
I’m not special.
I’m not priority.
I’m just one of them. The one he calls ‘wife’.
“Have you ever got into a confrontation with your husband’s… mistresses?”
I cringe at that word. Cringe at my own behavior. “I have.” A pause. A breath. “It involved a bat and her car.” The sickening crash of wood on glass echoes through my head. “I pulled out her weave.” Doc’s crushing disappointment is palpable and I square my shoulders. “But I had to do something. She came into my house, disrespecting me. There’s a line, Doc. Even with behavior like that, there’s a line. And she crossed it by entering my space.”
“I’ll be honest with you,” Doc tightens his lips, “this road that you’re walking on is not an easy one. For this marriage to be fixed, it needs him. Changing your clothes, seducing him in the bedroom, fighting with the other woman, none of that will help the situation. Fixing you won’t fix this.”
“Don’t say that, Doc.” I shake my head vehemently.
“Running from the truth won’t change it.”
“Then why bother meeting with me?” I snap, pointing my anger, disappointment and pain in his direction.
“Because I want to help you understand how men think. And, ultimately, I’d like you to find a way to get your husband into the shop.”
I flop back in my chair, throwing my hands up. “That’ll never happen. My husband wouldn’t go to a doctor if I dragged him. Much less a session like this.”
“If you can’t get him to come to the shop, then these meetings will have to end.”
Panic engulfs me. I sit straight up. “So you’re throwing me out?”
“No, not at all.” He waves a hand. “I’m just letting you know what the end goal is. Although I’ve agreed to meet with you and talk with you, I’m not preparing you to fix anything. I’m preparing you for something else.”
“And what is that?” I lean forward, clinging to hope.
“Accepting your best option.”
He’s being cryptic again. “Keep it simple, Doc. What do I do first?”
“I recommend you go back to dating.”
“Me?” I almost laugh. “You want me to date him after all he’s done?”
“That’s right.”
I snarl at the cars parked in the garage, imagining Jerrison’s face. “I can’t stand the sight of him right now. Too much has changed between us.”
“That’s good.”
My eyebrows fly all the way up. “Good?”
“That is exactly where I was headed. The number one difference between the early dating stages and marriage is the couple does not live together.”
My heart sinks to my toes. “Excuse me?”
“To have a chance at success, you need to go back to before you were dating. Which would then lead to dating. Which then leads to engagement. And then leads to marriage. It’s like beginning all over again.”
“Did you just tell me to leave the house or did I misunderstand?” I press both palms on the table.
Doc’s gaze does not waver from my face. “Your husband is getting all the benefits of being in a marriage. He’s having his cake and eating it too, so there’s no need to change his behavior.”
“Doc—”
He lifts a hand. “That’s how a man thinks whether you acknowledge it or not. If he’s getting everything he needs, he has no reason to stop what he’s doing. Leaving is the first shock to him.”
“I can’t imagine he’d just leave…”
“Then you go.”
I blink and blink.
“Whether you leave the house or he does will depend on your circumstances. But leaving is the most effective method.” He folds his hands together. “This time, when you put suitcases at the door, it can’t be a threat.”
