That made me feel guilty for reasons I couldn’t explain yet. We moved to the living room because the kitchen felt too bright, too exposed. She grabbed a blanket from the hallway closet and curled up on one end of the couch. I took the other end, keeping distance between us because I didn’t know what else to do. She turned on the TV just for background noise.
Some late night show neither of us watched. We sat there in the flickering light and she started talking about her marriage in a way that felt like she was trying to figure it out herself. She said David had changed after he got the promotion 5 years ago. started working later, started dressing nicer, started acting like home was just the place he slept between the important parts of his day.
She’d asked him about it once, and he said she was being paranoid, that he was just stressed with work. So, she believed him because what else was she supposed to do? Now, she wondered how long he’d been seeing this other woman, if there were signs she missed or ignored, if maybe part of her knew and just didn’t want to face it. Around midnight, she asked about me and Emma, how we met, how long we’d been together.
I told her about the coffee shop where Emma worked, how I’d come in three days in a row before I got the nerve to ask for her number. Rachel smiled at that, a real smile this time. She’s always been picky, she said. You must be special. I didn’t feel special right then, sitting in her living room in the middle of the night while my girlfriend had no idea where I was or what was happening.
I should probably text Emma, I said. Pulling out my phone. Let her know you’re okay. Rachel nodded. Tell her I’m fine, just tired. My phone died earlier. I’m charging it now. I sent the message, kept it simple, didn’t mention I was at the house. Emma responded right away, relieved.
Said she’d call her mom in the morning. I put my phone away, and when I looked up, Rachel was staring at me with this expression I couldn’t read. Thank you for this. She said for staying for not making me feel crazy or pathetic. You’re not pathetic. I said you’re hurt. There’s a difference. Something shifted in the room then.
Subtle, but there the way she was looking at me changed. Became something more than just grateful. Or maybe I imagined it. Maybe I wanted to imagine it because sitting there in the quiet dark with someone who needed me felt important in a way working on cars never did. She pulled the blanket tighter around herself and I noticed her shiver even though it wasn’t cold.
“You want me to turn up the heat?” I asked. She shook her head. “I’m okay. Just tired. Tired of everything.” We talked for another hour about random things, life, dreams people give up, regrets that pile up without you noticing. She told me she used to paint, that she’d wanted to study art in college, but her parents said it wasn’t practical, so she got a business degree instead.
Met David sophomore year, got married right after graduation, had Emma 2 years later. Somewhere in all that, she stopped painting and couldn’t remember why. Do you ever feel like you’re living someone else’s life? She asked, like you made choices that seemed right at the time, but now you look around and don’t recognize anything. Yeah, I said, even though I wasn’t sure I did, I just knew she needed to hear she wasn’t alone in feeling lost.
She fell asleep around 3:00. Right there on the couch mid-sentence talking about the vacation she and David had planned for their anniversary next month that obviously wasn’t happening now. Her breathing evened out and her face relaxed, finally peaceful for the first time since I got there. I grabbed another blanket from the closet and draped it over her, then settled into the recliner across the room.
