Pt. 4 -- Complications
It seemed funny how quickly time moved, unaware, and unconcerned with my feelings. It was cruel but necessary, I realized. Less than a year after Steven and Jess moved out of the state, Peter and I packed our belongings and headed off on a new adventure of our own. I tried to tell myself it was for the best. There were too many ghosts around Marana, ghosts that uncovered memories I was trying desperately to bury for my own self-preservation.
But Pima was an even smaller town that left me too much time to replay highlight reels of Steven's and my romance. I did much too often for my own good, and depression set in. Peter couldn't see it because he was too busy trying to start his own business, or because he didn't want to see it. I'm not sure which.
I began to feel the age difference between Peter and me more sharply when we lived in Pima. I had thought nothing of marrying a man that was twenty years my senior just four years ago, though he was only two years younger than my mother. Peter was a young forty while I was an old soul, even at twenty. Yet, then, I started to see how he used his age and experience, in ways, to control me.
Though I worked as a teacher in the local elementary school, I was the one who was expected to have dinner on the table when Peter got home. I was the one who was expected to keep the house clean, do the laundry, take care of his son over the summer, and it never seemed I ever did those things up to Peter's standards.
We started arguing more, so I mentioned that I thought counseling would be good for us. But, since I had mentioned it, it became my responsibility to set things up. I just couldn't bring myself to do it, given how small the town was and how depressed I was feeling. Peter didn't seem to care and never asked about it. He was too absorbed in his business, and I was relegated to being an adornment in his life, something he could dust off and polish up when he needed it.
Our biggest arguments were about children. At the time we got married, we had discussed children and decided it would be best to wait. I had always thought twenty-five was a good age to start a family, and at the time, Peter agreed. During those years, the only time he ever mentioned children was as a prelude to sex.
"I thought you said you wanted to have kids," he blurted one evening.
"I do."
"Well, I'm not getting any younger. Besides, to have kids, you have to have sex."
My heart sank. This was not the first time I had heard this rationale. At least this was better than his ultimatum, "If I can't get it from you, I can get it from someone else!"
I had stopped taking birth control pills about six months earlier but had not gotten pregnant yet though we had sex about once a week. It added to my depression and confusion. Was I sure I wanted to have a child with Peter? It would tie us together for life. If I was so unhappy now, how could I bring a child into this relationship? Would having a child help our relationship or bring out even more problems?
I started spending more time at school to distance myself from issues at home. Peter didn't like this, but with his business taking off, he didn't have time to really say anything about it. He wasn't home very much himself.
That first summer in Pima, Logan, Peter's son, visited. This was nothing new. Every summer, Logan stayed with us, and I felt we had a good relationship. However, that summer, he was sixteen. I had spent the last two summers teaching him to drive, and now he was pressing his father to buy him a car. They found the time to visit car dealerships, sometimes traveling an hour and a half to Tucson. They scanned ads together, called on them, and test drove numerous vehicles.
One evening after Logan had gone to bed, I approached Peter to discuss my concerns about buying Logan a car.
"Are you sure we can afford to get him a car?" I asked.
"He's sixteen!"
"I understand that, and I know about boys and their cars. But my question was, can we afford it?"
"We have money in savings. He's my son!"
"I thought the money in savings was supposed to be going towards a down payment on purchasing a house, so we don't have to rent anymore."
"Logan needs a car," he bristled. "We can save more money. He needs the car now."
"Why? Why does he need the car
now
?"
"His mother can't always take him places, you know! He has football practice. He has other activities."
"Is he going to get a job to pay for insurance and gas?"
"What? No! He needs to focus on school, keeping his grades up so he can get scholarships. College isn't that far away."
"So, now we aren't just looking at buying the car, but paying for insurance and gas?" I exclaimed.
"He's my son, and I contribute the most to this household. So, if I want to buy him a car, I will buy him a car. And, if that means I also help him with gas and insurance, I will."
Peter's face was crimson with anger, and I was shocked at the ferocity of his tone as he spoke to me. That was the moment I started to realize that he didn't respect me. If he didn't respect me, how could he love me? If he didn't love me...why was I staying with him?
It turned out that Logan had not been asleep but had heard the entire argument between Peter and me. He decided to use that to his advantage. I had been taking a nap, something my depression led me to do regularly and woke to hear a quiet conversation in the living room between Peter and Logan.
"Why doesn't she want me to have a car?" I heard Logan ask his father.
"I don't think it's about you. I think she is worried that if we help you out with the car, we won't be able to save for a down payment on a house."
"Can't you do both?"
"Yes, but she wants a house of her own. I get tired of renting too. It's like throwing money away. She just needs time to get used to the idea."
"She doesn't have to be such a bitch about it." My heart sank as Logan's words reached my ears. For four years, I had been a mother to him during the summers. I never treated him like Peter's son, but as our son, and this is what he thought of me?
"She'll calm down." If Logan's words made my heart sink, Peter's response created an empty pit in my stomach. I felt sick, physically sick. There was nothing in his statement to defend me, nothing to rebuke the words his son had spoken.
I wasn't used to confrontations. I tended to shy away from them. However, I also knew that I couldn't let the conversation between Peter and Logan pass without notice. When Logan went home towards the end of the summer, I approached Peter to discuss what I had heard.
"Peter, I heard your conversation with Logan a few days ago," I started. Peter remained quiet. "I was hurt that Logan called me a bitch, and that you didn't say anything to him about it."
I waited nervously for his response.
"Well, sometimes, you are a fucking bitch," he answered.
Rather than shrinking at his proclamation, I straightened my shoulders and pressed forward, "I see. I'm sorry you feel that way," I countered and walked out the door.
I don't know where I thought I was going. I only knew I had to get away from Peter long enough to cool down. So, I drove. I just kept driving with nowhere in mind to go. When I realized I had driven to Tucson, I was shocked. I took a lap around a mall I found, gassed up the car, and headed home, fully expecting that Peter would be ready to apologize. He wasn't home when I got there.
I slept in Logan's room for four nights before Peter said a word to me. One morning as I was heading out the door, he asked if we were ever going to speak again.
"When you are ready to apologize," I stated.
"Apologize for what?"
"You called me a fucking bitch!"
"I said, sometimes you act like a fucking bitch."
"No, your exact words were 'Sometimes you are a fucking bitch'. There are some things you just shouldn't say to your wife."
"Even if you're acting like one?"
"Well, you know, sometimes you're a real asshole, but I never say that to you!"
After the shock of my statement wore off, Peter soothed, "I'm sorry you're upset," taking my hand and pulling me onto his lap. I was uncomfortable but felt like we had to move forward.
Peter kissed me as his hand started to move up my thigh. "I have a meeting at school. Summer's almost over," I said as I made my escape. I knew it would be inevitable that we would have sex that evening, but I was glad to have an excuse to postpone it.
Only images of Steven kept me sane that night. I closed my eyes and pictured him being on top of me, his lips kissing me, his hand that pried me open and entered my most cherished place. I didn't open my eyes until Peter had finished and rolled to his side of the bed. Then I turned from him and did my best to fall asleep.
Unexplainably, I received an email from Steven at the end of that week. He had been searching for me through the internet and found my email. I didn't know whether to respond or not. So, the message sat in my mailbox for a few days.
When I responded to Steven's email, I tried to remain upbeat and not let on that Peter and I are having problems. I asked him how he was doing and told him that I hoped everything was going well for him. I was not sentimental and did not bring up anything from the past. I did not tell him that I thought about that night he asked me to run away with him constantly these last three months and wished, with all my heart, that I had given him a different answer.
My 25
th
birthday passed, and Peter was out of town on business again. In the five years we had been married, he had been absent on three of my birthdays.
Steven emailed me back to say he was glad to hear from me and to wish me a happy birthday. (I could not believe he remembered my birthday as I did not tell him.) He asked me how things were going for me and mentioned that I didn't sound like the happy person he remembered. Could it be possible that despite my efforts to make him think otherwise, my true emotions came through the email? We had not been in contact for about three years. Could he still sense my feelings? How could he do that through a written email? He didn't have the tone of my voice to gauge things by. Even after all this time, our connection was strong.
When I responded to the next email from Steven, I did not try to hide anything. I poured out my situation to him through the email. I knew I shouldn't have because I was only dragging him, selfishly, back into my life. I needed him right then, just to talk, to make me feel better about myself. And, he did when he wrote me back to say he was sorry things were going so poorly and that I deserved so much better. I needed to hear it.
Steven and I had been communicating by email for a few months when I decided to give him my phone number. He called the following night. Peter was out of town again. Our conversation started a little shy, but then it was as if no time had passed. We bantered back and forth as though we had just seen each other yesterday. It felt so comfortable and familiar. He told me how much he missed me and that he thought about me often. He thought about our time together and how he would like to make love to me again. I had to admit to him that I was feeling the same. I told him that I wanted to kiss him and hold him like I used to be able to do.
"I keep thinking about you in my office on New Year's Eve," Steven cooed. "You were on my lap and then on my desk. I remember the blue dress, white boots, and blue-very, very wet panties."
"I think about that night a lot too. Very pleasant memories," I responded.
"I can still remember the way you smell, the way you taste."
"Mmm, you always have that effect on me! I can remember the feel of your mustache tickling me and the taste of your kiss."
"Tickling you where?"
"My neck, my face...and other fleshy places," I laughed.
"I'm sitting in my office alone right now, incredibly aroused!"
"I'm not sure you would be if you could see me now. The past few years haven't been great, and I've gained some weight."
"I always thought you were beautiful, but that is not what turned me on about you."
"What was it then? If you don't mind me asking."
"Your passion, your sweetness, and after we got together, the look in your eyes when we kissed and when we made love. Your lips were pretty sexy, too," Steven chuckled. "I like what a flirt you can be, sometimes. I also like how you can get me so worked up with just a few innuendos."
"You've been part of the picture when I, shall we say, took matters into my own hands. But it just isn't the same."
"Well, you have been part of that picture many times for me when I took matters into my own hand."
