Boy Next Door

Can you keep a secret?

I can’t remember a time before I met Jackson. Down the road, same neighborhood, same pre-k class, everything. He was just there, right from the beginning. Shaggy blond hair, chubby little toddler cheeks, and an inability to take no for an answer.

At first, I didn’t quite like him very much. But he was like a barnacle - stuck to me like glue, and a pain in the ass to remove. I couldn’t get rid of him, no matter what I did. Once, when we were little, I kicked him in the shin when we were playing football. I had acted like I missed the football, but I totally did it on purpose. I just couldn’t stand him.

He grew on me as we grew – I learned to love his uniquely dark sense of humor. I deeply enjoyed his fascination with skipping rocks across the local pond, seeing how many rings he could make on the surface. All in all, by the time we were ten, Jackson and I were inseparable.

Can you keep a secret?

I was in love with him. Jackson, the boy next door, with a smile that could blind a pilot and raucous laughter that you could hear from any room, regardless of the house he was in. By twelve, I was head-over-heels, totally besotted, and outright smitten. There wasn’t a damn day when we weren’t joined at the hip.

By sixteen, we had started dating. Everyone talks about puppy love, especially with kids, but this wasn’t puppy love. I was star-struck. We were holding hands, skipping class, and making out under the bleachers. Classic teen movie romance, ya know? His parents loved me, and mine loved him. We’d known each other since we were in the tadpole swimming lessons class, even before. It was hard for them not to love him.

When we were twenty-one, we were in college, living together. That’s when it started. Jackson had been stressed since we started college two years prior. He’d gotten angry. Controlling. By the time we started living together, he’d started getting a real mean streak. His temper was out of control, and the littlest things would set him off. One night, when we were watching television, I’d grabbed a drink from the kitchen. Just a little bit of wine for the end of a long day. As I was walking back, I tripped. Just a little bit of red wine on the carpet. Not a big deal, right? It was the first time he hit me. You never think, ‘This day is the last day of my life’, especially in your 20’s. That was the first night I did.

Can you keep a secret?

I spent the next five years thinking that every little thing I did, every little mistake, every time I pissed him off, every time there was an accident, it might be my last. Things just got worse. The screaming, the gaslighting, the abuse. My sister begged me to leave him, but how could I? He’s the only thing I’d known, my whole life. The punches just kept coming, followed by over-the-top apologies, flowers every day, and non-stop promising to do right by me. It twisted my head around; I couldn’t figure him out.

That’s not to say it’s all bad. The good times were… well, really, really good. Our honeymoon was the most romantic week of my life. A week spent entirely in the Swiss Alps, sitting by the fire in our cabin and enjoying each other’s company. And when our son was born? I’d never seen a man so happy. Once, he surprised me with having redone the sitting room in our house. He turned it into my dream, personal library. It was no special occasion, no forgotten holiday or birthday. Just an ordinary Tuesday.

Can you keep a secret?

I’m 36. I’m tired. I’m setting a bad example for my son. I lie awake at night thinking about whether he’s going to grow up thinking it’s okay to beat the shit out of his wife, or his boyfriend, or whoever he ends up loving. I’m showing him this really twisted version of love, and I don’t like what I see when I look in the mirror.

I used to be full of joy, smile easily, and laugh without a care. I don’t know the last time I laughed. I look haunted. My eyes are sunken in their sockets. My hair is thinning. One of my fingers never set correctly after he slammed it in a door. I’ve wasted 20 years of my life with the boy next door. I miss his laughter, his smile. I miss when life was easy, watching him skip rocks across the local pond. I miss him, before all the stress and the hate and the anger. We’ve tried counseling. We’ve tried separation. Every time, it’s the same song and dance. Everything changes for a week or two, and then it’s back to the bruises. The tears. The anger.

Can you keep a secret?

I still play the dutiful, loving wife. I iron and lay his clothes out in the morning. I hug and kiss him when he comes home late, smelling like another woman’s perfume. I cover my bruises with foundation to make sure his friends don’t see how it perfectly lines up with the shape of his hand when they come over. I make his coffee and breakfast every morning: two pieces of toast, some scrambled eggs, and coffee with a little bit of cream. He likes it really sweet, too. Of course, I add some sugar to it. Today was no different.

Can you keep a secret?

He’s been going to a therapist for depression. God, depression. If anything, that should be me, right? He’s had some heart issues lately, too; already one heart attack at 36. They put him on a beta-blocker. Atenolol. Did you know if you take too much of a beta-blocker, it can cause death?

Can you keep a secret?

I put it in his coffee this morning, the cup he takes before he heads out the door. I just crushed some up and mixed it in with the sugar he takes in his coffee. I heard he collapsed on the way to work. He died in traffic on the highway.

Can you keep a secret?

I don’t care.