Lukewarm

It’s hot, more so than it should be this early. I feel a drop of sweat roll down my back, echoed by a tear rolling down my face. My bones ache and my muscles cramp from disuse. I choke back a sob as a tea tray comes into view, set gently on the table in front of me. His hand brushes the tear from my face, and I recoil, turning to look out the window. 

“You know I don’t want this either.” His voice is thick with feigned sorrow, and mine is hoarse.

“Then, why? Why are we doing this?” I look at him now, trying to be fierce despite the pool of tears clouding my vision. 

“We don’t have a- I’m not having this discussion again. I’ve got to go to work. Please just sign the papers today, okay?” He stands, smoothing his shirt, and leaving the room, flicking on the overhead fan as he goes. I look up at it as the blades speed up, tears falling freely now. How am I in this moment? I feel my mind begin to slip away into numbness, as it always does to cope with pain this consuming. But, I don’t want to do that today. 

I pour myself a cup of tea and make a promise. This will be the last pot of tea. This will be the last day. But, I’ll give myself today.

I sink back into the couch, my fingers wrapped tightly around the warm, almost too hot, cup of plain green tea. I draw a ragged breath as I deny myself the urge to focus on the fact that he remembered this to be my favorite. My therapist told me I can’t keep using these small actions as excuses to claim he still loves me; I have to keep my perspective. Perspective right now means his big action sitting just to the right of the tea tray, a thick stack of papers, symbolic of a love I feel I’ve lost us. I wrench my eyes away from it, and sip the tea, burning my tongue. I’ll let myself drift today. I close my eyes.

“I’m James.”

“Sandra.” I smile at the average looking boy with the sweet smile in front of me. He looks awkwardly at the sheet we’ve been provided.

“Um, what’s your major?” 

“Education. I want to be an English teacher.” He nods, looking away and back down at the paper filled with conversation starters, painfully silent. I can’t help but laugh.

“What’s yours?” His gaze darts back to mine, and I see him relax when he realizes there’s no malice in my laugh.

“Vocal Performance.” 

“Oh, a musician!” He smiles, and I see him visibly perk up. 

“Yes, I love music! I play the guitar too.” I glance around the rather boring speed friending event put on as part of our college orientation. 

“Do you want to show me some of your music? Like, right now?” He looks surprised, and I think for a second I’ve overstepped and freaked him out, but then he smiles and jolts up. 

“Sure.” We leave, trying not to make it too obvious, and go to his dorm. His roommate is still at the event, luckily, and we sit on his bed as he plays some of his favorite songs. Perhaps it should be an awkward situation, but for some reason, it isn’t. 

His voice is rich, with a slight rasp, providing the kind of range for him to be able to sing anything from musical theatre to folk music. He’s good, though I can tell he doesn’t know it yet. 

He smiles shyly after each song is over and mumbles something incomprehensible about how he needs to practice that one more. After about seven songs, we start talking and don’t stop until his roommate opens the door three hours later. He offers to walk me back to my dorm. We stand at the door when we arrive, neither wanting to end that night. 

“You’re really good, you know. I mean that, genuinely.” He looks at me strangely then, and before I suppose he can think better of it, he kisses me. 

“Sorry. Thank you. I-” I laugh again at his awkwardness, and he laughs along this time covering half his face with a hand. I reach up to remove it, and lace my fingers through his. 

“Don’t apologize.” We smile at each other for a moment, before I go into my dorm, telling him I’ll see him again before the door closes behind me. 

I finish the cup of tea then, and pour myself another. That time feels so long ago, those people so lost. It’s strange to imagine a time where we haven’t yet known the experiences that later broke us. I wish I could go back there, live that feeling of opportunity over again. I take a sip of my new cup of tea, much warmer than the last sips of the first.

“We’re so close, babe. Come on.” I know it’s supposed to be encouragement, but I can hear the frustration laced in it. I push myself up off the rock, still struggling to catch my breath, and grab his outstretched hand. I can see the summit; we really are close.

“Okay, let’s just make it in one big push. Don’t let me stop again.” He kisses my forehead and chuckles, pulling me gently forward. It feels as if the air thins exponentially every hundred or so steps, but we finally make it to the summit, and I all but collapse. He laughs, happier now, sitting down calmly beside me and rubbing my back. I lean into him, relishing his warmth in the brisk mountain air. 

“We did it.”

“You almost didn’t.” I lightly smack his chest, and though I know he doesn’t mean anything by it, his words bite a little. I’m exhausted from the long road trip, and he’s always been more athletic than me anyways. We sit like that in silence for awhile, long past the point in our relationship where silence must be filled. I’m dreading the way back down, but looking forward to the long nap I know I’ll take in the car on the drive home. 

“I love you,” he says quietly, but it might as well shake the mountain beneath us. I look at him, stunned. I always thought I’d have to be the one to say it first; I often feel as though I’m the pursuer. He looks at me, an unfamiliar self-assuredness in his eyes.

“I love you, too,” I say, and I mean it. Beyond my control and decision, I’m enraptured by the shaggy-haired boy in front of me. He kisses me then, and there’s a certainty to it I’m sure I’ve never felt before. 

How many times have we said those words now? Tossed around carelessly, such a normal part of our life. Do they lose reverence as they’re diluted by repetition? I want to deny the notion, but I know I’ve not since felt that mountaintop feeling. I look to the left, at the framed photo now on the ground, leaning against the wall. The beautiful landscape spans behind us, but we stare deeply into each other’s eyes, laughing at a joke I don’t remember. It’s always been my favorite picture of us. I’ve finished another cup, so I refill it, the drink bordering more on lukewarm now. 

He’s in a sharp, grey suit. I’m in my painstakingly selected white dress, dancing beneath the chandelier in the venue we both wholeheartedly agreed on. I’ve never felt bliss like this, forever so certainly ahead of us. We’re surrounded by our closest friends and our families, all the people we love in this world. My hands are sure in his, and I feel he’ll never let me go again, more figuratively than literally. He kisses me gently, and a moment later I feel a hand on my back. I turn my head to see his mother, smiling her insufferable little smile. 

“Can I steal him for a dance?” I look back at him, hoping he’ll shoo her away, but he just chuckles dryly and releases my hand. 

“Sure, Mom.” I feel my heart sink a little as I leave the dance floor alone, but even she can’t ruin this night. Tomorrow morning, we leave for our honeymoon, and after that we’ll live in our apartment nearly six hours from here. We’ll be far from her Oedipus-esque obsession and he’ll be mine truly and completely. I use the excuse to rest my tired feet, staring out at the crowded dance floor. There’s a contentment deep within me, solidified when I catch his eye again and rolls his eyes at me, smiling. I smile back, comforted.

The teapot is light now, nearly gone. My tears have long since dried. The sun shines in the window; it’s midafternoon.

“I don’t understand why you always act like this, Sandra.” He’s lounging lazily on the couch, while I stand in the nearby kitchen, leaning on the counter, crying.

“What? Why do I always ask you to choose me?”

“See, that’s so dramatic! It’s just not that deep. I love you both. Why can’t you just accept that?”

“How can you say that to me? You made a commitment to me, not her.”

“Oh come on. She’s my mom.”

“I know that. But that doesn’t excuse her actions. All I want is for you to defend me when she says things like that.” 

“She didn’t mean anything by it. You know she loves you.”

“She loves you, James.”

“Stop it, Sandra. We’ve had this conversation. She just doesn’t know how to show her love all the time.”

“Well, she does know how much I want kids. She had no right to-” My voice breaks then, and I can’t stop the sob that escapes. I hear him jump off the couch then, perhaps just realizing how affected I am. He comes into the kitchen and wraps his arms around me. It feels suffocating instead of comforting. 

“I’m sorry, babe. I’m sorry you feel like this.” It’s a weak apology, but I accept it in that moment. 

“Just please talk to her. Make sure she knows she can’t say things like that. Make sure she knows I’m trying. She won’t listen to me.” He kisses the top of my head.

“I will.” He doesn’t.

I knew it was over then, the bliss. I could feel a separation, a crack in our relationship. I filled that crack with choices. I chose to stay. I chose to love him. I chose to smile thin smiles at family Christmases. I chose to brush off questions about when grandchildren were coming. I chose him over my own happiness because I made a promise to prioritize us. 

The remaining tea fills only half of my cup, and I down half of it in one sip. I remember when he first told me he was leaving. He told me we didn’t have a choice anymore; we were beyond repair. I didn’t argue. I just cried, not because he was right but because I knew he was wrong. We’ve always had a choice; he just didn’t want to choose me anymore. 

I stomach the last swallow of the bitterly cold tea, and I sign the papers.